I feel like my life is coming around in a circle of sorts. Not a full one, but there definitely is a roundness to it.
In 1982 and '86 staying up to watch late football was a struggle. In 1990 and '94 staying up late had become the norm. For USA '94, some matches were timed perfectly with coming home from a night out. If I remember correctly, but I may have not even remembered the next day, one such night I came home, at around 3am, to the sound of my brother calling me to the tv as Romario had just scored against Sweden. But now, the battle to keep myself alert past 10pm, to not give in to the allure of a soft pillow is a struggle returned. After a rare night out and with eight days to go until this project is over, a late summoning of my 1994 memories is in order.
Football and Malta had always gone hand in hand for me growing up. There was the huge celebrations when Italy won in '82. We drove home from my grandfather's house after the final through a mass of flag waving people on the seafront, amidst a din of honking cars. I found it hard to imagine that the celebrations could be any better in Italy. And of course there was Brian Moore, Big League Soccer and the man who read the results from England every Saturday afternoon on BBC World Service with the perfect emphasis so you knew which team had won, or if it was a draw, before he said the second team's name. At about this time I discovered the joy of going to the "stadium" by myself. It was a 1/2 walk from our house and was the one stadium where all the top division league matches were played in Malta. It was also where the European Cup matches were played, and the Euro and World Cup Qualifiers. It was the stadium. It was here that I saw Malta take the lead against West Germany before going down 3-2. That was our victory, after all the six, seven, eight nil defeats. Live English football on tv happened sometime in the late eighties, but you had to be lucky to receive the Italian channel. It all depended on what way the wind was blowing.
By 1994 I was into my second year of University in England. Football on tv was a new experience, accessible and enjoyable. There were live matches, with English commentary and that nice man on the BBC, Des Lynam, made smart remarks, and was almost as entertaining as the football. And that's where USA '94 started for me, on my last day in England before going home to Malta for the summer. Spain played South Korea on that opening day, after Germany beat Bolivia in the opener. Spain-Korea (2-2) was extra special, watching it in England on English tv. The next day normality returned as I was on a plane to Malta.
Somehow in 1994 I still had a Walkman. Were they not extinct already? I remember because I turned it on as we flew over Italy and heard that Ireland had scored against Italy. It still seems bizarre that I picked up an Italian radio station. Also, I guess, there was no "please turn of your electronic devices" back then. So, indeed, Ireland had beaten Italy. England hadn't qualified so there was lots of bandwagon jumping-on for Ireland.
1994 had some wonderful matches, and lots of surprises of the kind that were enjoyable. Not the ones where one team attacks for 89 minutes, hits the post 5 times but then ends up losing to the weaker team on a goal scored via a deflected free kick awarded for a questionable foul. There was Romania's fantastic 3-2 win over Argentina where all three Romanian goals were masterpieces. Bulgaria came out of nowhere and not only won a World Cup match for the first time, they were also wonderful in defeating Germany in the quarter finals. Holland and Belgium played one of the most open, free flowing World Cup matches ever seen. Probably the best 1-0 I have ever seen with the winner, for Belgium, ironically scored by a defender. Belgium then played a part in another beauty, the 3-2 loss to Germany in the second round.
Brazil, after the disaster of 1990, had now become a hybrid team, a mix of the need to win with a little bit of entertainment, much of which came from their attaching duo Bebeto and Romario. They safely made it through the first round, edged past the US in the second and then came to glorious life in the second half of the quarter final against Holland. Bebeto and Romario put them 2-0 up before Holland scored two of their own. It was Branco, the left back, who scored the winner from a free kick with a shot that stayed low over the grass as it whizzed past the Dutch wall and goalkeeper at a phenomenal speed.
For the third World Cup in a row, Maradona, stole the show. This time, it was more of a sad, desperate attempt to be in the limelight. He scored against Greece and celebrated like again he had been possessed by his demons from Naples. Indeed, soon after, he became the only played I can think of who was kicked out of a World Cup for testing positive to something he should have known better than to take.
Italy and Brazil made it all the way to the final. A few times Italy looked like they were done, toast, ready to pack their bags, but somehow they fought back and were now looking at upsetting the neutrals' favourite again. The Final was, sadly, forgettable except for Roberto Baggio missing a penalty in the shoot-out to hand Brazil the win.
Far off the pitch in California, in a hot un-airconditioned house in Malta I sat with my family for the last time to watch a World Cup final. The added bonus was that BBC tv had made it to Malta, so we would enjoy Des Lynam and co. We had returned to the village we grew up in, in a different house. The house gave us lots of happy memories, as it was the house for the new generation, the grand-kids on their holidays. Once again, my mother watched with us, giving us her tidbits of information read in the English newspapers. I'm not sure if she was at that time already sitting in what became her chair where she sat and watched, but maybe not enjoyed, many more World Cups.
The house is no longer, the chair and it's occupant neither. Ever since that day in 1994, World Cup finals with my family have been
shared through a phone call before kick off with a prediction of the
result. This year, we will brought together again and on July 13th there will be another reason why my life will have, almost, come full circle.
Thursday, 5 June 2014
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
The road so far
Three hundred and fifty six days ago I started my own World Cup countdown. I'm almost there....
https://www.facebook.com/aidan.mifsud
https://www.facebook.com/aidan.mifsud
1982 is dead
The thought, or mention, of the year 1990 immediately sets off one emotion, one memory in my head, the song. That song. Not Pavarotti's World Cup theme song but the cheesy "Notte Magiche", played to a background of images of Toto Schillaci looking like a man possessed, and trying desperately to get whatever it is out of himself, every time he scored a goal. The little Sicilian came out of nowhere, became the leading character, and scorer, at the World Cup and then slipped back into relative obscurity.
Luciano Pavarotti was not far behind in his representation of all that was good at Italia '90. Every night we would hear a few bars of his "Nessun Dorma" and we knew the evening match was about to begin. It was hot, all the windows were open, we could hear people on the street, tv's from neighbours all watching the same thing. The song climaxed with the "Vincero" bit and that was probably it for me. Why does a song trigger certain emotions? It must be the subconscious self that wants to reach that apex of victory, vicariously through the team you wish to win. And maybe, just maybe, the realization that those players out on the pitch are living the dream you had a as young boy.
So Pavarotti sang, Toto scored, Gascoinge cried and Gary Lineker had some of us dreaming again. But overall, Italia '90 associates itself with terrible, boring matches. There was a few I watched, where I really wondered what had got me hooked in 1982. But there is also an overriding memory of a great summer which bad football couldn't destroy. We had moved, which in Malta is never a great distance. The short distance had taken us from the small, sleepy village where watching who was sitting where in church on Sunday was exciting to the big town in the centre of all the action. Beaches for daytime fun, and bars for late nights out were all within walking distance.
But the football, yes the football. It was, to borrow an expert opinion "cynical and defensive". One of the highlights, ironically, was Argentina beating Brazil 1-0 with a counter attacking goal. Argentina spent the rest of the time cynically defending. This was a different Brazil, a sad representation of the country that gave us Pele, Garrincha, Carlos Alberto and the class of '82 and '86. They didn't excite anybody. They had, as the tactical experts said, tried to play the European way, to play to win, not excite. The breathtaking play of '82 brought them nothing, and this new style didn't make them winners. It also didn't win them any admirers. The nine year olds watching football for the first time in 1990 would have nowhere near the same experience as this nine year old in 1982.
Italia '90 was also the World Cup of the Irish. Ireland, the Republic, had qualified out of Malta's group. Their final, historic, qualifying match was played in Malta. And the Irish had come to celebrate. For us the fun was being there . We had seen the big teams, Italy, Spain, Germany play in Malta, but never supporters like this. I can still hear "Que Sera, Sera........we're going to Italy" And if you ever hear stories of Irish supporters still turning up at half-time, it's true. I saw them walking in with their suitcases. The Irish and their non-stop supporters made it to the quarter finals before Italy narrowly beat them.
It was also the World Cup of Roger Milla and Rene Higuita. Cameroon's Milla was of undetermined age, anywhere between 32 and 42 but he entertained, he scored and he had the best goal celebration jig. Higuita was Colombia's colourful, eccentric goalkeeper. The two came up against each other in the second round. After Milla scored a pretty special first goal, Higuita's attempt at playing as a defender well out of his penalty area gifted Milla the second goal.
Cameroon, the neutrals' favourites, were leading England 2-1 in the quarter final, before they, unfortunately enhanced their reckless defending reputation, giving Gary Lineker 2 penalties to give England the win.
England in the semi-finals. Was this it, the self-redemption for 1982 when I switched allegiance only to be let down so miserably? No. And I knew it was not going to happen because of the dream. http://dinoworldcup.blogspot.ca/2014/03/the-dream.html
The dream that England lost in the semi finals was so strong that I never doubted it. In England v. Italy crazed Malta, it looked like it might be the perfect ending for one half of the country. Italy had lost the night before. Diego Maradona, playing in his beloved Naples in front of his adoring local fans, helped Italy to a somewhat surprising win on penalties. So England were now poised to beat Germany and we could all laugh at the Italians that we went better than them in their home World Cup.
A brief detour to explain that come the World Cup, I was somewhat justified in using "we" in reference to England, even though I very rarely did. My English mother had given me that right. Although, in effect, there was more "we" in watching Malta play.
I knew that the night was going to end in disappointment. The media's often mentioned memory is of Gascoigne's tears when he was yellow carded and realized he would be suspended for the Final. I do not remember that at all. What comes to mind is the German free kick deflecting off Paul Parker and over the oh-too-short Peter Shilton. And at that point I did not think, that's just what the dream said would happen. I knew England would score. It would be a dramatic loss, one of close misses in extra time and the terrible defeat after penalties. It was over. Gary Salt 'n Vinegar couldn't do anything now. But the dream, sadly, of England playing Italy in the 3rd/4th place play-off in Bari had come true. That Italy won, and Toto scored to become top scorer was a ending with all the excitement of anticipation taken out of it.
The Final itself was really the worst ever. Argentina had a game plan. Kill the game, suck the life out of it and hope the Germans collapse under the weight of cynicism. Germany had a plan too. Expect the Argentinian negativity and attempt to be even better than it than them. Two Argentians were sent, the only game came from a penalty and the whole football world was happy it was finally over.
Germany won, but please really do excuse the cliche, beautiful football lost. Zico said that when Brazil lost to Italy in 1982, football died. It was a slow death. Brazil and France still lit up Mexico '86. That neither triumphed was maybe the reason that 4 years later France weren't there and Brazil were there in a completely different form. How all their wonderfully talented footballers could disappear in 4 years is beyond me. As further evidence of the death of football, look at what happened to the creative genius, Maradona. His magic was the difference in 1986. In Italy he was, in reported hindsight, under the influence of his environment in Naples. The magic was gone, replaced by a obsessed determination that helped present a different Argentina. Things could only get better in 1994. They had to.
The summer of 1990 still had a lot to offer after mid-July. Notte Magiche played on, with a tinge of sadness. A few weeks later I was in Rome to play a tennis tournament. The flags were still hanging out of apartment windows and the Italians still blamed the poor coach. The rest of the summer was again a haze of heat and beaches. Even the poor football could not take away that it had been another World Cup summer.
Luciano Pavarotti was not far behind in his representation of all that was good at Italia '90. Every night we would hear a few bars of his "Nessun Dorma" and we knew the evening match was about to begin. It was hot, all the windows were open, we could hear people on the street, tv's from neighbours all watching the same thing. The song climaxed with the "Vincero" bit and that was probably it for me. Why does a song trigger certain emotions? It must be the subconscious self that wants to reach that apex of victory, vicariously through the team you wish to win. And maybe, just maybe, the realization that those players out on the pitch are living the dream you had a as young boy.
So Pavarotti sang, Toto scored, Gascoinge cried and Gary Lineker had some of us dreaming again. But overall, Italia '90 associates itself with terrible, boring matches. There was a few I watched, where I really wondered what had got me hooked in 1982. But there is also an overriding memory of a great summer which bad football couldn't destroy. We had moved, which in Malta is never a great distance. The short distance had taken us from the small, sleepy village where watching who was sitting where in church on Sunday was exciting to the big town in the centre of all the action. Beaches for daytime fun, and bars for late nights out were all within walking distance.
But the football, yes the football. It was, to borrow an expert opinion "cynical and defensive". One of the highlights, ironically, was Argentina beating Brazil 1-0 with a counter attacking goal. Argentina spent the rest of the time cynically defending. This was a different Brazil, a sad representation of the country that gave us Pele, Garrincha, Carlos Alberto and the class of '82 and '86. They didn't excite anybody. They had, as the tactical experts said, tried to play the European way, to play to win, not excite. The breathtaking play of '82 brought them nothing, and this new style didn't make them winners. It also didn't win them any admirers. The nine year olds watching football for the first time in 1990 would have nowhere near the same experience as this nine year old in 1982.
Italia '90 was also the World Cup of the Irish. Ireland, the Republic, had qualified out of Malta's group. Their final, historic, qualifying match was played in Malta. And the Irish had come to celebrate. For us the fun was being there . We had seen the big teams, Italy, Spain, Germany play in Malta, but never supporters like this. I can still hear "Que Sera, Sera........we're going to Italy" And if you ever hear stories of Irish supporters still turning up at half-time, it's true. I saw them walking in with their suitcases. The Irish and their non-stop supporters made it to the quarter finals before Italy narrowly beat them.
It was also the World Cup of Roger Milla and Rene Higuita. Cameroon's Milla was of undetermined age, anywhere between 32 and 42 but he entertained, he scored and he had the best goal celebration jig. Higuita was Colombia's colourful, eccentric goalkeeper. The two came up against each other in the second round. After Milla scored a pretty special first goal, Higuita's attempt at playing as a defender well out of his penalty area gifted Milla the second goal.
Cameroon, the neutrals' favourites, were leading England 2-1 in the quarter final, before they, unfortunately enhanced their reckless defending reputation, giving Gary Lineker 2 penalties to give England the win.
England in the semi-finals. Was this it, the self-redemption for 1982 when I switched allegiance only to be let down so miserably? No. And I knew it was not going to happen because of the dream. http://dinoworldcup.blogspot.ca/2014/03/the-dream.html
The dream that England lost in the semi finals was so strong that I never doubted it. In England v. Italy crazed Malta, it looked like it might be the perfect ending for one half of the country. Italy had lost the night before. Diego Maradona, playing in his beloved Naples in front of his adoring local fans, helped Italy to a somewhat surprising win on penalties. So England were now poised to beat Germany and we could all laugh at the Italians that we went better than them in their home World Cup.
A brief detour to explain that come the World Cup, I was somewhat justified in using "we" in reference to England, even though I very rarely did. My English mother had given me that right. Although, in effect, there was more "we" in watching Malta play.
I knew that the night was going to end in disappointment. The media's often mentioned memory is of Gascoigne's tears when he was yellow carded and realized he would be suspended for the Final. I do not remember that at all. What comes to mind is the German free kick deflecting off Paul Parker and over the oh-too-short Peter Shilton. And at that point I did not think, that's just what the dream said would happen. I knew England would score. It would be a dramatic loss, one of close misses in extra time and the terrible defeat after penalties. It was over. Gary Salt 'n Vinegar couldn't do anything now. But the dream, sadly, of England playing Italy in the 3rd/4th place play-off in Bari had come true. That Italy won, and Toto scored to become top scorer was a ending with all the excitement of anticipation taken out of it.
The Final itself was really the worst ever. Argentina had a game plan. Kill the game, suck the life out of it and hope the Germans collapse under the weight of cynicism. Germany had a plan too. Expect the Argentinian negativity and attempt to be even better than it than them. Two Argentians were sent, the only game came from a penalty and the whole football world was happy it was finally over.
Germany won, but please really do excuse the cliche, beautiful football lost. Zico said that when Brazil lost to Italy in 1982, football died. It was a slow death. Brazil and France still lit up Mexico '86. That neither triumphed was maybe the reason that 4 years later France weren't there and Brazil were there in a completely different form. How all their wonderfully talented footballers could disappear in 4 years is beyond me. As further evidence of the death of football, look at what happened to the creative genius, Maradona. His magic was the difference in 1986. In Italy he was, in reported hindsight, under the influence of his environment in Naples. The magic was gone, replaced by a obsessed determination that helped present a different Argentina. Things could only get better in 1994. They had to.
The summer of 1990 still had a lot to offer after mid-July. Notte Magiche played on, with a tinge of sadness. A few weeks later I was in Rome to play a tennis tournament. The flags were still hanging out of apartment windows and the Italians still blamed the poor coach. The rest of the summer was again a haze of heat and beaches. Even the poor football could not take away that it had been another World Cup summer.
Thursday, 29 May 2014
Diego, time zones and Libya.
Mexico 1986 exists like a step outside my memory between the wonders of Brazil in 1982 and the opening Pavarotti credits of 1990.
Four years older but I can still tell you more about what happened in Spain then in Mexico. I'll blame the newly discovered phenomenon of time zones. Mexico? Who sent the World Cup there. Oh yes, probably the same people who originally picked Colombia who sent out a "phone a friend" after they realized they didn't quite have the money. Maybe the most honest (non) world cup organizers ever, Colombia. Ironic, somewhat?
So there we were, six hours ahead of what's happening in Mexico. I took a nap before England played Morocco at midnight. I was now a devoted England fan, and had to be well rested. When people ask me if I enjoyed a movie, I very often say I don't remember watching it so it must have been bad. That's my gauge. It was a terrible match, as anti-Brazil '82 as one could get, so boring that I can barely even remember how bad it was. . There was one lesson from this disastrous reason to be going to bed at 2am. Bryan Robson had a dodgy shoulder, dislocated they said. It was to be a recurring thing, Robson and his shoulder that kept popping out. The first of many major injuries I heard about, soon to be followed by ACL's and metartarsals.
Uruguay were the fascinating team of 1986. They were the small South American team who had won the whole thing twice before. That's all I knew, 2-time World Cup champions. What I didn't know was that it was in 1930, when they pretty much invited, and paid for, the European teams to come to Uruguay, and the Europeans were very gracious visitors. The second was 1950 when they inflicted a defeat of enormous proportions on the hosts Brazil in the final that wasn't really a final. And they hadn't done much since then. But when it came to the fantasy world cup organized by a teacher at school, I picked Uruguay to get to the semi-finals, because they were, as I told everybody, 2-time winners. It didn't quite turn out as I hoped. They got walloped 6-1 by Denmark and managed to get a player sent off against Scotland before the referee had barely taken the whistle out of his mouth after kick off. But after terrorizing the poor Scots into not beating them, and with a point against West Germany, they made into the second round with 2 points. Two points! They were one of the best third placed teams. Fifa had allowed 24 teams at this World Cup and this was their new system to deal with the unusual tournament number of participants. Many years later they solved the problem, by extending it to 32 teams. But that was it for my heroes from Uruguay after that. There was no triumphant march beyond the second round.
England had another middle of the night match and they came through the must win match against Poland thanks to a new hat-trick hero, Gary Lineker. This time I couldn't muster another night of torture. But I slept happily after waking up to the sounds of distant car horns driving through the streets. This was Malta, where celebrating an English or Italian win was probably done as fervently as in England or Italy. England marched on and suddenly looked unstoppable after beating Paraguay 3-0 in the second round. Paraguay were another exotic sounding team, and South American, so England muts be world beaters by now, I thought.
Then Diego Maradona happened. The proverbial ugly and good side of the Argentinian who was supposed to have been the star of 1982 but took another 4 years to own a world cup, came out. The fight for the high ball bouncing between him and Peter Shilton is quite amusing. Probably the two littlest guys on the pitch, up they went together. If you could have slowed the moment down and been able to analyse rationally what should have happened next, you would have thought: the goalkeeper can use his hands so surely he has that added height advantage of his outstretched hands. Now if you forget the rational analysis, and thought like Maradona, you would have understood that Maradona, despite not being a goalkeeper, also has hands that can reach out. He could physically use them, only the small matter of the rules should have stopped him. And, hey, why not try and hope that you're being watched by a Tunisian referee who's never seen this before. If you eyes witness something for the first time, the brain may not register it's abnormality. And so it was that the Hand of God was born, some of certain belief may say re-incarnated.
Our little Diego was a man with a conscience, though. A few minutes later, with his guilt still burning away inside him, he decided to show the world what he can do what his feet. The English players obliged by forgetting they could tackle him and as he slalomed through the whole English team and scored the second goal, he managed to score the two most talked about goals in world cup history.
Strangely, I was at home with one of my brothers watching this historic moment. It was odd because, I remember World Cups as the time that the whole family gathered around the tv. My mother may have feigned interest for the good of the family. But as she did for many years to come she still knew every player and all their stories. She came back from a trip to England in 1986 and asked what the latest was on Karl Heniz Rummenige's back injury. She sat with us and watched, when she probably would have been happier with a bit of Frank Spencer. This was Malta, so there wasn't much on, but it might have all been more enjoyable than another night with the (in)famous Italian commentator, Bruno Pizzul. And my other 4 siblings, and my Dad? Where were they? It was left to the two of us to rue the injustice that had befallen the poor English again.
Maradona went on to toy with Belgium in the semi-final. The other semi-final was a re-match of the 1982 classic. This time, there was no unpunished Harold Schumacher attack on a French player and the West Germans went on to a clinical win against the French, who had become the Dutch of the eighties. They had the players, the skill, the admiration of the world, but no World Cup. They were part of, along with Brazil, what I believe to be one of the greatest World Cup matches. The quarter final, decided on penalties, stands out as an amazing memory of clean attacking football, a cut above the rest of the tournament. It was the whole of Brazil '82 in 120 minutes.
Mexico '86 also brought a new personal worry: end of year school exams that had to be studied for. And the last minute cramming had to be compacted ever more to be finished by the time the matches started in the evenings. I must have been working slowly on the night of the France-West Germany semi-final as I only caught fleeting glimpses of it.
A couple of amazing things about growing up in Malta were flat roofs and the heat in June. Our roof was my Platini free kick training ground, and my new study area. It was a large roof with an area over the extension to the main building where my Dad had constructed what I remember as an outdoor classroom; tables and chairs with no walls, covered by a corrugated tin roof. This is where I spent many hours after school in June, trying to conjugate my French and Italian verbs while I looked across my adjoining football "field" and wondering what Platini was doing on the tv.
Argentina won what must be the best final of my World Cup life. Jorge Burruchaga scored the winning goal after an exquisite (and I use that word with it's true full meaning) pass from Maradona. West Germany had come back from 2-0 down, to think they had at least earned extra time. But it was not to be as, again, Maradona decided a statement needed to be made. Four years later these two teams played the final again, and it was sadly not quite the same.
The summer of '86 was also supposed to be the year of a family holiday in Tunisia. This is what my Dad had told us. But I'm not sure if this was before or after he also told us that we couldn't go because Ronald Reagan had sent his air force to drop bombs on Libya. It was a little too close, but where we really supposed to go, I don't know. The Libyans fired a missile in our general direction. It landed off the island of Lampedusa, which on looking at a map was not as close as I thought. But for a few weeks, bombs and missiles were real, not just on tv. This was in April. In 1982 it had been the Falklands War that was followed closely by a World Cup. In my simple mind at the time it was good timing. War was an inconvenience, that had to be over before the World Cup started.
Mexico was over, World Cup done for another 4 years. Two years later, Holland were European Champions and Van Basten, Gullit and Rijkaard were the players who were supposed to lead Holland to it's destiny in Italy, 1990. The story was not to have a happy ending.
Four years older but I can still tell you more about what happened in Spain then in Mexico. I'll blame the newly discovered phenomenon of time zones. Mexico? Who sent the World Cup there. Oh yes, probably the same people who originally picked Colombia who sent out a "phone a friend" after they realized they didn't quite have the money. Maybe the most honest (non) world cup organizers ever, Colombia. Ironic, somewhat?
So there we were, six hours ahead of what's happening in Mexico. I took a nap before England played Morocco at midnight. I was now a devoted England fan, and had to be well rested. When people ask me if I enjoyed a movie, I very often say I don't remember watching it so it must have been bad. That's my gauge. It was a terrible match, as anti-Brazil '82 as one could get, so boring that I can barely even remember how bad it was. . There was one lesson from this disastrous reason to be going to bed at 2am. Bryan Robson had a dodgy shoulder, dislocated they said. It was to be a recurring thing, Robson and his shoulder that kept popping out. The first of many major injuries I heard about, soon to be followed by ACL's and metartarsals.
Uruguay were the fascinating team of 1986. They were the small South American team who had won the whole thing twice before. That's all I knew, 2-time World Cup champions. What I didn't know was that it was in 1930, when they pretty much invited, and paid for, the European teams to come to Uruguay, and the Europeans were very gracious visitors. The second was 1950 when they inflicted a defeat of enormous proportions on the hosts Brazil in the final that wasn't really a final. And they hadn't done much since then. But when it came to the fantasy world cup organized by a teacher at school, I picked Uruguay to get to the semi-finals, because they were, as I told everybody, 2-time winners. It didn't quite turn out as I hoped. They got walloped 6-1 by Denmark and managed to get a player sent off against Scotland before the referee had barely taken the whistle out of his mouth after kick off. But after terrorizing the poor Scots into not beating them, and with a point against West Germany, they made into the second round with 2 points. Two points! They were one of the best third placed teams. Fifa had allowed 24 teams at this World Cup and this was their new system to deal with the unusual tournament number of participants. Many years later they solved the problem, by extending it to 32 teams. But that was it for my heroes from Uruguay after that. There was no triumphant march beyond the second round.
England had another middle of the night match and they came through the must win match against Poland thanks to a new hat-trick hero, Gary Lineker. This time I couldn't muster another night of torture. But I slept happily after waking up to the sounds of distant car horns driving through the streets. This was Malta, where celebrating an English or Italian win was probably done as fervently as in England or Italy. England marched on and suddenly looked unstoppable after beating Paraguay 3-0 in the second round. Paraguay were another exotic sounding team, and South American, so England muts be world beaters by now, I thought.
Then Diego Maradona happened. The proverbial ugly and good side of the Argentinian who was supposed to have been the star of 1982 but took another 4 years to own a world cup, came out. The fight for the high ball bouncing between him and Peter Shilton is quite amusing. Probably the two littlest guys on the pitch, up they went together. If you could have slowed the moment down and been able to analyse rationally what should have happened next, you would have thought: the goalkeeper can use his hands so surely he has that added height advantage of his outstretched hands. Now if you forget the rational analysis, and thought like Maradona, you would have understood that Maradona, despite not being a goalkeeper, also has hands that can reach out. He could physically use them, only the small matter of the rules should have stopped him. And, hey, why not try and hope that you're being watched by a Tunisian referee who's never seen this before. If you eyes witness something for the first time, the brain may not register it's abnormality. And so it was that the Hand of God was born, some of certain belief may say re-incarnated.
Our little Diego was a man with a conscience, though. A few minutes later, with his guilt still burning away inside him, he decided to show the world what he can do what his feet. The English players obliged by forgetting they could tackle him and as he slalomed through the whole English team and scored the second goal, he managed to score the two most talked about goals in world cup history.
Strangely, I was at home with one of my brothers watching this historic moment. It was odd because, I remember World Cups as the time that the whole family gathered around the tv. My mother may have feigned interest for the good of the family. But as she did for many years to come she still knew every player and all their stories. She came back from a trip to England in 1986 and asked what the latest was on Karl Heniz Rummenige's back injury. She sat with us and watched, when she probably would have been happier with a bit of Frank Spencer. This was Malta, so there wasn't much on, but it might have all been more enjoyable than another night with the (in)famous Italian commentator, Bruno Pizzul. And my other 4 siblings, and my Dad? Where were they? It was left to the two of us to rue the injustice that had befallen the poor English again.
Maradona went on to toy with Belgium in the semi-final. The other semi-final was a re-match of the 1982 classic. This time, there was no unpunished Harold Schumacher attack on a French player and the West Germans went on to a clinical win against the French, who had become the Dutch of the eighties. They had the players, the skill, the admiration of the world, but no World Cup. They were part of, along with Brazil, what I believe to be one of the greatest World Cup matches. The quarter final, decided on penalties, stands out as an amazing memory of clean attacking football, a cut above the rest of the tournament. It was the whole of Brazil '82 in 120 minutes.
Mexico '86 also brought a new personal worry: end of year school exams that had to be studied for. And the last minute cramming had to be compacted ever more to be finished by the time the matches started in the evenings. I must have been working slowly on the night of the France-West Germany semi-final as I only caught fleeting glimpses of it.
A couple of amazing things about growing up in Malta were flat roofs and the heat in June. Our roof was my Platini free kick training ground, and my new study area. It was a large roof with an area over the extension to the main building where my Dad had constructed what I remember as an outdoor classroom; tables and chairs with no walls, covered by a corrugated tin roof. This is where I spent many hours after school in June, trying to conjugate my French and Italian verbs while I looked across my adjoining football "field" and wondering what Platini was doing on the tv.
Argentina won what must be the best final of my World Cup life. Jorge Burruchaga scored the winning goal after an exquisite (and I use that word with it's true full meaning) pass from Maradona. West Germany had come back from 2-0 down, to think they had at least earned extra time. But it was not to be as, again, Maradona decided a statement needed to be made. Four years later these two teams played the final again, and it was sadly not quite the same.
The summer of '86 was also supposed to be the year of a family holiday in Tunisia. This is what my Dad had told us. But I'm not sure if this was before or after he also told us that we couldn't go because Ronald Reagan had sent his air force to drop bombs on Libya. It was a little too close, but where we really supposed to go, I don't know. The Libyans fired a missile in our general direction. It landed off the island of Lampedusa, which on looking at a map was not as close as I thought. But for a few weeks, bombs and missiles were real, not just on tv. This was in April. In 1982 it had been the Falklands War that was followed closely by a World Cup. In my simple mind at the time it was good timing. War was an inconvenience, that had to be over before the World Cup started.
Mexico was over, World Cup done for another 4 years. Two years later, Holland were European Champions and Van Basten, Gullit and Rijkaard were the players who were supposed to lead Holland to it's destiny in Italy, 1990. The story was not to have a happy ending.
Monday, 26 May 2014
The European Zico
Zico and Socrates were to have an epilogue to their, or my, 1982 adventure in Mexico 4 years later. But before that, and with me now wanting more of this major tournament football, there was France 1984, the European Championships.
In 1982 the title of 'how did they not win the world cup' was shared by Brazil and France. It baffled me how the team that played the most amazing football I had seen to date, Brazil, could lose. But all could have been forgiven, cruel cynical football world if the French with the magic midfield- Platini, Tigana, Giresse, Genghini- took over and won it all. But cynical went to a level not seen many times since when Harold Schumacher took care of Patrick Battiston in that unforgettable semi-final. So while Italy beat West Germany in the final, with Tardelli and that celebration and the eighty-something year old Italian President Pertini dancing in the stands, I looked on and thought, how did that happen?
France 1984 was the redemption tournament, where good football triumphed and the good guys were really outstanding and won. And Michel Platini was my new hero. Hours of trying to master his free-kick techniques were to follow, with limited success. But, my fix had been fed for another 2 years.
Platini scored 9 goals in an eight team tournament, including the last minute semi-final winner against Portugal.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOn7jr9fkkQ
In 1982 the title of 'how did they not win the world cup' was shared by Brazil and France. It baffled me how the team that played the most amazing football I had seen to date, Brazil, could lose. But all could have been forgiven, cruel cynical football world if the French with the magic midfield- Platini, Tigana, Giresse, Genghini- took over and won it all. But cynical went to a level not seen many times since when Harold Schumacher took care of Patrick Battiston in that unforgettable semi-final. So while Italy beat West Germany in the final, with Tardelli and that celebration and the eighty-something year old Italian President Pertini dancing in the stands, I looked on and thought, how did that happen?
France 1984 was the redemption tournament, where good football triumphed and the good guys were really outstanding and won. And Michel Platini was my new hero. Hours of trying to master his free-kick techniques were to follow, with limited success. But, my fix had been fed for another 2 years.
Platini scored 9 goals in an eight team tournament, including the last minute semi-final winner against Portugal.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOn7jr9fkkQ
Sunday, 25 May 2014
The prologue
"My work accrues sentence by sentence."
"I tend to hear them as I am drifting off to sleep. They are spoken to me, I’m not sure by whom. By myself, I know, though the source feels independent, recondite, especially at the start"
"They are pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, handed to me in no particular order, with no discernible logic. I only sense that they are part of the thing."
(Pulitzer Prize winning author Jhumpa Lahiri).
I wish I had a Jhumpa Lahiri-esque sentence here. It will come. Brazil 2014 will bring a few. But before that there is life, Mexico '86 to South Africa 2010, to cover.
"I tend to hear them as I am drifting off to sleep. They are spoken to me, I’m not sure by whom. By myself, I know, though the source feels independent, recondite, especially at the start"
"They are pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, handed to me in no particular order, with no discernible logic. I only sense that they are part of the thing."
(Pulitzer Prize winning author Jhumpa Lahiri).
"Everybody does have a book in them, but in most cases that's where it should stay."
Christopher Hitchens
If I wrote out all the World Cup sentences in my head then you may get what Mr. Hitchens thinks shouldn't happen. Every memory I think of, each bit in my jigsaw, is anchored by whether it was a World Cup or European Championships year, or a 'dead' year, the odd numbered years where the Copa America would attempt to feed my craving for football in the summer.
Sometime before 1982, Dino Zoff saved a penalty for Italy. It happened on tv. Maybe he didn't save it, but somehow the ball flew up into the air. Who took the penalty, I don't know. Italy's opponents, the tournament, the final result, I have no idea. But what I do remember is that somebody else sitting around the little tv in my parents' bedroom turned to me and said "you're so lucky". Me? Lucky? Sure. Great.
For some reason, again beyond my full memory capabilities at the time since it was pre-1982, I had taken a liking to the look of the Italian team. It was not the look of their defensive system, it was really the look. It may have come from a poster in a magazine that had England and Italy on either sides.The England players were standing in line, haphazardly, pre-kickoff. The Italians were in the standard two rows team photo formation in their shiny blue shirts. And the goalkeeper, in his shiny grey shirt and thick dark hair looked like the school teacher you would listen to, because even though he was grumpy and mean, you know he could also teach you something really cool. So I declared, at some point around this time, that I was a fan of Italy, to the disapproval of my England supporting family. Why this was an issue would need me to delve into a separate sociological analysis of life in Malta. It wasn't long before I was made to see the light. How long is hard to tell because I don't know the starting point of this story. And the light that I came to appreciate? Well, it came in the form of plucky old England being eliminated too early and Italy going on to become World Champions in 1982. But I had already become Dino to my family, and never switched to Pete or Shilts.
There were nine years of my life before Spain '82, June 1982 in an ordinary calender. And I could put sentences together describing events that occupied my childhood. We went on a family trip to Sicily, on the ferry, and one morning our car had to be lifted (yes, by hand) out of it's bad parking spot. I hated the long life milk in Sicily. I played football with my Dad after lunch at home in the living room with the scrunched up wrapper of the made in Malta chocolate bar I was allowed to have. I had what was probably a terribly ugly Starsky and Hutch t-shirt which I loved. And I watched the bungling Frank Spencer on Some Mothers do Ave 'Em and thought he was hilarious, even though it is safe to say that Frank Spencer didn't expect me to understand most of what wasn't obvious. And, somewhere around this time period Brian Moore and Big League Soccer entered my life, every Tuesday evening. The disappointment at hearing the lady come on the tv and announce that this week Big League Soccer "didn't arrive", was forgotten when instead we got a match from the Bundesliga. It always seemed to be Borussia Moncengladbach and they had a knack of either scoring a lot of goals or conceding more than the normal Big League Soccer team.
All this happened some time around 1982, an undetermined time period. But things were happening for me. Maybe it was Brian Moore and his calm voice mixed in with the wild joy from the fans in the stadium every time a goal was scored. A lot of goals are scored in a one hour highlights programme. Amongst these non-time specific memories were events that happened as a few stand-out moments. Years later the dates would become relevant. At around 5pm on a Saturday in May 1981 I became an Aston Villa fan, because the man listening to his radio in the sports shop my mum took me into told her that Aston Villa had just won the league and I should own a Villa jersey. A year later I tried to figure out the weird looking results of a two-legged (?) aggregate score in the newspaper of the semi-finals of the European Cup where Aston Villa had beaten Anderlecht and were to face Bayern Munich in the final. Anderlecht, Bayern Munich? What happened to Ipswich and Arsenal and Liverpool? But Bayern Munich it was. My wise father told me there was no hope for Villa. After an evening of Nigel Spink's heroics and Tony Morley crossing to Peter Withe to score the only goal, I was well and truly hooked.
A month or so later, the fascination with this game exploded. World Cup 1982 was on tv every evening. There was excitement which I wanted to be a part of. There were fans from countries I had never heard of, they wore funny things on their heads, they had drums and they sang and danced. Teams played for draws, or won but were still eliminated. Bryan Robson scored after 27 seconds and England were good, even without the much talked about Kevin Keegan. Belgium and their Vans beat Argentina who were supposed to be good. Hungary scored 10 goals in one match. This was a party, it was amazing.
Above everything there was Brazil. They were colourful, they were fun and they scored goals in a way unlike the other teams scored.What Zico and Falcao and Socrates did captivated me like nothing else. That it was football may have been immaterial, it was that wonderful.
Post 1982 my memories become ordered. School teachers, friends, holidays. They are all there, wrapped around the many two year intervals to follow. And football not only became a constant on a Saturday afternoon at 4.45, listening to the results on BBC World Service. It also developed into one of my best teachers, primarily of Geography and History. There were simple things: Bayern Munich are from Munich, in Germany; Birmingham, Leicester, Derby, Nottingham, and more, are in the Midlands; El Salvador is in Central America, Brazil in South America. I'm sure I was ahead of all my friends at school with this knowledge. And there were the more complicated lessons, not only of history but maybe the sad state of the world. There was pretty bad stuff happening in El Salvador. Argentina and England had been in a horrible war with each other. England supporters sang songs not only about the Falklands but also about the Germans and the War.
I wish I had a Jhumpa Lahiri-esque sentence here. It will come. Brazil 2014 will bring a few. But before that there is life, Mexico '86 to South Africa 2010, to cover.
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
Was hooliganism ever hip?
I've followed football since, yes, 1982 and seen a lot of fan violence (hooliganism used to be the cool word) but I never quite got it. The organized battles in England and Holland, and probably, elsewhere, the surging on the terraces in England...why? Why did a fan get killed in Sweden last weekend. He was at a football match. And is he going to become a martyr of sorts, a hero? And will the killer/s be glorified like they were in the "Real Football Factories" (youtube). Why was it so cool to be part of the "firms" who's sole reason was to make football watching hell for everybody else? I understand there were very often a myriad of social issues as to why a group of men from a certain demographic saw the need to be associated with these firms, and high and drunk, would turn violent. The emotion of watching "their" team was just a convenient excuse. I don't understand the violence, but that there are unfortunate reasons.
What I don't get with this story in Uruguay (link below) is that the behaviour of these idiots is the fault of the Uruguayan FA. There is more to it and maybe this line reveals what could be going on: "Analysts have suggested that Uruguay could be barred from this summer's World Cup in Brazil if world football governing body, Fifa, decides there has been political interference." Are the politicians embarrassed that this is happening and it is them who are blaming the FA? Maybe the politicians should all take a look at what they have done to contribute to a society that promotes this violence.
By the way, Uruguay kicked out of the World Cup by Fifa? Ha! At least there was a bit of humour in this story.
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-26829031
What I don't get with this story in Uruguay (link below) is that the behaviour of these idiots is the fault of the Uruguayan FA. There is more to it and maybe this line reveals what could be going on: "Analysts have suggested that Uruguay could be barred from this summer's World Cup in Brazil if world football governing body, Fifa, decides there has been political interference." Are the politicians embarrassed that this is happening and it is them who are blaming the FA? Maybe the politicians should all take a look at what they have done to contribute to a society that promotes this violence.
By the way, Uruguay kicked out of the World Cup by Fifa? Ha! At least there was a bit of humour in this story.
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-26829031
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)