Mexico '86 had Brazil-France and Maradona but Italia '90 is overflowing with memories. There was no more parent imposed bedtimes, more freedom to decide if I had actually studied enough for my end of year exams and the World Cup was in our time zone. Early evenings of football watching eased into night matches. It was a perfect summer night, night after night.
It was hot. The windows were open to let in the never ending hot humid air and the sounds of neighbours watching TV while they also thought that opening the windows would cool them down. The football was terrible. It really was, and this is a universal opinion. But it was special. It was Italy, I was a teenager and the four weeks were extremely memorable.
We had Toto Schillaci scoring goals to the sound of Nessun Dorma and Pavarotti, and Roger Milla and Carlos Valderrama, over exuberant Cameroonis beating Argentina, Gary Lineker's penalties beating Cameroon, England banished to Sardinia to keep their fans away from the mainland, Paul Gascoigne's recklessness and tears, Voeller and Rijkaard and the spitting, Peter Shilton's desperate back peddling, Argentina's theft of a victory from Brazil, the guilt of all the people of Naples at supporting the city's son, Maradona, against Italy in the semifinal and more Maradona and more tears in the terrible final won by the Germans, forgotten by most.
My journey through Italia '90 starts here.
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