The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  The other teams in the group were Spain, with fine wingers in Basora and Gainza; Chile, with George Robledo of Newcastle to lead them; and the United States.

  Brazil

  The new, saturnine, moustached coach of the Brazilian team, Flavio Costa, who was said to earn £1,000 a month, clearly meant there to be no repetition of 1938 and its vagaries. His team was cloistered for four months in a house just outside Rio with veranda and swimming pool, lavishly furnished from top to bottom with the gifts of Rio firms. Married men were forbidden to see their wives, bedtime was ten o’clock sharp and before it each player had to swallow a vitamin drink.

  The Opening Games

  The competition was given a spectacular start at the Maracanà, where the traffic jam was such that hundreds of motorists had to leave their cars and walk to the stadium. Many entrances were still not ready, others were blocked by the crowds, swarming over rubble and smashed scaffolding. When Brazil came on to the field in their white shirts with blue facings they were greeted by a twenty-one gun salute and a cacophony of fireworks let off by the crowd. Toy balloons floated into the air, Brazilian troops released 5,000 pigeons and a cascade of leaflets dropped from an aeroplane on to the pitch. The Mexicans, with a sharp sense either of self-preservation or of comme il faut, did not enter this maelstrom till fifteen minutes later.

  The game itself was a dull one, in which Brazil scored four goals while scarcely forcing themselves at all. The powerful black Baltazar was Brazil’s centre-forward for the moment, with the graceful, incisive Ademir and Jair on either side of him, and these three divided the goals, Ademir getting two.

  In São Paulo, Sweden toppled Italy. The Italians were accomplices of their own defeat, for Novo picked an almost perversely unbalanced team. True, he was without the vivacious Benito (‘Poison’) Lorenzi, his best inside-forward, who was injured, but to replace him with a veteran left-half in Aldo Campatelli, a pre-war survivor playing out of position, was ludicrous.

  Italy began well enough in front of an Italo-Brazilian crowd which was loudly behind them. Riccardo Carapellese, their clever outside-left and captain, gave them the lead after seven minutes, but by half-time Jeppson and Sune Andersson, the right-half, had scored, Jeppson got another midway through the second half. Muccinelli, the little Italian right-winger, replied and Carapellese hit the bar, but Italy were beaten. Their ‘revenge’ was oblique but comprehensive; eight of that Swedish side would join Italian clubs.

  Now Sweden had only to draw with Paraguay at Curitiba, which they did. Italy, in São Paulo, beat Paraguay 2–0, but it was to no avail. Pool III was Sweden’s.

  In Pool ii, England and Spain began with unexceptional victories. At the Maracanà England found breathing difficult but beat Chile 2–0, with goals from Mortensen in the first half and Mannion in the second. England omitted Matthews, playing Finney on the right and Jimmy Mullen, the tall, fast Wolves winger, a prodigy before the war, on the left. The attack was led by Roy Bentley, a Bristolian. He was perhaps a little too far ahead of his time for the team’s good, for when playing for Chelsea he rejoiced in wandering and falling deep. England, used to a Dean or a Lawton—who had played his last international a couple of years before—were not quite geared to such subtleties.

  Spain won 3–0 at Curitiba against the United States, who were captained from right-half by Eddie McIlvenny, a Scot who only eighteen months earlier had been given a free transfer by Wrexham, of the Football League’s Third Division; and emigrated. Maca, the left-back, was a Belgian; Larry Gaetjens, the centre-forward, a Haitian who would disappear sadly and mysteriously in that sinister island some twenty years later.

  Four of the 1948 Olympic team, which playing with a roving centre-half had lost 9–0 to Italy, were present. Now they had a good stopper in Colombo, and they astonished Spain when their clever inside-forward, John Souza, scored after seventeen minutes, a lead they held gallantly till the last ten minutes. Then Spain scored twice in two minutes through the dashing Basora, and the robust centre-forward, Zarra, so powerful in the air, made it 3–1.

  Bill Jeffrey, the dedicated Scot who managed the American team, had every reason to feel proud of it. He had emigrated to the United States thirty years earlier, played for a railway works team and was then persuaded to join Penn State College as coach after playing against them. It was a temporary appointment which had lasted ever since. Combining his coaching with teaching in the machine shop, he had produced an unending series of successful teams; but none as remarkable as this World Cup side.

  In Pool IV Uruguay had nothing to do but beat Bolivia, which they did 8–0 at Recife. Four goals were by Juan Schiaffino, a tall, pale, slender inside-left of great elusiveness and consummate strategic skill. Schiaffino and the right-wing pair, Alcide (Chico) Ghiggia and Julio Perez, had been members of the previous year’s ‘amateur’ team which took part in the South American Championship, during yet another of Uruguay’s endemic strikes. ‘Amateur’ Uruguay had lost 5–1 to Brazil, but did discover three stars. Perez was little behind Schiaffino in craft, while the hunched, thin, moustached, sunken-cheeked Ghiggia, a personification of the anti-athlete, had an acceleration, a control at speed and a right-foot shot that made him formidable.

  England v. U.S.A.

  For their ill-starred second match against the United States, the formality that turned out a fiasco, England travelled to Belo Horizonte. Though the little stadium, with its bumpy surface and inadequate changing facilities, was primitive—the great 100,000-stadium of today lay far in the future—England seemed otherwise to be in clover. The mountain air, by contrast with that of Rio, was invigorating, and the party stayed happily as guests of the Morro Velho gold mine, English-owned and employing 2,000 British workers. Mr Arthur Drewry, acting as sole selector, clearly had two possibilities: to regard the match as a practice run for the team which had beaten Chile, or to rest them and make use of his reserves. He chose the first alternative; and who could blame him? Subsequent criticism, the argument that he should have picked Matthews, was pure wisdom after the event. Even Bill Jeffrey admitted that the United States had no chance. Several of his players stayed up into the small hours the night before.

  But for England the game would turn into the waking equivalent of an anxiety dream, in which it was impossible to do the one essential thing, the thing which should have been so farcically easy—score goals.

  The day was heavy with cloud, through which the sun broke only fitfully. The England attack quickly set up camp in the American half, hit the post, shot over the bar, and all in all they seemed to be comfortably adjusting their sights. In the meantime the excellence of Borghi in goal and the resilience of the half-back line of McIlvenny, Colombo and Bahr, kept them at bay.

  Then, eight minutes from half-time, the incredible happened. Bahr shot from the left, Williams seemed to have the ball covered, when in went Gaetjens with his head to deflect it out of his reach. Did he head it, or did it hit him? There were supporters of both views, but the question was irrelevant; the goal was valid. England, keeping the ball too close, shooting wide or not at all, scored none, while the clever distribution of John Souza saw to it that the defence could not relax. Once, from Ramsey’s typically immaculate free kick, Mullen’s header seemed to have crossed the line before it was kicked clear, but England—with Mortensen now at centre, Finney at inside-right—gained only a corner.

  At the final whistle, newspapers burned on the terraces, a funeral pyre for England, and spectators rushed on to the pitch to carry the brave American team out shoulder-high.

  The Pool Winners

  England went back to Rio, to try their last throw against Spain. Reports had told them that the Spanish backs played square and were vulnerable to the through pass. Milburn, the perfect centre-forward to exploit this with his marvellous sprinting, was preferred to Bentley, Matthews was brought in on the right and Finney moved to the left. After fourteen minutes, Milburn headed Finney’s centre past the otherwise unbeatable Spanish reserve goalkee
per Ramallets, but the goal was disallowed for offside by Italy’s Signor Galeati. Newsreel photographs would show a Spanish defender putting Milburn onside, but as it was Zarra headed in Basora’s centre for the winner, five minutes after half-time. So Spain won Pool III.

  In Pool I there was a closer finish than had been expected. The Brazilians were pushed very hard by a Yugoslav team light years ahead of the 1930 World Cup side. Above all it possessed the essential for a W formation team, a magnificent ‘quadrilateral’ of wing-halves and inside-forwards: Zlatko Cjaicowski I and Djajic; Rajko Mitic and Stefan Bobek.

  They had no trouble in mopping up the Swiss 3–0 in Belo Horizonte, Tomasevic scoring twice from centre; and the Mexicans 4–1 at Porto Alegre, where Cjaicowski’s younger brother got two from left-wing. But these were long journeys they were making and, worse still, just before they were due to take the field in their decisive match against Brazil in Rio, Mitic cut his head on a girder.

  It was decisive because Brazil, against all expectations, had slipped, dropping a point to Switzerland at São Paulo, which meant that a draw would see Yugoslavia through.

  The Swiss, playing their recently adopted verrou formation, the forerunner of catenaccio, had made only three changes from the team defeated by Yugoslavia, but it was enough to work wonders. Antenen, later a distinguished outside-right, moved from inside-right to centre; Bickel, the veteran skipper, to the right-wing, while in Jacky Fatton they had a fast, insidious left-winger. The Brazilians—faint echoes here of the 1938 semi-final—had picked something of a political team to please São Paulo, between which city and Rio their football was at that time polarised. The half-back line was completely changed to paulistas, of whom the strong, immaculate right-half Carlos Bauer would keep his place, Jair was hurt and Alfredo, a wing-half, played outside-right, with Maneca moving inside.

  Against the rugged Swiss verrou, with the blond Neury a great barrier in the middle, it wasn’t good enough. True, Alfredo put Brazil ahead, but Fatton met one of Bickel’s strong, accurate crosses to equalise. Baltazar scored a spectacular goal to restore Brazil’s advantage before half-time, but two minutes from the end, after the verrou had absorbed much punishment, Switzerland broke, for Tamini to make it 2–2.

  For the Yugoslav match, Flavio Costa now chose the remarkable Zizinho-Ademir-Jair inside-forward trio, and chose Chico for the left-wing. Yugoslavia came out without Mitic, waited while the Mayor of Rio exhorted the teams, then turned straight round and went back to the dressing-rooms. They were pursued by Mervyn Griffiths of Wales, the referee, who ordered them back and refused to postpone the kick-off while Mitic was treated, his head cut on an exposed girder. So the unlucky Slavs began reluctantly and anxiously with ten men, and had lost a goal traumatically within three minutes, when Ademir received from Bauer and scored. When Rajko Mitic—team manager of their fine 1968 side—finally came on, wearing a huge white bandage, his subtle skills and clever probing, his fine understanding with Bobek, transformed his team, and by half-time Brazil looked a troubled side. Perhaps if Cjaicowski II had taken a marvellous chance to equalise, things might have been different, but he missed it. Within minutes Bauer had found Zizinho, who dribbled his sinuous, irresistible way through Yugoslavia’s defence to make it 2–0.

  The following day, Uruguay and Spain came through; these three and Sweden would make up the final pool.

  The idea of having a final pool was a strange one which has never since been adopted. The trouble with a World Cup is that it is precisely that; a cup competition, greatly restricted in duration, in which luck and injuries have little time to level out, however you arrange things. Sometimes, as in the three pre-war World Cups, the three won by Brazil, and perhaps that won in 1966 by England, the strongest team prevails. But on other occasions, as in 1950 and again in 1954, there were dramatic upheavals.

  Final Pool Matches Brazil v. Sweden; Brazil v. Spain

  Sweden were Brazil’s first victims. George Raynor’s plan was to seek an early goal—the goal he and Sweden would get in the 1958 World Cup Final—and ‘We had two chances before they even moved.’ But both were missed, and in the nineteenth minute a hopeful shot by Ademir beat Svensson, after which—the deluge.

  Brazil now played the football of the future, an almost surrealist game, tactically unexceptional but technically superb, in which ball players of genius, while abrogating none of their own right to virtuosity and spectacle, found an exhilarating modus vivendi.

  Before half-time, Ademir had scored his second goal, while Chico added the third. The second half was sheer exhibition: Ademir brought his total to four, Chico his to two, while Maneca’s goal made seven. All Sweden could muster was a penalty by Sune Andersson, their right-half.

  Spain were next on the chopping block, tired after their fine, close match against Uruguay. Brazil thrashed them, with Eizaguirre back in goal for splendid Ramallets, 6–1; 3–0 at half-time. Jair and Chico scored a couple each, Zizinho one, Parra an own goal, Ademir none at all.

  That meant four points to Brazil, while Uruguay had with difficulty amassed three; a draw would thus give Brazil a Cup which seemed as good as theirs.

  Uruguay v. Spain; Uruguay v. Sweden; Spain v. Sweden

  On July 9, while Brazil were annihilating Sweden, Uruguay were just holding out in a dramatic match against Spain in São Paulo. It was a rough game, full of the Spanish temper, but kept under control and saved as an admirable match by the refereeing of Mervyn Griffiths.

  Uruguay, whose swift, skilled forwards always troubled the rather heavy, third back Spanish defence, took the lead through Ghiggia. But with Igoa and Molowny a fine, foraging pair of inside-forwards in the best W formation manner, Basora setting Andrade problems on the wing, Spain were 2–1 ahead by half-time; both goals Basora’s. Meanwhile, the two Gonzalvos and the gymnastic Ramallets were keeping Uruguay’s attack at bay.

  In the second half, the inspiring Varela drove the Uruguayans forward, just as he would against Brazil, and eighteen minutes from the end he himself thundered into the Spanish penalty area to equalise.

  In their second game, once more at São Paulo, Uruguay were lucky to get the better of Sweden, who also held a 2–1 lead against them at half-time. The determining factor was probably the weariness of Skoglund, who made little contribution; nor were Sweden helped when a bad foul by Matthias Gonzales put Johnsson, their right-winger, off the field for an extended period.

  Though the Uruguayans were both immeasurably fresher and technically much superior to the Swedes, they never dominated them. Kalle Palmer even gave his team the lead after five minutes for Ghiggia to equalise, but Sundqvist, the fast Swedish left-winger, like Ghiggia, would play for Roma—made it 2–1. Sweden, however, had shot their bolt, and two goals in the second half by Miguez, the Uruguayan centre-forward, gave them a bare 3–2 win.

  For their last match, against Spain, Raynor switched his team’s wingers, brought in Rydell for Skoglund, while Bror Mellberg, already standing in for Jeppson, moved to inside-right. The result, again in São Paulo, was a splendid 3–1 win over Spain.

  Brazil v. Uruguay

  If you are going to have a cup at all, you had better have a Cup Final. The odd thing was that in 1950, though no provision was made for one, the Brazil-Uruguay match which decided things was such a thriller, such a glorious climax, that no official Final could have done its job better. Indeed, people still talk about it, erroneously if understandably, as the Final.

  Though Flavio Costa showed anything but over-confidence, the mood in Brazil before the decisive match with Uruguay was one of bounding euphoria. How could they lose? How, indeed, could they do anything but win? The intricate, galvanic combination of their inside-forward trio, Zizinho, Ademir and Jair, was devastating. One move, which Raynor had particularly admired, was especially unusual and effective. To vary the normal method of attack—short passes alternating with deeper, sharply-angled balls to the wings, sometimes over twenty yards—Ademir would pass back to the dominating Bauer. Bauer would
wait, foot on the ball, while Zizinho in his relaxed, loping way would trot back like an obedient dog to take it from him.

  ‘The Uruguayan team,’ warned Costa presciently, ‘has always disturbed the slumbers of Brazilian footballers. I’m afraid that my players will take the field on Sunday as though they already had the Championship shield sewn on their jerseys. It isn’t an exhibition game. It is a match like any other, only harder than the others.’

  Colonel Volpe of the Uruguayan delegation remained sturdily sanguine, reminding those who spoke to him that Uruguay had already beaten Brazil once that year.

  Vittorio Pozzo, present this time not as a combatant but as a journalist, was staggered by the address made by the Governor of the state of Rio at the Maracanà, immediately before the game.

  ‘You Brazilians, whom I consider victors of the tournament … you players who in less than a few hours will be acclaimed champions by millions of your compatriots … you who have no equals in the terrestrial hemisphere … you who are so superior to every other competitor … you whom I already salute as conquerors.’ The Uruguayans, long before the eulogy had ended, were clearly fretting. Finally, the teams lined up; and Brazil attacked.