Italia '90: the final we should forget

Day -61 WorldCup2018

Last night I postponed ending the Italia '90 portion of my World Cup memories until today. But then bigger news happened today that was always going to get a special mention. Wolves were officially promoted to the Premier League today. They didn't play, but Fulham's draw means the Wolves can party tomorrow when they play Birmingham.

Today was the day I would have called my Dad, the biggest Wolves fan I knew, to tell him because he probably wouldn't have found out until he read it in the Sunday newspaper. A big fan he was, but more so in the old glory days. I was his proxy supporter in recent years. He would have been very happy to hear the news but probably would have said, "they'll probably get relegated right away!"
More Wolves tomorrow. Their good news today ties in nicely with my last story of the World Cup in Italy, seeing as it was the one I watched most solely with my Dad.

The final was preceeded by the "Maradona in Naples" semifinal and the equally heartbreaking English defeat to Germany in the other semi. I have shared this story many times before, the one about how I knew that England were going to lose because of the dream I had before the World Cup started. It sounds a little weird, I know, but it came true. And I watched the 120 minutes, completely convinced that England would lose.

When Germany scored the goal that had poor little Peter Shilton, the England goalkeeper back peddling to keep the deflected free kick out, I also knew that the England adventure was not going to end there. It couldn't be that cruel of a conclusion. No, it would be even worse. When England got their late equalizer, and extra time saw a Waddle shot hit the post and Platt have a goal disallowed for a very tight offside it came down to penalties. And that's where Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle became infamous for their painful misses that saw the Germans go through to the final.

The 1990 final. If you didn't watch it, if it was before your time do not bother watching it. It was what reporters would call a tight affair with lots of niggly fouls. Sometimes these tense matches can create an atmosphere that can be exciting for all the aggression. This didn’t even have that. It was just terrible. Argentina had two players sent off, the first time a red card had been shown at a World Cup final. The only goal came from a very, questionable penalty and Maradona spent more time whining and moping than playing.

It was so bad that I cannot even share any memories of the night, except that by the time the penalty was awarded about six minutes from the end I didn't even care that it was an awful decision. I actually wanted it to be over. But even stranger was that I cannot remember who I watched it with. It was at home, my parents were probably both there, maybe a brother. But I cannot picture the night at all.

I can describe the 1982 final in a lot more detail, or every one after 1990: who I was with. In my head I can put myself in the night of every final, but not 1990.

I'm often amazed by the memories that are so strong, that stick with us for no easily explainable reason. I remember being at University and walking in the rain on a Saturday morning to the opticians, where I had picked up my new glasses the day before, to have them adjusted. I can picture the road with the tall trees on either side leading into Loughborough town centre, and how annoyed I was getting by all the raindrops on my glasses.

I can remember the exact feeling when I jumped into the sea in Malta off a height which I had been very scared to jump off. I can picture myself standing there, and the relief and excitement I felt when I realized I was in the air.

But ask me to recall any details, anything, about the night of that World Cup final. And there's nothing.

I can guarantee that if I polled all my football fan friends and asked what their favourite World Cup was and Italia '90 would be the number one choice for many. There was something special about it. We were 16, 17, 18 year olds. It took place in our time zone. We could enjoy it in a very different way to Spain '82, when we were too young, and Mexico '86 which took place at odd times at night. In 1990 we were independent, we could go out and celebrate our teams winning, and we understood for ourselves what was really going on. We didn’t need fathers or older brothers what was going on.

But the one thing we would all want to forget, even though the football wasn't that great all through the tournament, is the final. There were however many Notti Magiche over the month.