The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  The Argentines were now under the management of Dr Carlos Bilardo, a sombre man of many parts; a medical doctor, once engaged in serious research, a left-half for the notoriously tough Estudiantes de La Plata team of the late 1960s. His head had left its mark, in Buenos Aires, above Nobby Stiles’s eye, just as his assistant, Carlos Pachamé, had split open Bobby Charlton’s shin, in the 1968 Intercontinental Cup game.

  No one in Argentina seemed to like Bilardo’s methods, least of all the President, Alfonsin, who publicly criticised them. So, said Bilardo, did his own father, but people in Argentina didn’t understand the modern game. He had no real strikers or wingers at his disposal.

  The World Cup won, Bilardo would boast that Argentina had taught new tactics to the game; a sweeper, two markers, five men across midfield, and a single striker. In fact, they’d not used such tactics in their laborious passage to the Finals—a very lucky home win against Peru had scraped them through in their last game—nor did they in their opening World Cup games. It was only when the young centreforwards Pasculli and Claudio Borghi had failed to satisfy Bilardo that he made a virtue out of necessity, introducing his new methods.

  The team had to do without the fearsomely competitive Daniel Passarella, who succumbed, soon after his arrival in Mexico City, to colic and calf injuries. This gave—a romantic story—an unexpected chance of fame to a very different personality, the solid, amiable José-Luis Brown, a 28-year-old central defender who hadn’t even got a club when he set out for Mexico. He’d played in Colombia, come back to Argentina, but nobody had signed him. Playing libero behind two central markers, the modest Brown would prove a bulwark; and the Final would see him spring a dramatic surprise.

  A bruisingly combative South Korean team was beaten 3–1 at the Olympic Stadium in Mexico City. Maradona, roughly dealt with, took the best possible revenge by setting up all three goals, two scored by the tall, elegant Jorge Valdano, who could play centre-forward or on the wing. Weak goalkeeping by the Korean, aptly named Oh, doomed his team, who did, though, score the final goal with a rocketing shot by Park Chung-Sun.

  Next, at Puebla, came Italy; and a draw. This time it was his Napoli colleague, Salvatore Bagni, whom Bearzot set to mark Maradona. Not the gentlest of players; but gentler than Gentile. Italy had little Galderisi and tall Altobelli up front, again, and went ahead from Altobelli’s penalty after only six minutes, when Garre handled.

  But with Maradona showing splendid sleight of foot, and the strolling, bearded Batista complementing him cleverly in midfield, Argentina stayed afloat. Eventually, after 33 minutes, Valdano centred from the right and Maradona—with no Gentile to mark him slipped in to equalise. A sublimely insidious shot, low into the far corner. Which left the Italians with the ungrateful task of beating the Koreans in their third game; memories of the North Koreans, Middlesbrough and 1966 were still painfully alive.

  In the event, the South Koreans gave Italy an embarrassingly good run for their money. 3–2 was the margin, with Altobelli scoring twice but hitting the post from a penalty, the third Italian goal going in off the hand of the unlucky Cho Kwang-Rae. The Koreans equalised the first Italian goal, just after half-time, Choi demonstrating again their shooting power. A late goal by Kyung-Hoon made the score respectable, but Italy, playing Vialli only for the last two minutes, had at least survived.

  Argentina, in their final group game in the Olympic Stadium, overcame Bulgaria 2–0, Valdano scoring once again; the clever, busy midfielder, Jorge Burruchaga, got the other. Borghi led the attack once more. Hope remained that he’d fulfil his undoubted talent; but life, and football, would alas turn sour.

  In Group B, Belgium still showed few signs of what was to come. They won only once, a meagre 2–1 against Iraq, the elegant Sicilian-Belgian Enzo Scifo scoring their first goal. Paraguay, with two goals by the dashing Cabañas, once a partner of Romerito in the New York Cosmos attack, drew with the Belgians, 2–2. Paraguay beat the dogged Iraqis 1–0, through Romerito’s goal, and held Mexico 1–1, with another goal by Romerito, a hero in Brazil. Iraq thus went out. Mexico beat them 1–0.

  Now the competition lurched out of its protracted, over-complicated, initial phase, and became a knock-out affair. The French and the Soviets were predictably there. They’d drawn 1–1 in hot, humid Leon. Vasili Rats, a versatile left-footed player of Hungarian origin, smashed in a tremendous drive from 30 yards early in the second half, but the forceful young Luis Fernandez, a newcomer to the French midfield, equalised eight minutes later. France then easily disposed of the shell-shocked Hungarian side, while Oleg Blokhin was briefly recalled to score for the Soviets against Canada. They won 2–0, but Canada bowed out undisgraced.

  The game which seemed all too likely to go up in smoke and flames was that between Argentina and Uruguay, eternal rivals of the River Plate, in Puebla. In the event, thunder and lightning came not from the players but from the elements. In the second half, a storm played about the pitch; the rain came down in torrents, but nothing could overshadow Maradona’s glorious talents.

  Bossio did his best to mark him, in a Uruguayan team well domesticated by a fine Italian referee, Luigi Agnolin, whose father had refereed before him. Stringent measures and threats by the World Cup committee, which had banished a defiant Omar Borras from the bench and fined him into the bargain, had their calming effect. Though Uruguay lost in the end only to Pasculli’s forty-first minute goal, they might have conceded several more.

  Maradona was irresistible, his swift and sudden spurts, his magical passing, his effortless control too much for Uruguay to master.

  Valdano, who eventually set up Pasculli’s goal, should have headed in an inviting cross from Maradona; instead he put it wide. Maradona’s run began the move which led to the only goal; he struck the bar with a dipping free kick; he had a goal disallowed in the second half which seemed quite valid. Unable to kick him, Uruguay were obliged to endure him.

  Brazil, meanwhile, Argentina’s other, old, rivals, had been getting up steam, playing the kind of football they’d produced in Spain. The lean, swift Josimar, brought into the team as an attacking right-back against a bewildered Northern Ireland, had given them new options. He scored their second goal in Guadalajara, in a 3–0 success. The third goal, and Careca’s second, was made by Zico, who came on, to huge applause, as a substitute after 67 minutes. Pat Jennings was yet again in defiant form, but even he could not rescue a disappointing Irish side.

  Poland were next, in the same stadium—where Pelé’s Brazil had excelled in 1970. This time, the margin was 4–0, with two penalties and another goal for the adventurous Josimar; ‘The Pope is Polish but God is Brazilian’ was the joke before the match. There were early moments when the Pope seemed likely to prevail, for the Poles began in style, ‘Jackie’ Dziekanowski hitting a post, Karas hitting the bar, Boniek lobbing the keeper, Carlos, only for the ball to finish on top of the net, not in it.

  At last Brazil shook off their lethargy; Alemao and Junior began to take over the midfield. Careca was brought down, Socrates took but two steps forward to despatch the penalty; Poland wasted chances and Brazil finally prevailed.

  At the Azteca, Mexico saw off the Bulgarians with little trouble. ‘Bulgaria,’ wrote the magazine World Soccer, ‘were a disgrace to football. One almost wondered why they had even bothered going to the trouble of coming to the finals.’ 100,000 saw the acrobatic Negrete volley in Mexico’s spectacular first goal, and put over the corner from which Servin dived to head the second. Back after brief suspension, Hugo Sanchez showed in fits and starts. For him, it would be a disappointing World Cup.

  The most remarkable game of this so-called Second Round would take place in Leon between the Belgians and the Soviets, bringing memories of the Italy v. West Germany semi-final of 1970, which also produced seven goals. Little the Belgians had done thus far prepared one for what they’d do now. Nor had the Soviet defence yet looked so porous.

  Belgium had squeezed into the Second Round only because, under the strange
new dispensation of this World Cup and its lopsided 24 teams, they were one of the four third-placed group teams with the ‘best’ record. Injuries to Erwin Vandenbergh and René Vandereycken, both sent home in consequence, and poor form by seemingly established players obliged Belgium’s experienced manager, Guy Thys, to bring in fresh faces, such as those of Grun and Vervoort, pairing Claesen and Veyt in an experimental attack.

  But much of the credit for Belgium’s success went to a couple of veterans: tall, strong Jan Ceulemans, the attacking midfielder, whose mother had persuaded him to turn down AC Milan, and the 30-year-old sweeper, Michel Renquin, whom Thys had doubted before the tournament. Perhaps the chief revelation was the 20-year-old Anderlecht defender, Stéphane De Mol, precociously composed.

  Though Belgium played with great spirit to win, it might be said that the game turned on their second equalising goal. There was a quarter of an hour left and the Soviets led 2–1, both their goals having gone to the rampant striker, Igor Belanov, of Dynamo Kiev. The Soviets’ version of Total Football seemed likely to prevail when Vervoort’s long pass came to Ceulemans, standing all alone. The Soviet defence looked for an offside flag, but the linesman, Sanchez-Arminio, kept his flag down. Ceulemans duly scored, but the match went into extra time, and the evidently shaken Soviets gave away further goals—to young De Mol, with a far-post header, and Nico Claesen. Belanov’s penalty, three minutes from the end, gave him the consolation of a hat trick, but his team were out.

  At the Olympic stadium in Mexico City, Bearzot lost his nerve, and Italy went out with a whimper. Though Michel Platini, by general consent, was not in his finest form, probably still suffering the effects of the tendinitis which had long been troubling him, Bearzot decided he must sacrifice a man to mark him, and brought in the Inter defender, Giuseppe Baresi, older brother of Franco, who would grace so many future Italian teams. To make room for Baresi, Bearzot contentiously dropped the inventive Di Gennaro; and handed the initiative to France.

  They took it. They beat Italy, in fact, in a major competition for the first time since 1920. If, as Bearzot insisted, Baresi had always played well against Platini in the Italian Championship, this was neither the day nor the apt occasion. Italy throughout looked a team weary in mind and body, and this time there was no Paolo Rossi to lift them from the canvas.

  Platini, Baresi or no Baresi, put France ahead after only 13 minutes with an elegant chip over the hapless Galli. Fernandez, in dominant form throughout, had begun the move; Dominique Rocheteau, so hugely gifted, so sadly prone to injury, had made the final, killing through pass.

  Fernandez was here, there and everywhere, now clearing Conti’s shot from the line, now hitting the Italian bar from some 35 yards. Bearzot did bring Di Gennaro on in place of Baresi at half-time, but by then France had a grip of the game. Their second goal, 11 minutes into the second half, went to the willing young Stopyra, who’d replaced Papin; the culmination of a sustained, inventive move. When Jean Tigana eventually put Rocheteau clear, he in turn selflessly found Stopyra, who drove into the bottom left-hand angle of the goal. Italy, the holders, were well and truly out. The inevitable recriminations followed, and Altobelli said he never wanted to play for the azzurri again. Bearzot would give way now to Azeglio Vicini, his assistant.

  As for England, their rejuvenated team flew past Paraguay at the Azteca, as they had flown past Poland. 3–0 again was the score, despite some brutal tactics by a Paraguayan defence too heavy to hold Lineker—at least by legal means.

  Yet again, England owed so much to the magnificent goalkeeping of Peter Shilton. A feeble header out by Alvin Martin, one of England’s big, slow centre-backs, was whacked at goal by Canete, but Shilton turned the rising ball over the bar. The other centre-back, Terry Butcher, then blundered, with a casual back pass to Shilton. Mendoza ran on to it and squared the ball precisely to the feet of Canete, who was gallantly thwarted once more by Shilton.

  Football being the predictably perverse game it is, England proceeded to score. Hoddle to Hodge, on the left, Hodge to Lineker, Lineker into the vacant goal. Almost at once, Lineker volleyed Beardsley’s cross with precise power, but Fernandez tipped the ball gymnastically over the bar.

  In the second half, the inadequate Syrian referee, Al-Sharif, failed to control the increasingly abrasive Paraguayans, given to spiteful fouls and endless protests. In one particularly vicious foul, Delgado, the centre-back, chopped Lineker across the throat, and forced him off the field for treatment. With wry philosophy, Lineker observed later, ‘It was an accident. At least, I hope it was.’

  England took swift revenge. With Lineker still absent, Butcher’s shot, from Hoddle’s corner, bounced off Fernandez’s chest; Beardsley did final execution. Then 17 minutes from the end, Lineker had the satisfaction of his second goal. Hoddle launched Gary Stevens of Spurs, on as a substitute, Stevens crossed low from the goal line, and Lineker was there to score. Argentina would be next—the first time they’d met since the Falklands War.

  In Monterrey, which Lineker was so glad to leave—‘The awful dehydration just saps your strength away. In the last twenty minutes you feel weak’—West Germany squeezed through 1–0 against Morocco, with an eighty-ninth-minute goal.

  The Moroccans had beaten Portugal 3–1 in Guadalajara to reach this stage. A triumph for them, as their manager, José Faria, said happily: ‘Lots of people expected us to lose, and lots of people lost because of that. We are the first team from the Third World to win its group. We could go home now. It is just one big party for us. It’s as if we have already won our title.’

  Truth to tell, the Portuguese were clearly a demoralised side, torn apart by endless arguments with their officials. But at least, in this game, the Moroccans gave rein to their undoubted talents, so sadly masked in the games against England and, subsequently, West Germany. Abderrazak Khairi, their midfielder, shot two goals in the first half; the elusive Timoumi made a third for the veteran centre-forward, Krimau Merry, just after the hour. The response by the blond Diamantino, who came on only as a substitute, was irrelevant.

  Franz Beckenbauer would castigate the Moroccans for their negative play in Monterrey; just as he’d dismiss the Danish tactics as ‘primitive’. José Faria responded that he’d intended to bring on two fast attackers in extra time—a somewhat unconvincing riposte.

  Yet Morocco surely had enough gifted players on the park over the 90 minutes—Krimau Merry, Timoumi, Bouderbala—to have troubled an unconvincing German team more than they did. Not till Beckenbauer brought on quick little Pierre Littbarski for a disappointing Rudi Völler at half-time did the Germans begin to show much form.

  The day was hot, the game was dull. Zaki, Morocco’s excellent goalkeeper, made a splendid save from Karl-Heinz Rummenigge—playing a whole game at last—just before half-time, but chances were at a premium. He saved well again, with his legs, from Lothar Matthaus, three minutes from the end, but a couple of minutes later Matthaus had the last word.

  A free kick to West Germany, a gap in the Moroccan ‘wall’, and Matthaus, needing no invitation, crashed the ball through it and low past Zaki, who couldn’t have seen it.

  The following day, in Queretaro, produced an astonishing game between Spaniards and Danes. Whatever Beckenbauer said, the Danes had played some wonderful football. But they’d be without Frank Arnesen, and here Matthaus comes into a last-minute picture, again. In the ninetieth minute of the Denmark-West Germany match, Arnesen had taken a kick at him and been sent off, and suspended. Ironically, Klaus Berggreen, who’d committed a painful and disgraceful ‘professional’ foul on Charlie Nicholas in the win against Scotland—he’d ‘had to do it’, he said—was able to take part.

  Alas, it would be another four years before João Havelange relinquished his crass opposition to the ‘professional foul’ rule, which he’d forbidden the Football League to adopt in 1982. And even then, he’d fail to get it right, fail, in his imperceptive way where football was concerned, to appreciate its import and subtleties.
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  The whole essence of the rule, as applied in England, was that it punished by expulsion defenders whose fouls outside the penalty box would otherwise allow them to escape. By applying the rule to the penalty area as well, FIFA and Havelange vitiated its significance and relevance.

  This game, meanwhile, seemed to turn on a single moment’s aberration. The culprit was little Jesper Olsen, the blond left-winger who played at times for Ajax and Manchester United. Strangely enough, it was Olsen who got the first goal of the game. Berggreen, of all people, procured the penalty, when Gallego was ruled—to Spanish fury—to have brought him down. Olsen scored.

  Two minutes from half-time, he gave Spain their equaliser. Quite what got into his head when Hogh, his goalkeeper, rolled him the ball, who can say, but he whimsically rolled it across his own penalty box. Emilio Butragueño doesn’t look such gift horses in the mouth. The teams went into the dressing-rooms at 1–1, and Denmark would never be the same.

  Now Butragueño became a torment to them; his swerves, his accelerations, his sudden, unexpected appearances in striking positions, would perplex and undo them.

  Some 12 minutes into the second half, Victor, the sturdy, busy midfielder, took a corner, Camacho knocked it on to the far post, and Butragueño, unmarked, proved he could score with his head as well as his elegant feet. Denmark collapsed, though not before Zubizarreta, the Spanish goalkeeper, had dealt with an attempt by Elkjaer.

  Sixty-eight minutes had gone when Spain obtained the first of two penalties. Significantly, it was for a foul on the rampant Butragueño, who raced down the left, cut into the box, and was felled by Busk. That fearsome centre-back, Goicoechea, put away the penalty. Denmark broke now and then, but overall Spain simply overwhelmed them.