The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  The USA, benefiting from the absence from their qualifying group of Mexico—expelled after fiddling the ages of their youth players—and squeezing by little Trinidad, were in a World Cup Finals for the first time since 1950. Few expected them to do well. Their manager, Bob Gansler, came out of the dour German–American League in the New York area, where skill was at a premium. He ignored gifted Latin players such as Hugo Perez, preferring beef to brains. Against the accomplished Czechs, in Florence, the Americans were unwise enough to try to play an attacking game. With little but courage to offer, they were thrashed 5–1, already 3–1 down when Wynalda was sent off for shoving Kadlec to the ground. Two of the Czech goals came from near-post headers to corners by the adroit Chavonec, sweeper or midfielder as required. It didn’t look as if Gansler had done his homework.

  Up north-west at Asti, Brazil’s training camp was anything but happy. The players seemed at daggers drawn with everybody; even themselves, for the tough midfielder Dunga was at odds with the striker Careca. Each wanted, it appeared, to be the main man. Their hotel proprietor accused them of not paying for their drinks, their sponsors, Asti 90, of not fulfilling their supposed obligations. And there was the matter of the sweeper, Mauro Galvao, a bone of endless contention.

  Despite all this, the Brazilians won their opening game in the fine new Stadium of the Alps in Turin. Careca, in incisive form, got both the Brazilian goals. Little Tomas Brolin, the young Swedish centre-forward, replied 11 minutes from the end after leaving the powerful Mozer standing with a remarkable turn.

  Branco, once rejected by the obscure Brescia club, had something to prove, and he proved it, with an ebullient performance as raiding leftback. Mauro Galvao, the sweeper, took few risks.

  In Milan, West Germany, whose fans had marauded their way across northern Italy, finally causing havoc in the city itself, made a devastating beginning at San Siro. Yugoslavia were crushed 4–1, with the three Inter players, Lothar Matthaus, Andy Brehme and the blond striker, Jürgen Klinsmann, more than comfortable on their home field. Matthaus scored twice with tremendous drives from afar, and still had enough stamina to nullify Stojkovic in the Yugoslav midfield. Clearly the West Germans were bent on reaching yet another final.

  Scotland, in Genoa the next day, made their customary bad beginning, though this time it was a humiliation: defeat by little Costa Rica, who’d even lost in Wales, on their way to the World Cup. But their manager was the wily Yugoslav Bora Milutinovic, who’d got more out of Mexico in 1986 than most people had expected him to. Scotland’s impotence in front of goal was manifest again, despite the presence of Mo Johnston, who would become the first major Catholic player ever signed by Rangers.

  With the exception—significantly—of a Latin player, Tab Ramos, the USA had none to compare technically with those of Costa Rica, who’d qualified top of their CONCACAF group. Milutinovic was in his element. Once, when the game was halted through a player’s injury, he actually drew a diagram to show his striker, Jara, what he wanted tactically. Illegal coaching from the touchline, but inspired impertinence!

  The Scots couldn’t exploit Costa Rica’s indifferent prowess in the air, all their pressure producing only a handful of chances. Conjo, the accomplished Costa Rican goalkeeper, made a couple of good saves, Cayasso scored the only goal.

  It came four minutes after the interval. A diagonal run by Marchena, a backheel by Jara, and Cayasso had scored. Scotland were in trouble again.

  England, in Cagliari, hardly looked much better, though this time they at least managed not to lose to the Irish team which had beaten them two years before in Stuttgart.

  In truth, England and Ireland’s was a battle of the dinosaurs. NO FOOTBALL, PLEASE, WE’RE BRITISH read the caustic headline in one Italian paper. It didn’t worry Jackie Charlton. ‘You need a point, we’ve got a point,’ he said. A neutral spectator had to deplore the wretched technique and the lack of ideas. In a difficult wind, even Paul Gascoigne could not, after a promising start, rise above it all, and an early goal couldn’t spur England to success.

  After just eight minutes, a typical piece of opportunism by Gary Lineker enabled him to score. When Chris Waddle’s excellent pass reached him, he used his chest to beat the Irish keeper, Pat Bonner, dashed on, pursued by Steve Staunton and McCarthy, and knocked the ball into the net.

  Ireland’s equaliser was a gift from Steve McMahon, the hefty midfielder who’d only been on for five minutes, substituting a disappointing Peter Beardsley. Ineptly, McMahon gave the ball away to Kevin Sheedy, whose ferocious left foot seldom misses such chances.

  The ball was mostly in the air and Bryan Robson, troubled by a toe injury, not long recovered from a hernia operation, achieved little against the marking of the resilient Paul McGrath, as useful in defence as he was when going forward.

  For England, the surprising consolation was that Holland didn’t look much better. Indeed, Egypt well deserved to beat them rather than merely to draw, giving an exhibition of smooth, intelligent, creative football which, alas, they would not reproduce. The Dutch, by contrast, never flowed at all. Frank Rijkaard, his dislike of the centre-back position only too well known, ‘didn’t shine as he usually does’, in the words of the Corriere Dello Sport; but that was predictable. Less so was the dull form of Marco Van Basten, who, but for one acrobatic strike at goal, did miserably little. The other Milan player, Ruud Gullit, though clearly still below full fitness, did reasonably well, but came off in a fury. ‘I expected a completely different beginning. I’m disappointed. We must talk, we must find at once the reasons for this disappointing exhibition.’ But perhaps they never really did.

  Egypt, who’d given warning when they beat Scotland 3–1 in Aberdeen in a warm-up game, had the best players afield in Hossam Hassan, the muscular centre-forward, and Abdelghani, elegant in midfield, scorer of the penalty which gave Egypt their deserved draw, eight minutes from the end. The Dutch goal owed much to Rijkaard, who, for once moving upfield in his preferred style, dummied a cross by Van Basten which gave the big, blond substitute, Wim Kieft, an easy goal.

  Five days later, again in Palermo, Egypt were unrecognisable from their first, ebullient, game. Fear had gripped them; or rather, it had gripped their manager, El-Gohary. He admitted he’d been obsessed by Ireland’s strong, straightforward methods, that he had endlessly studied tapes, and believed this to be the most difficult game in the group.

  The consequence was sterility and stasis. Jackie Charlton was openly scornful. ‘I didn’t like the way the Egyptians played. I didn’t like their time-wasting tactics. I didn’t like the game at all. We must take a little bit of the blame ourselves, because we didn’t score goals; but at least we tried.’

  In Cagliari the previous day, Bobby Robson, allegedly under pressure from his own players, had done what he’d sworn for eight years that he would never do: deploy a sweeper. The system, he felt, with substantial justice, was foreign to English players. But his own men, clearly overrating the Dutch threat, felt an extra defender vital. The irony of it was that Terry Butcher, given the Dutch formation, found himself, a left-footed central defender, virtually playing right-back.

  The sweeper was the blond Derby County man, Mark Wright, a quick, resourceful defender whose international career had seemed to come to a sticky end when, at Wembley in a European Nations Cup match in 1986, a series of fearful errors had given Yugoslavia’s Zoltan Vujovic chance after easy chance to score—all of them missed. Wright had remained prone to error, as we would see in the game against Cameroon, but on the occasion and in England’s next game, he’d do well.

  England, with Paul Gascoigne now showing that the World Cup was a fitting stage for him, deserved to win, and nearly did. Van Basten, till the belated arrival of Kieft, largely toiled alone, and the dynamic pace of England’s fine young black centre-half, Des Walker, closed whatever gaps were created. They were few.

  Gary Lineker, playing up front with John Barnes, was often in the picture, to varying effect. A move begun, early in
the second half, by Gascoigne, with typical power and flair, was carried off by the adventurous Paul Parker. Lineker’s strong shot rebounded from the body of Van Breukelen, the Dutch keeper. Four minutes later, a dazzling exchange with Barnes put Lineker clean through, but for once his left foot let him down. He sliced his shot wide.

  Lineker himself clutched his head in despair when he crossed an inviting ball to the head of the substitute, the crop-headed Bull; but that went wide as well. Finally, when Gascoigne, on the right, twisted away from two Dutch defenders and centred, Lineker was in inches of making contact. England had looked transformed, Holland, again, a team in curious crisis.

  Scotland, meanwhile, were showing the perverse resilience associated with them, gallantly beating the Swedes in Genoa, where Robert Fleck confirmed the superiority he’d asserted over Glenn Hysen, in the English league.

  At Norwich, one had seen Fleck’s pace in the home attack drive Hysen, in the Liverpool defence, to sheer distraction; eventually, and desperately, Hysen clumsily fouled Fleck, and was sent off. Now, Fleck would torment Hysen again. Once, when Hysen fouled him on the edge of the box, Ravelli, the keeper, needed two attempts to save McLeod’s free kick.

  The Scots had taken the lead after 10 minutes when their tall defender, Dave McPherson, flicked on a corner for Stuart McCall to score. Nine minutes from the end, when Roy Aitken was tripped in the box, Mo Johnston made it 2–0 from the penalty. Sweden had brought on their splendid old blond warhorse, Glenn Stromberg, a little earlier, and he scored for them five minutes from the end. But the good-natured Scottish fans deserved to dance in triumph.

  Moreover, there was solace for Scotland in the fact that Costa Rica, in Turin, went down only 1–0 to Brazil, then beat the Swedes 2–1 in Genoa!

  Hoist with his own petard, Sebastiao Lazaroni again used a sweeper defence against Costa Rica when he clearly needed to reinforce his attack. The result was frustration. The only goal was tinged with fortune. After 33 minutes, Mozer headed on a throw-in from the right, the ball glanced off the elbow of the Costa Rican stopper, Montero, and Muller was enabled to score.

  The vials of wrath poured over Lazaroni’s head. ‘He has betrayed Brazilian football!’ cried Mario Zagalo, whose own 1974 team had kicked without mercy. ‘It is absurd to play with a libero and deprive the midfield of a player. And then, just two attackers is something quite incredible!’ Zagalo went on to deplore the fact that the Corinthians midfielder Neto, ‘the best player in the country’, had been left behind. But when Neto did ultimately play, he’d make no impact.

  In the event, Brazil came out head of their group, with maximum points; though their win over Scotland in Turin was deeply laborious. They seemed to be playing to get free kicks rather than to score from open play. The arrival of Romario, a famous centre-forward, did little good. He hadn’t played since breaking his leg in March. Put right through, he allowed Leighton to save.

  It was Muller, again, who broke the deadlock, coming on as a sixty-fourth minute substitute. Leighton couldn’t hold a shot by Alemao, nor a second by Careca, following up. Muller, who’d replaced Careca, took his chance. Had Scotland been more adventurous in the second half, when they treated Brazil with exaggerated respect, they might have survived.

  Sweden became disheartened and uneasy. Seeing this, the crafty Milutinovic sent on an extra attacker, Hernan Medford, who immediately missed a real chance. No matter. Flores headed in a free kick, and Medford himself trotted through, two minutes from time, to get the winner.

  In Group B, Argentina, the holders, went down to Naples, Maradona’s home ground, and beat the Soviets, thanks in no small degree to the right hand of Maradona. This time, it happened in his own penalty box. After 12 minutes, Oleg Kuznetsov’s red head flicked on a corner from the near post. Maradona’s hand clearly rose to stop the ball. The referee, none other than Fredriksson, the Swede who’d given Belgium a contentious goal against the Soviets in Mexico, saw nothing. Play went on; but Fredriksson, thereafter, would not.

  Only a minute earlier, Neri Pumpido, Argentina’s World Cup-winning goalkeeper, had broken his leg in a collision with Olartichoechea, giving way to Sergio Goycoechea. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Goycoechea would emerge as a hero of the tournament. He’d got into the squad only because Carlos Bilardo decided finally not to bring the combustible second choice, Luis Islas. Thus can football history be made.

  Argentina went on to win. The curse of Caniggia and expulsion alighted on the big, blond Soviet defender, Bessonov, guilty of tripping him, when the second half was but two minutes old. Already Troglio had headed a goal. Jorge Burruchaga, exploiting Kuznetsov’s miscued back-pass, got another.

  In Bari, Cameroon beat Romania, and Roger Milla scored both goals. This time, allegedly at the behest of the Cameroon President, to whom Omam Biyik, ironically, had dedicated his goal against Argentina, Milla came on much earlier. To be exact, after 58 minutes, when there was still no score.

  Three minutes earlier, Hagi, whose powerful shot had been saved by N’Kono in the first half, and who had made two excellent, spurned, chances for his team, had been replaced. Twenty minutes later, Milla became the oldest player ever to score in the World Cup finals.

  Did he foul Andone, after they collided and he kept his balance, going on to shoot past Lung? The referee thought not. At all events, Cameroon were galvanised. Three minutes from the end, Milla whipped home a second goal. In the very next minute, Balint scored for Romania—the Cameroon defenders protested as he was offside—but there was no time for Romania to save the game.

  Milla now became a kind of icon. Explanations, more or less convincing, were given for his amazing durability, his bursts of speed. Carlo Vittori, a renowned Italian athletics coach, hedging his bets a little, said that Milla had the typical musculature of a West African who lived inland: not heavy, but ideal for speed. To this, he mysteriously added the powerful muscles of one who lived on the West Coast. Thus, said Vittori, Milla had the best of both worlds, principally the calves, which were his secret. ‘Shorter and more flexible than the average, but with a much longer Achilles tendon. This gives extraordinary reflexes in the feet.’ Indeed!

  In their third group game, against the Soviets in Bari, Milla came on as early as 10 minutes from the interval, but Cameroon clearly weren’t bothering. They’d already qualified, and were untroubled by losing 4–0. They still came top of their group, since Argentina drew with Romania.

  In Rome, Italy received the United States, and found the going astonishingly hard. Maybe these big, strong college boys couldn’t really play, but they could certainly defend; and indeed, in the second half, they very nearly scored. Only a spectacular double save by Walter Zenga, Italy’s loquacious keeper, from Bruce Murray’s free kick and Peter Vermes’s shot, Ferri finally clearing from the line, rescued them.

  When Giuseppe Giannini, the beautifully balanced, inventive little Roma play-maker, scored after only 11 minutes, it seemed the Americans were in for another drubbing. Vialli dummied on a long ball from Carnevale, letting Giannini through to elude Armstrong, beat Meola, and score his first goal for Italy for 18 months.

  Vialli himself hadn’t scored for a year. Nor did he when, after 33 minutes, Italy gained a penalty as Vialli himself was fouled by Caligiuri. Vialli struck his shot against a post.

  Thereafter, though Giannini prompted splendidly, it was all frustration for Italy. Vicini still wouldn’t use Roberto Baggio, and Schillaci came on only as a substitute, early in the second half. Italy’s 1–0 win was a moral victory for the United States.

  An injury to Vialli at last prodded an uneasy Vicini to pair Schillaci and Baggio from the start against the Czechs, whom Italy hadn’t beaten for 37 years. It worked. In Rome, the two little men danced continuously through a bewildered Czech defence, each ending with a goal. ‘Baggiomania!’ the Italian papers had cried, after a scintillating début against Bulgaria the previous autumn, in a friendly at Cesena. But Vicini had never truly taken to him. Like Bobby Robson in Mexic
o, he now blundered on his best team by accident.

  Schillaci, with another header—a fairly rare occurrence—opened the score in the tenth minute. Giannini hooked a corner by Donadoni into the box and when the ball bounced in front of Schillaci, he headed it in. Baggio scored the second, 13 minutes from time, though the Czechs were bitterly unlucky when inept refereeing and lining cost them a perfectly good goal by Griga, their substitute, after 65 minutes.

  The big centre-forward, Tomas Skuhravy, flicked on a left-wing cross and Griga shot home, but the Belgian linesman, Van Lengenhove, signalled a non-existent offside, and the French referee, Quinou, disallowed the goal. So, 12 minutes later, Baggio was able to wriggle his way through the Czech defence and end a glorious run by shooting past Stejskal. Italy were emphatically afloat again.

  In the Cagliari–Palermo group, England’s defender, Mark Wright, scored the only goal against an over-cautious Egypt, with a well-taken header from Paul Gascoigne’s insidious free kick. Later, Egypt demanded a penalty when the ball made contact with Wright’s arm in the box. When it ran loose, Hossam Hassan shot, but only to find the ever-resilient Shilton in the way. This time, England sensibly went back to a four-in-line defence against negative opponents, but their overall performance was mediocre—Egypt’s worse. It was strange to hear Bobby Robson heap compliments on the Egyptian team afterwards, praising their so-called courage, saying how much better they’d been than when England beat them 4–0 in Cairo the previous season.

  The fact is that that score was a travesty, England owing almost everything to an amazing display by Shilton, till Egypt finally cracked. In Cagliari, they’d extended him on only a couple of occasions.

  Ireland completed their programme with a third draw, 1–1 against Holland, which was good enough to get both teams into the knock-out Second Round, as the drearily protracted, unnecessarily tiring, first phase ended. In Palermo, Ruud Gullit’s dreadlocks flew to greater purpose. He and his fellow Milan players had flown in their personal physiotherapist, Ted Troost, whose ministrations seemed to have helped Gullit. After 10 minutes, his powerful right foot sent Holland ahead with an angled shot.