The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  Ronald Koeman, the big, blond, Dutch sweeper scored it, directly from a curled free kick. But by that time he should have been off the field, for five minutes earlier he’d brought down England’s David Platt on the edge of the penalty box when he was right through. The German referee, Karl Josef Assenmacher, surprisingly waved only a yellow card, and then allowed the Dutch defence to encroach on Tony Dorigo’s free kick. Five minutes later, after England had charged down Koeman’s free kick, Assenmacher had him take it again. And he scored. The elegant blond attacker, Dennis Bergkamp, got a rather soft second. But in Holland’s favour it must be said that a goal by Frank Rijkaard, disallowed for offside five minutes before half-time, had in fact seemed perfectly legitimate.

  Thus Holland, who’d been trailing Norway’s surprising team, got through. But without the resplendent Marco Van Basten, whose ankle had required one operation after another, to lead their attack, and the dominating, versatile Ruud Gullit, they were badly depleted. Gullit didn’t play that night against England. He’d played at Wembley, hadn’t followed the instructions of Dick Advocaat, the much put-upon Dutch manager, and was furious when substituted. He refused to play for the team, though he came back before the World Cup began. He then flounced out of training camp after disagreeing with Advocaat’s tactics and complaining that the atmosphere among his colleagues wasn’t right.

  Advocaat had a very hard time of it, the Dutch players maintaining their long record of intransigence. The word was that he’d be replaced for the World Cup by Johan Cruyff. Cruyff, however, couldn’t reach agreement with the Dutch Federation and, faute de mieux, Advocaat stayed on. It’s arguable, but had Gullit played rather than sulked, Holland might well have won their crucial game against Brazil in the finals, and gone on to beat Italy.

  In the eliminators, Brazil showed themselves to be mortal indeed. They could only draw their first match 0–0 in Ecuador, then crashed to a 2–0 defeat by Bolivia on the breathless heights of La Paz. It was the first time Brazil had ever been defeated in a World Cup qualifying game. Predictably, Carlos Alberto Parreira became the whipping boy. Like his predecessor, Claudio Coutinho, he’d sworn to give a more ‘European’ aspect to his sides—which in practice again turned out to mean stifling initiative and encouraging harsh defence.

  Gradually Brazil got things together. But things were still in the balance when it came to the last game against Uruguay, their eternal bogey team, in Rio. It was then that, finally, Parreira saw sense and restored Romario to the team. There’d been a stand-off between them since 1992, when Parreira had called Romario all the way from Holland, where he played for PSV Eindhoven, for a friendly against Germany and then didn’t start him. Romario came back against Uruguay, excelled, scored twice, and spared Parreira the shame of being the first manager to fail to take Brazil to the World Cup. Short, sturdy, superbly balanced, with a wonderful delicate touch, a terrific turn and devastating speed off the mark, Romario had the great attacker’s gift of making goals out of nothing, and the further flair to make them for others.

  Argentina had lurched their way to the States. Under a new manager in Alfio Basile, known earlier as a ruthless defender, they’d been humiliated in their group game against Colombia in Buenos Aires, losing 5–0 to a team which boasted the immense pace and thrust of young Tino Asprilla up front, and the wiles of Fredy Rincon in midfield. The scoreline seemed too bad to be true and perhaps it was. As late as spring 1995, rumours insisted that this was one of the matches fixed by Malaysian gamblers. It left Argentina obliged to eliminate Australia—which they did, in another of those absurd play-offs with the winners of the Oceania group.

  By this time, Argentina had Diego Maradona back. Quitting Italy after testing positive for cocaine, being suspended for a year, accused of involvement in supplying drugs—and of collusion with the Camorra—Maradona went home to Buenos Aires to work out his penance under the supervision of a judge. Somewhat ponderous in both play-offs against Australia, Maradona had made astonishing physical strides by the time it came to the finals. Claudio Caniggia, also banned for a year for cocaine use when playing for Rome, was free to play again on the verge of the World Cup.

  There was also the elegant young midfielder, Fernando Rodondo, foolishly ignored by the authoritarian Carlos Bilardo in 1990, and opposed by Maradona because they’d clashed in a Spanish League game between Seville and Tenerife. But this time Maradona didn’t get his way.

  Italy had stumbled through the qualifying rounds under their much-criticised new manager, Arrigo Sacchi. Sacchi, who’d had such success with Milan, had never played at any decent level, but retorted to his critics, ‘You don’t have to have been a horse to be a jockey.’ Controversially, he weaned Italy away at last from catenaccio, with its sweeper, and changed to the 4-4-2, defence in zonal line, formation which he’d employed at Milan. But by the time it came to the World Cup he was flirting with 4-3-3, and had made endless changes in personnel.

  Short of forwards, he’d still decided to leave behind Gianluca Vialli, who’d lately recovered his form. He insisted on using the elegant, elusive Roberto Baggio up front, where he’d never been at home (then criticised him for being static in a friendly on the eve of Finals!). Franco Baresi, the veteran centre-back and skipper, had been persuaded to come out of international retirement, but he’d lost much pace and was a potential weak link.

  On the face of it, it looked as if Ireland would never have a better chance of beating an uneasy Italian team. Charlton had lost his huge centre-forward, Niall Quinn, with a knee injury. But he’d found a very mobile new centre-back in Phil Babb, to complement the indestructible Paul McGrath, and a powerful young midfielder in the Cork-born Roy Keane, paired in the centre with Andy Townsend.

  No France. They’d lost, almost incredibly, their two ultimate, home fixtures against little Israel and Bulgaria. Two very late goals by the swift, strong Bulgarian striker Emil Kostadinov at the Parc des Princes in Paris dashed the cup, and the World Cup, from France’s lips.

  The United States were managed by the wily, experienced Yugoslav, Bora Milutinovic, who’d worked wonders with Costa Rica in Italy, and done well with Mexico four years earlier. When he got his full team together, its best men returning from abroad, it looked decent enough. For most of the past four years, however, Milutinovic had had his lesser players in camp at Mission Viejo, playing a string of meaningless friendlies. Roy Wegerle, from England, Eric Wynalda, from West Germany, Tab Ramos, from Spain, and Ernie Stewart, from Holland, together with the resilient half-back John Harkes, from England, gave the team a backbone. Bora, who after all his years in the States still insisted on using an interpreter to translate from Spanish, and dodged questions with a sleepy ease, was not renowned for taking risks. But his tactics prevailed in a pre-tournament friendly against Mexico, which the USA won 1–0 in front of a crowd of 91,000.

  The Germans would, if only for historical reasons, be strong challengers again, though they, like the Dutch, had just lost a friendly at home to the fighting Irish. Berti Vogts was still not a popular team manager. But his late decision to recall the veteran blond striker, Rudi Völler, proved inspired. Severe knee injuries, however, had blunted the edge of the captain, Lothar Matthaus. No longer able to cut the mustard as a midfielder, he’d become a sweeper, but he was hardly a Beckenbauer: his defensive capacities were doubtful.

  From a closely contested final Asian group in Qatar, South Korea, though beaten by Japan, came through yet again. So, unexpectedly, did Saudi Arabia who’d produce what might well have been the goal of the final tournament.

  On 17 June, at Soldier Field, Chicago, Germany opened the tournament against Bolivia in Group C. Something of a shadow already hung over proceedings: FIFA had produced another of its unwelcome, last-minute surprises. The previous March, the law-making International Board had decided that a foul tackle from behind should automatically lead to expulsion. FIFA obtained permission to introduce the rule for the World Cup, though it was due only in July. (Ludicrously, FIFA attem
pted to make any tackle from behind a red-card offence but climbed down, claiming that they’d never meant it.) Ironically—a tribute perhaps to the good sense of referees—not a single player was expelled merely for an illegitimate tackle from behind.

  It was marginally less dull a game than most World Cup curtain raisers. Germany, who used Karl-Heinz Riedle rather than Völler, missed a number of chances, and somewhat luckily got the one goal of the match. Matthaus’s long ball rebounded from Haessler to an unmarked Jürgen Klinsmann, who scored with some ease. In the same group, on the same day, in the Dallas Cotton Bowl, where temperatures would rise in some games to 106 degrees, Spain were held to a draw by the lively South Koreans. Spain took a 2–0 lead, but playing without their sweeper, Nadal, sent off after 25 minutes, proved too much for them in the end. The Koreans equalised in the last minute.

  The following hot day, Ireland beat Italy. The first surprise, on an afternoon rich in surprises, was that the crowd of nearly 75,000 in Giants Stadium was essentially Irish, not Italian. Given the huge numbers of Italians resident in New York, not to mention the thousands who had come from Italy, it seemed inevitable that Italy would be playing virtually at home. Instead, Rutherford resembled a suburb of Dublin. The Irish, the most genial, good tempered and sporting of supporters, had somehow managed to acquire a huge preponderance of the tickets—many of them sold on the black market at disgracefully high prices (an inevitable corollary of a slack and mistaken ticket policy). But whatever an Irishman paid that day, he must have thought it cheap at the price. Italy, weighed down by Sacchi’s obsessive tactical schemes, uneasy with their formation, might well have lost even had they not given away so bizarre a goal.

  Little Ray Houghton, the Glaswegian Irishman, scored it after barely ten minutes, an early sucker punch. John Sheridan, a clever midfielder, played a high ball forward. Costacurta, one of Italy’s two Milan stoppers, got his head to it, but without much power. Still less powerful was the header by his colleague and mentor, Franco Baresi. The ball dropped to Houghton, who took it on and then chipped it with his weaker left foot. To the joy of the Irish fans, and the despair of the outnumbered Italians, the ball sailed over the head of the poorly positioned keeper, Pagliuca, and into the net.

  McGrath, in dominant form, blocked a fierce shot by Roberto Baggio in the first half, but little more was seen of Baggio who, outside the dressing rooms, said, with an obscenity, that his ligament trouble had had nothing to do with his poor form—though next day he changed his tune. ‘You’ll never beat the Irish!’ sang the joyous Irish supporters, and apart from one good run and strong left footer by the elegant Beppe Signori, well saved by Packie Bonner, the Italians were seldom threatening. Indeed, it was Pagliuca who had to make a number of saves, not least from Tommy Coyne, running his heart out as the lone striker. Small wonder he’d collapse after the match on the team’s bus.

  Next day, in the same Group E, nicknamed the Group of Death, the muscular Norwegians beat Mexico with an 85th minute goal. It was a rather odd one: Jan Fjortoft, the big centre-forward, was fouled as he went for goal. Sandor Puhl, the Hungarian referee, sensibly played the advantage rule and Rekdal, a substitute, went on to score. Mexico, neat and intelligent, were terribly unlucky not to equalise in the final minute when their clever striker, Zague, put a diving header against a post. The rebound hit him on the head, only to be cleared by Norway’s Berg.

  What of Brazil in Group B? A stutter on the way to the finals, a 1–1 draw with little Canada, gave scant encouragement. Perversely, Carlos Alberto Parreira had left out the lively and inventive Valdo from his midfield and picked his Paris Saint-Germain colleague, Rai, who’d had a much inferior season. They began in Stanford with a 2–0 win against Russia.

  The Russian squad was depleted and riven by a players’ mutiny against the coach, Pavel Sadyrin, and the Russian Association, which, when Russia played in Greece, had condemned them to shiver in a third-rate hotel. The revolt, and the intransigence of the Russian FA, meant no Kanchelskis, Kolyvanov, Kiriakov, Shalimov and nearly Yuran, the Ukraine-born striker who fell out with the coach on the eve of the tournament. Ominously for the Russians, Brazil had scored eight times in a friendly against Honduras in San Diego, five goals being shared between Bebeto and Romario.

  No fewer than a massive 81,061 fans saw the game, an indication of the amazing enthusiasm fans would show throughout this recordbreaking World Cup. With Romario quite irresistible, Brazil had little trouble in winning. He scored the first goal after 27 minutes, exploiting Bebeto’s free kick, and was brought down after 53 minutes for Rai to convert the penalty. Yuran played, and was anonymous.

  In the same group, Cameroon, 1990’s revelation, held the Swedes to a 2–2 draw at the Pasadena Rose Bowl, watched by an astounding 83,959! Scant sign here of Sweden’s later brio. Nor of Cameroon’s subsequent collapse; financial problems had been devastating. JeanClaude Pagal, a 1990 player who didn’t make the cut, travelled all the way from Martigues to Orly airport, Paris, to punch Cameroon’s French manager, Henri Michel. Forty-two-year-old Roger Milla was in the squad again but didn’t get on in this opening game, when Omam Biyik, his implacable critic after Italy, had an outstanding game and scored Cameroon’s second goal. The 39-year-old keeper, Joseph-Antoine Bell, alternated horrible mistakes on crosses with outstanding saves. As a kind of inspired trade unionist, he it was who smoothed relations between players and officials. (He had been kicked out of the team in 1990 for his searing criticisms of the way things were being run.)

  In the ghastly Pontiac Silverdome, the USA bravely held Switzerland to a draw before 73,425 in the first Group A match. Roy Hodgson, Switzerland’s English coach, had fashioned a team which played beyond its evident means. Poor positioning by America’s flamboyant goalkeeper, Tony Meola, allowed Bregy to give the Swiss a 39th minute lead from a free kick. But six minutes later, a still better free kick by Eric Wynalda levelled the score.

  In the other Group A match, a staggering 91,856 packed the Rose Bowl to see Romania, inspired by Gheorghe Hagi of the sublime left foot, and the young centre-forward, Florin Raducoiou, beat the Colombians 3–1. Awful goalkeeping by Colombia’s Cordoba was a help. ‘Our players were tense,’ said Colombia’s coach, Pato Maturana. ‘Since the Argentina game, people have talked and talked about us, and it made them nervous.’ Worse, alas, was to come.

  In Group F, two Arab teams alarmed their Lowlands opposition, each going down by just a single goal. In Washington, Holland prevailed thanks only to a fearful goalkeeping error by Saudi Arabia’s Al Deayea, enabling Taument to find the empty net, after Saudi had taken a 19th minute lead. Jorge Solari, the Argentine coach appointed to manage Saudi late in the day, rightly said that Holland ‘found it a lot more difficult than expected’. So, for that matter, did Belgium, who might not have come through 1–0 against a better goalkeeper than Morocco’s uneasy Azmi.

  Now to the second round of matches. Could Italy do better, in Giants Stadium again, against Norway? It looked unlikely when, in the first half, little Erik Mykland played a neat through-ball to Oyvind Leonhardsen, bisecting the Italian defence. Out of his goal in a panic rushed the unhappy Gianluca Pagliuca, handling outside the box to be very properly sent off. This meant, axiomatically, that the substitute keeper, Marchegiani, would come on. But who’d be pulled off, to make way for him? To the amazement of Italy’s fans and the abiding disgust of the player himself, it was none other than Roberto Baggio. It was useless for Arrigo Sacchi to protest that, with just ten men, he needed players who ‘would wear themselves out’. Or that Baggio would be valuable in the next game, against Mexico. The insult would be neither forgotten nor forgiven.

  As it was, Italy played resiliently in defence, against a prosaic Norwegian team over-addicted to the long ball, and won the match 24 minutes into the second half from one of Beppe Signori’s many clever left-footed free kicks. Dino Baggio, the powerful midfielder, soared aloft and headed in. ‘Embarrassing,’ said Erik Thorstvedt, Norway’s keeper. As, indeed, it was.<
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  But the Irish were in trouble, too. Orlando’s heat was just too much for them. Mexico, dropping the veteran Hugo Sanchez from their attack, were far happier in the heat, which seemed especially to affect Ireland’s right-back, Denis Irwin, moving across to replace the vigorous young Gary Kelly, who was much missed. Irwin was ridiculed by Garcia Aspe, on the wing, when he set up Garcia and Mexico’s second goal after 66 minutes.

  Jack Charlton had furious altercations on the touchline with officials, as did John Aldridge, belatedly brought on in time to score Ireland’s only goal, six minutes from the end. Charlton was fined $14,900 and banned from the bench for the next game, Aldridge fined $1,850. Charlton felt he was being victimised for previous protests over heat and water breaks. ‘Next time we’ll play Mexico in winter and see what happens,’ he declared. But the Mexicans had played well.

  As, initially, did Argentina, though doom awaited them. Greece, who’d come through with a formidable but illusory qualifying record, were thrashed 4–0 at Foxboro, Gabriel Batistuta showing what a formidable striker he was and Diego Maradona evoking glories of old.

  Next, again at Foxboro, they would play the Nigerians, who’d astonished Bulgaria, beating them with ease, 3–0, in Dallas. Small sign there of Bulgaria’s future triumphs. Nigeria, despite uneasy relations between their gifted players and the Dutch coach, Clemens Westerhof, seemed set to replace Cameroon as the new Lions of Africa. The two powerful strikers, Rachid Yekini and Daniel Amokachi, were strongly supported by the talented left-winger, Emmanuel Amunike, with Oliseh doing skilful things in midfield. Westerhof, never one to mince his words, observed that it wasn’t liaisons with women which tired his players out—it was the amount of night-time they spent looking for them!

  Nigeria actually went ahead against the Argentinians and hope surged. Served by Amokachi, Siasia scored, though he was surely offside. But the lead wouldn’t last. Inspired by Maradona, Argentina came back with two goals, both scored by Claudio Caniggia—seemingly rejuvenated by his long, enforced rest—within seven first-half minutes. Westerhof sneered at Argentina and Maradona. They wouldn’t win the World Cup, he said, Nigeria would do better. Which proved correct.