The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  Of Garrincha Dr Gosling said, ‘He has recovered (from injuries in a motor accident) but not completely. The problem with Garrincha is this; he can’t play as often as he used to play, his recovery is quite slow now.’ It was a point Brazil’s selectors would wantonly ignore.

  An ageing Djalma Santos and a fading Zito were also among the elect, while a third survivor of 1958, the thirty-four-year-old Dino, who had gone home from Italy to São Paulo promising to retire, was now in such splendid form with Corinthians that he seemed likely to win a place. In fact he did not even get into the final party. Lima, a powerful but straightforward half-back, did, while the gifted but inconsistent Gerson, a member of the 1960 Olympic team, was the designated successor to Didì.

  But when all was said and done there was always Pelé, the sublime deus ex machina, throbbing with power and energy, capable of resolving and transforming any game in a flash. He, too, had had his problems with injuries, but at twenty-five he was at the peak of his career.

  Hungary

  Portugal and Hungary were in the same strong group. The Hungarian team manager had promised that his side would abandon 4-2-4 and play with Matrai as a sweeper, because otherwise ‘we’d have no chance against Brazil and Portugal’. The Hungarians had won their qualifying group well, without losing a match. They still had the immaculate, Hidegkuti-like Florian Albert for centre-forward, and could afford the indulgence of playing Ferenc Bene, a huge success in the 1964 Olympic tournament, small and clever and fleet, on the right wing. As we shall see, however, their tactics were rather more than mere catenaccio.

  Portugal

  Portugal had staggered through the last phases of their group, losing in Romania, but in Eusebio they had one of the game’s few authentic stars, a very great striking inside-forward with a staggering right foot, flowing control, wonderful acceleration. Born in Lourenço Marques, Mozambique, he had at the age of nineteen established himself in the Benfica team in 1961 in a world club championship match in Montevideo, having previously electrified Paris in a friendly tournament. His face had a pristine innocence and beauty in respose, his movements were graceful yet enormously powerful. If Europe had found a rival to Pelé in spectacle and efficiency, then this was unquestionably he.

  There were several other stars from a Benfica team which had played superbly in the European Cup over the past five years, winning it twice and twice losing narrowly in the Final. Eusebio himself, after his thunderous shooting had resolved the 1962 Final against Real Madrid in Amsterdam, had been symbolically presented by Ferenc Puskas—scorer of three that night—with his jersey. José Augusto, formerly the team’s fast and clever outside-right, would now play in midfield as a subtly creative inside-left, little Simoes would appear with great effect both on the left flank and on the right, while the immensely tall Torres would be a menace in the air.

  Alas, two superb defenders had dropped out; and this would finally prove decisive. Costa Pereira, a tall, calm goalkeeper, and Germano, a mighty, resilient centre-half, had been the very props of the Benfica defence and there was no replacing them.

  The Groups

  In England’s group, Uruguay, who would be met in the curtainraiser, were clearly the toughest nut to crack. They were managed by the elderly, dedicated, courteous Ondino Viera, a man rich in experience of South American football. They brought such stars of the 1962 team as the dazzling inside-forward Pedro Rocha in midfield, and Ladislao Mazurkiewiecz in goal, but to Viera’s chagrin he could get hold of none of the Uruguayans playing in Argentina—Silveira, Pavoni, Matosas, Sasia, Cubilla.

  In the Birmingham-Sheffield group there were Argentina, Spain, Switzerland and West Germany. Luis Suarez, the Internazionale (Milan) inside-forward, the first £200,000 transfer of all and a World Cup player of 1962, had given England to win. His own country had qualified most laboriously with a play-off in Paris against little Eire, won only 1–0 by a goal from Ufarte, the Atletico Madrid right-winger, who had played almost all his football in Brazil with Flamengo of Rio.

  Argentina, who had progressively hardened their hearts since 1958 and had won Brazil’s International Tournament of 1964, which included England and Portugal, with ruthless defensive methods, had had a palace revolution, Juan Carlos Lorenzo, their 1962 manager, replacing Zubeldia. They had unexpectedly recalled Luis Artime, centre-forward, and Ermindo Onega, inside-left, two players who had till quite recently been playing in the River Plate reserves, for all their celebrated understanding. Artime, known as El Hermoso, ‘The Handsome’, would go on scoring goals all over South America for the next six years. As the perambulating half-back in a team hanging somewhere between catenaccio and metodo there was the tall, strong, unhurried Antonio Rattin; a proper successor to Luisito Monti in more senses than one.

  The Swiss had been fortunate to edge ahead of Northern Ireland, baulked by a frustrating draw in Albania, while the West Germans had come in at the expense of Sweden. The return of the ever-resilient Uwe Seeler, amazingly recovered from an operation to fit an artificial Achilles tendon, had enabled them to win the vital match in Stockholm.

  In midfield there was abundant young talent: Helmut Haller, now with Bologna in Italy, Wolfgang Overath and his splendid left foot, and a tall, dark, immensely elegant young attacking right-half called Franz Beckenbauer from Bayern Munich, who was said to be better than either.

  The Italians, who played in the north-eastern Group IV with Russia, Chile and … North Korea, came with a bevy of impressive recent victories behind them. In charge of them was the tiny, spectacled Edmondo Fabbri, who had vacillated between the kind of large-souled, attacking tactics which thrashed Poland 6–1 in Rome and the wretched catenaccio-ridden negativity which brought about a 1–0 defeat in Scotland. The return, in Naples, was won against a much depleted Scottish side, several of whose stars were kept at home by their English clubs for reasons more or less convincing. Jock Stein, the forceful and able Celtic manager who had been in charge, resigned in disgust.

  When the draw was announced, after Italy’s 3–0 win over Scotland, qualification for the quarter-finals seemed inevitable; even if, by a malign concatenation, Chile had to be met again. Then things began to go wrong. There was a disappointing 0–0 draw with France, in which Inter’s turbulent midfield player Mario Corso not only played badly but previously insulted the assistant manager, Ferruccio Valcareggi, who elected not to hear the worst of his epithets. Poor Mora, meanwhile, after scoring a fine goal against the Scots and confirming himself as one of Italy’s few natural wingers, had broken his leg.

  Inter were angry enough when Corso was dropped from the team leaving Gianni Rivera unchallenged in midfield. They were incensed when Fabbri also left out their captain and sweeper, the superbly combative and resilient Armando Picchi, whose presence would be so badly missed. Fabbri also surprised the critics by omitting Giuliano Sarti, his most experienced goalkeeper, and the heavy-scoring Luigi Riva of Cagliari.

  The Russians had made their customary pre-World Cup tour of South America. They still had the incomparable Lev Yachine, not to mention a fine winger in Chislenko and a forceful midfield half-back in Voinov. The charge against them, however, was the old one of lack of flair.

  Chile no longer had their midfield pair of Toro and Rojas, both of whom had gone abroad, and failed, while North Korea—what could be expected of them? They had had to beat only Australia to qualify, since the rest of the Afro-Asian block had walked out in a huff because they were allowed only one representative. The two necessary games had taken place on neutral territory, at Pnom-Penh in Cambodia. Australia, who seemed to have enough experience to win comfortably, were thrashed 6–1, then beaten 3–1, by a team of little men who moved sweetly and finished splendidly. Sir Stanley Rous, who was present, warned everyone prepared to listen that this was not a team to be taken lightly, but scepticism remained.

  Little, after all, was known about the North Koreans. Their contacts with football beyond their own remote confines were small, and beyond the range of Comm
unist countries sympathetic to Russia—rather than China—nil. A couple of games in eastern Europe on the way to the World Cup was simply not enough. Had they deserted their sombre, rather than splendid, isolation as soon as they had beaten Australia, who knows how much more they might have done; though they would, it is true, have lost their aura of inscrutability, the charisma of the unknown.

  The Opening Matches The First Round

  The opening match of the tournament, held at Wembley, was a dreadful one; the most arid of goalless draws between England and Uruguay. The Uruguayan tactics had been predictable from the beginning; catenaccio defence and minimal ambitions. In the circumstances, Ramsey’s own tactics and team selection were curiously obtuse. Connelly did play instead of Peters, but far from guaranteeing the attacking game Viera had expected it simply meant that England, with only one winger, Bobby Charlton out of form, and neither Hunt nor Greaves making much impression on Uruguay’s solid, contemptuously resourceful defence, had little chance of a goal.

  Brazil’s beginning, at Everton, was better; they beat Bulgaria 2–0, thanks to two fulminating goals from free kicks, one in the first half by a splendid Pelé, one in the second by Garrincha.

  At Old Trafford their rivals, Portugal and Hungary, played, and an injury to Szentmihalyi, Hungary’s goalkeeper, only a few seconds after the kick-off, tipped the balance. José Augusto’s first goal soon followed, Szentmihalyi missing a corner, and all Hungary’s clever, furious attacks came to naught. Playing with a novel formation, three midfield men breaking splendidly to support Bene and Farkas up front, they twice hit the bar. At last Bene equalised, after sixty-one minutes, but six minutes later, with Szentmihalyi again at fault, Augusto made it 2–1. Torres got the third goal from an ‘impossible’ angle with almost the last kick, giving Portugal a 3–1 win which ridiculed the actual play.

  In Sheffield the Swiss collapsed 5–0 before the West Germans, Beckenbauer gliding through for a couple of fluent goals. At the last moment Switzerland had dropped two of their best players. Leimgruber and Kobi Kuhn, for breaking curfew. The punishment seemed rather severe, both for team and players.

  At Villa Park, Argentina, who had lost 3–0 in Italy on the way to England, beat Spain 2–1 in a disappointing game, twice cruelly hacking down Suarez, early on. Artime, sharply exploiting Onega’s clever suggestions, scored both goals for Argentina, while Pirri, in his first international, replied with a curious, looping header for Spain. Argentina had the blond Silvio Marzolini again as one of their two overlapping full-backs, Roberto Perfumo as a composed and elegant sweeper.

  At Middlesbrough the North Koreans, who would be taken to the hearts of the Ayresome Park crowd, referred to lovingly as ‘us’, for all their exotic remoteness, began badly. Russia, physically much too powerful, brushed their over-cautious team aside, 3–0, Malafeev and Banichevski, the big strikers, getting the goals. There still seemed no reason to believe that the Koreans could do anything.

  Italy, at Sunderland, laboriously beat Chile 2–0 with an early goal and a late goal. Something strange had happened to them since their string of ‘friendly’ victories; the cynical would whisper afterwards of the effects of strict drug control. The players seemed tense, reflecting the tension of little Fabbri, which seemed unassuaged by the fact that the Italian Federation had extended his contract to 1970.

  The French, meanwhile, ensconced at Welwyn Garden City, began badly with a draw against Mexico, whose goal was scored by the alert Enrique Borja. The bone of contention was Lucien Muller, an experienced midfield player now with Barcelona, who had been brought from Spain but would not play a match.

  Succumbing 2–1 to Uruguay at White City, the French thus lost all chance of qualifying; they could hardly hope to beat England.

  Hungary v. Brazil

  The second round of matches brought a glorious game between Hungary and Brazil at Everton, worthy of standing with the best the World Cup has ever produced. It was exciting, dramatic, full of fine goals and delightful football, played at extraordinary speed. It also represented the first defeat of Brazil in a World Cup since 1954.

  Pelé, let it be said at once, could not play, his place being taken by young Tostao. Gerson replaced Denilson, essentially a half-back, in midfield, while the veterans Djalma Santos and Garrincha were most unwisely committed to their second match in a few days. The Hungarians made several changes, including Gelei for Szentmihalyi in goal.

  It was Albert, however, who dominated the field, left to wander at will by the Brazilians, orchestrating Hungary’s flowing attacks, now running beautifully with the ball, now passing cleverly, always willing and able to beat his man, consummately versatile. At the end of the remarkable match, when he stood by the tunnel in the rain taking a pull from a bottle of water, the Everton crowd were chanting, ‘Al-bert, Al-bert!’ paying a great performance the tribute it deserved.

  After only three minutes, little Bene was wriggling in from the right, infiltrating Brazil’s ponderous defence, and striking his shot from the narrowest of angles past Gilmar. From that moment, Hungary had the bit between their teeth. Their defence was excellent, the prematurely grey Matrai sweeping diligently behind the muscular Sipos and Meszoly, with Sipos always ready to go forward. The attack, marvellously fast and fluid, struck now from this angle, now from that, as midfield players and even defenders dashed into the open spaces left by the clever two front runners.

  Brazil were reprieved when, after fifteen minutes, Lima’s free kick rebounded to Tostao, who whipped it smartly home, but the half-time score of 1–1 was illusory. Hungary finally regained a lead they would not lose with an exhilarating goal by Farkas. Albert’s clever run and pass exposed the Brazilian defence again, sending Bene flying down the right. Bene pulled back a fast, low cross which Farkas met with a ferocious right-footed volley on the near post, a goal which left the crowd first breathless, then exultant. Ten minutes later a penalty by Meszoli, conceded by an overplayed Brazilian defence, fouling Bene, knocked the last nail in the Brazilian coffin.

  Portugal v. Brazil and Italy v. Russia

  Pelé came back for the final throw against Portugal, but he was obviously not fit, and the match was lost and won long before a brutal, inexplicable double foul by Morais put him out of the game. In the panic after the match with Hungary, Brazil made seven changes, ejecting the veterans Gilmar, Bellini, Djalma Santos and Garrincha, yet restoring the veteran Orlando for his first World Cup match since 1958. Manga, a tall, agile goalkeeper nicknamed ‘Frankenstein’ for his bizarre appearance, replaced Gilmar, and crossed himself anxiously as he emerged from the tunnel; all nerves, despite his excellence on a tour of Europe the previous year.

  After fourteen minutes he had given away a goal, feebly punching out Eusebio’s centre for Simoes, who had begun the move, to head in. After twenty-five minutes, another goal: Coluna, Portugal’s splendid black captain and left-half, a beautiful striker of the ball, sent over a free kick which Torres nodded back from the far post. Eusebio headed in again.

  The game was in Portugal’s pockets, and there was no excuse, not even that of cynical necessity, for Morais to chop down Pelé. Later, Pelé would say that it was only when he saw the incident on film that he realised how bad it was. He would swear, then, never to play in a World Cup again. The indulgent, flaccid English referee, George McCabe, allowed Morais to stay on the field, so that now Portugal were virtually playing against ten men. Silva, Brazil’s new centre-forward, had also been hurt, while even at full strength they had been quite unable to curb a rampant Eusebio, whose speed and flexibility were a dreadful torment to their defenders.

  The second half was curiously barren of goals until, after sixty-four minutes, Rildo, the young, attacking left-back, gave Brazil false hope with an enterprising run and goal. Five minutes from time, Eusebio appropriately ended such illusions when, after a right-wing corner, he thrashed the ball back into goal.

  Brazil were out, and with both Hungary and Portugal defeating Bulgaria, these two passed into the
quarter-finals.

  England’s group went on its weary way. Calderon, Mexico’s goalkeeper, knelt in prayer beneath his crossbar before the kick-off of another tiresome game, against England, ruined by a Mexican team which kept nine or even ten men in defence. At last, with the crowd chanting, ‘We want goals!’—it was a crowd immeasurably more vocal than in Winterbottom’s reign—Bobby Charlton obliged them. Seven minutes from half-time, from well outside the area and at a sharp angle, he struck a memorable right-footed cross shot past Calderon. In the second half, his excellent pass sent Greaves through, for Hunt to put in the rebound, but though Peters had been added to the midfield and Terry Paine tried at outside-right, the team was still creaking. Stiles, whatever his inspirational function, gave nothing in creativity, and seemed in these games, when goals had to be scored, no more than a testimony to Ramsey’s penchant for counter-attacking football and at least one ‘hard man’.

  A crisis was reached in the subsequent game against France, again won 2–0, laboriously, against a French team which played most of the match with the injured Herbin at centre-forward. The English players complained afterwards that opponents spat at them. Be that as it may, Stiles’ foul on Jacky Simon late in the game seemed a gross one. Two officials of the Football Association insisted that Ramsey withdraw him from the team. Ramsey, loyal to his players and his somewhat contentious ideology, said that if Stiles went, so would he. Stiles, inevitably, remained.