Mammoth Book of the World Cup

by Nick Holt

  Brazil enjoyed the better of the first half. Sócrates was in splendid form, dictating the pace of the game without ever getting above a stroll. Müller started brightly and caused the French problems early on, and after seventeen minutes he twisted away from his marker(s), played an intricate one-two with Júnior and put one on a plate for Careca. Careca finished high and hard into the roof of the net. Later in the half, just as France were imposing some rhythm of their own, Careca made a great chance for Müller but he drilled his shot against the post when he ought to have scored.

  France drew level shortly after. Giresse found Rocheteau in space on the right and his cross was a tough one to defend. Goalkeeper Carlos and Yannick Stopyra collided as they both went for it and the ball ran through to Platini, in space on the far post. Platini had a quiet game and an ordinary tournament but it seemed fitting he scored on his birthday. Saint Michel, as the French press called him, saved his very best for the 1984 European Championships, when he dominated the tournament every bit as much as Maradona dominated this 1986 World Cup. Platini’s nine goals in five games was a phenomenal return for a midfield player. He was almost the antithesis of Maradona as a player. Where Maradona received the ball and immediately looked to run at defenders and take them out of the game, Platini received the ball with the angle for the next pass already in his head, along with the exact piece of ground he next intended to occupy. When the ball was loose in or around the penalty area, he just seemed to be there, with no one marking him. He was the chess player to Maradona’s gunslinger, but on his day he could be every bit as devastating; a different breed of super-hero.

  France gave as good as they got in the second half and extra-time, but goalkeeper Joel Bats had to be alert. The centre of the French defence was weak in the air – neither Max Bossis nor Patrick Battiston was an old-fashioned centre-half – and Brazil caused problems with crosses. A combination of good positioning and poor heading meant Bats was never too uncomfortable. The exception came in the seventy-third minute. Zico who came on for Müller to a rapturous welcome sent Branco into the area in the inside-right position (I know, I know, what was the left-back doing there . . . this is Brazil, remember). Bats was quick off his line, tangled with the full-back and a penalty was given. Zico took the kick – Brazil’s third penalty taker already this tournament – and hit it too close to Bats.

  Extra-time was a ding-dong do, each team creating chances against tired defenders. Bellone, on for Rocheteau, was brought down just outside the box – the French were still claiming a free-kick (in Platini territory) when Sócrates missed a glorious chance at the other end. It was that sort of half-hour.

  Penalties always seem an unedifying way to settle a good contest, but in fairness to FIFA (and you will have noticed I am reluctant in that regard) there was no better way to decide the outcome. Previous tournaments (especially 1958) had shown that teams having to get through a replay were at a massive disadvantage in the following round.

  Sócrates did his team no favours here. He looked like he was running on sand during that extra half-hour; maybe the fatigue fogged his brain for it was a dumb act from a smart man to try a repeat of his cocky penalty against Poland. Bats saw it coming and pushed the ball away with his left hand. Zico took a penalty, having missed during the game, which took a bit of nerve. He scored, happily; it would have been a sad way for him to go missing twice from the spot. Zico was a great player, two-footed, sublime passer, good finisher, but he was punished by the media for not being as good as everyone wanted him to be. The media wanted a new Pelé, and that was too much to ask. As Pelé, Zico was inadequate; as Zico he was pretty damn good.

  Platini conceded France’s advantage by missing his spot-kick, but Júlio César promptly handed it back to France. Luis Fernandez scored under extreme pressure, and France were through, and had buried the ghost of their defeat on penalties to West Germany in 1982. Last observation: why on earth did Careca not take a penalty?

  Next up for the hosts Mexico were West Germany, through to the quarter-final without actually doing much. The game was a stinker, the Mexicans responding with play-acting and referee baiting to some rough German tackling. The game teetered on the brink of chaos and we had a liberal sprinkling of cards, including two reds.

  West Germany were the better team amid the nonsense. Larios kept the Mexicans in the game with a great point-blank save from Allofs’ volley, and the referee decided the game was too one-sided so sent off Berthold for a glimmer of retaliation when Quirarte brought him down as he roared up the right touchline. Quirarte, already booked, rolled around as if shot and the Colombian referee bottled the decision and favoured the home team. Risible; Matthäus agreed and was booked for clapping sarcastically and patting the referee on the back.

  Mexico were buoyed and poured forward but their strikers were powder-puff and the vaunted Sánchez was laughably bad. The referee evened up the numbers in extra-time when Aguirre got a second yellow for a cynical block on Matthäus. One wonders if Beckenbauer had a word at ninety minutes.

  The West Germans kept their nerve in the penalty shoot-out (it won’t be the last time I type that) but the Mexicans lost theirs in front of 40,000 frenzied fans. Quirarte and Servin missed and Littbarski finished things off.

  Mexico were out but not disgraced, for which much of the credit was due to their coach, the former Yugoslavia defender Bora Milutinovic. It was the start of a remarkable journey for Bora.

  World Cup Heroes No.23

  Sócrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza

  Vieira de Oliveira (1954–2011)

  Brazil

  One of the real greats, Sócrates graced two World Cups with his brand of cerebral, minimum physical effort football. Bearded and cool, sometimes sporting a headband, The Doctor (he was qualified as one) was an educated, articulate man who took an active interest in politics and was an admirer of Che Guevara and John Lennon. Sócrates is appreciated by historians of the game in Brazil as much for his stance against the military government of the time as for his marvellous football.

  Sócrates only turned professional aged twenty – he played for Botafogo and later, during his best years, for Corinthians – but he was good enough and smart enough to be an international player within a year. He had great vision and range of passing (with either foot), and would wander forward from a deep-lying position to unleash fierce shooting or get into the box and use his height and strength.

  His weakness was obvious; Sócrates wasn’t especially athletic and showed reluctance to track back, which didn’t endear him to his coach at times. He was a heavy smoker, too, which made his stamina suspect, a factor in the 1986 game against France. In the great Brazil sides of 1982 and 1986 the weaknesses could be glossed over; the team was so adept at keeping possession they could afford a Sócrates, as long as he had a minder (Cerezo in 1982, Elzo in 1986).

  Sócrates didn’t win a lot – Brazil never won the World Cup or the Copa América during his time – but the contribution he and his midfield colleagues made to two World Cup tournaments are indelible. Above any results, Sócrates’ generation restored the heroic beauty of Brazilian football after the desecration of the awful defensive sides of 1974 and 1978. Brazil don’t have to win for us to love them, they just have to be Brazil. Sócrates was really Brazilian and we loved him for it.

  The Doctor died young in 2011, a victim of his nicotine habit and alcohol abuse. His demise drew tributes from the President of Brazil as well as from the football world as far away as Florence (where he played for a year with Fiorentina). There was a particularly fulsome tribute from Garforth Town in the north-east of England; in 2004 the fifty-year-old Sócrates had coached the side for a month, appearing for twelve minutes as a substitute against Tadcaster Albion.

  WORLD CUP CLASSIC No.16

  22 June 1986 Azteca, Mexico City; 114,580

  Referee: Ali Ben Nasser (Tunisia)

  Coaches: Carlos Bilardo (Argentina) & Bobby Robson (England)

  Argentina (3–5–1–1):
Nery Pumpido (River Plate); Joe Luis Cuciuffo (Velez Sarsfield), Oscar Ruggeri (River Plate), José Luis Brown (Atletico Nacional); Ricardo Giusti (Independiente), Sergio Batista (Argentinos Juniors), Héctor Enrique (River Plate), Jorge Burruchaga (Nantes), Julio Olarticoechea (Boca Juniors); Diego Maradona (Cpt, Napoli); Jorge Valdano (Real Madrid). Sub: Carlos Tapia (Boca Juniors) 75m for Burruchaga

  England (4–4–2): Peter Shilton (Cpt, Southampton): Gary Stevens (Everton), Terry Butcher (Ipswich Town), Terry Fenwick (Queens Park Rangers), Kenny Sansom (Arsenal); Trevor Steven (Everton), Glenn Hoddle (Tottenham Hotspur), Peter Reid (Everton), Steve Hodge (Aston Villa); Peter Beardsley (Newcastle United), Gary Lineker (Everton). Subs: Chris Waddle (Tottenham) 69m for Reid; John Barnes (Watford) 74m for Steven

  Cautioned: Fenwick (Eng) 9m, Batista (Arg) 60m

  This was a game that had bad blood in its veins. Four years previously the two countries were at war – Argentinians understandably made no distinction between Britain and England. The Falklands were so far away from Britain that a year or two after the war it was little more than a footnote in history for most people in the country. In Argentina the nearby Malvinas were a territory they had coveted and claimed since Argentina gained independence, and it was an issue the military government used to rouse popular nationalist feeling. (Even today the Peronist parties – nationalists – under Cristina Kirchner still keep ownership of the islands on the political agenda.)

  It is a pattern, the new world’s dislike of the colonial European powers and it has fostered many a bitter football match. The players tried to play it down in the Azteca, but you could sense it.

  The game was a good one. This was a competitive England team and they had players who could hurt. Argentina went with a three-man back line and used wing-backs to counter Steven and Hodge, with three in midfield and Enrique negating Hoddle, who reverted to disappointing mode and disappeared after twenty minutes.

  The first half came and went in a succession of niggly fouls and half chances. Fenwick – out of his depth at this level – was booked for a lunge at Maradona and should have been sent off for elbowing the same player, only the referee didn’t see it. It wasn’t the first thing Mr Ben Nasser missed. England’s best chance of the half came when Pumpido tripped over his own feet and Beardsley pinched the ball, but the Newcastle man should have looked up and crossed instead of shooting into the side netting from a tight angle – Lineker was unmarked in the middle.

  The match was settled in a five-minute spell early in the second half. Every Argentina attack was coming through Maradona – not that you could stem the tide by man-marking him, his close control was simply too good, and his body strength awesome. The No.10 started another attack, and Hodge’s attempted clearance was towards rather than away from his own goal. Shilton and Maradona went for the ball and it ended up in the back of the net. At full speed it’s just about possible to accept Ben Nasser might not have seen it. But even a moment’s pause to assess the situation tells him that Maradona could not have feasibly reached the ball and diverted it past Shilton with his head, and that ten English players running towards him weren’t acting telepathically in concert and claiming handball on some secret signal. Ben Nasser floundered, near drowning, in a sea of his own inadequacy throughout the match – late in the game he stood two feet from the end of the Argentina wall at an England free-kick, virtually making an extra man – but it wasn’t him that cheated.

  So, okay, the referee was culpable, but what about Maradona? Why did he choose to cheat and punch the ball in the net? Did his hatred of the English extend to soiling his reputation as a sportsman? Because no impartial observer could find that acceptable, just as no one found Thierry Henry’s handball in a later match acceptable. It was a shabby incident; this and his various flirtations with illegal substances put Maradona, an astonishing talent, a step below other great sportsmen. More Lance Armstrong than Michael Phelps.

  His second goal showed the other side of the coin. Maradona received the ball just inside his own half, sprinted away from a knackered Peter Reid, ran past Fenwick as if he wasn’t there and evaded Sansom’s despairing lunge as he pushed the ball past Shilton. A fantastic goal, by anyone’s measure, but as an Englishman it still hurts me to acknowledge it.

  England belatedly brought on their wide players and began to push Argentina back. John Barnes produced a piece of skill on the left edge of the box worthy of Maradona when he jinked past Enrique and Giusti and stood a perfect cross off for Lineker to finish. Barnes offered England some belated hope, as he was walking round Giusti, exposed on the right side of the Argentina midfield with Burruchaga substituted. Argentina responded instantly with another surge form Maradona and some clever interplay leading to Valdano hitting the post – the lone frontman was excellent, always available and sure-footed on the ball.

  Another Barnes cross evaded the diving Lineker at the far post by centimetres, and Argentina hung on with Burruchaga and Batista strong to the end in the middle and the backs committed and hard behind them. The better team – just – won the day, but their captain cheated to make it happen, and all the post-match nonsense about The Hand of God helping him score just made the offence smell more rank. You’re not the Messiah, Diego, you’re just a naughty boy.

  Robson got some stick for not playing the wingers, but he had no reason to expect Bilardo to change formation and neither Barnes nor Waddle had done enough to merit selection ahead of guys who had just won two games 3–0. Maybe one of them should have come on earlier. Barnes could have replaced Beardsley and allowed Hodge to tuck in and help combat Maradona. The football writers also devoted many column inches about how much more effective England were without Robson and Wilkins; Wilkins, yes, past his sell-by date; however, Robson was sorely missed in this match. But overall it was a good campaign from England, who were a quarter-final sort of team, and have been for the subsequent twenty-five years.

  England Squad 1986:

  GK: Peter Shilton (Southampton, 36 years old, 81 caps), Chris Woods (Norwich City, 26, 4), Gary Bailey (Manchester United, 27, 2)

  DEF: Viv Anderson (Arsenal, 29, 21), Terry Butcher (Ipswich Town, 27, 40), Terry Fenwick (Queens Park Rangers, 26, 15), Alvin Martin (West Ham United, 27, 15), Kenny Sansom (Arsenal, 27, 65), Gary Stevens (Everton, 23, 9), Gary A Stevens (Tottenham Hotspur, 24, 6)

  MID & WIDE: John Barnes* (Watford, 22, 27), Glenn Hoddle (Tottenham, 28, 33), Steve Hodge (Aston Villa, 23, 3), Peter Reid (Everton, 29, 6), Bryan Robson (Cpt, Manchester United, 29, 51), Trevor Steven (Everton, 22, 10), Ray Wilkins (29, AC Milan, 80), Chris Waddle (Tottenham, 25, 16)

  FWD: Peter Beardsley (Newcastle United, 25, 5), Kerry Dixon (Chelsea, 24, 6), Mark Hateley (AC Milan, 24, 18), Gary Lineker (Everton, 25, 13)

  Tight and tense. Belgium scored with a superb diving header from Ceulemans and it looked like they were on their way through in ninety minutes until Señor’s late volley flew in the top corner. Until then Pfaff and his defence stood firm; twenty-year-old Stephane Demol was quite outstanding in marking Butragueño out of the match. Belgium looked the more likely in extra-time, but had to live through the tension of a penalty shoot-out before taking their place in the semi-finals. A good series of penalties left Belgium 5–4 winners, with Pfaff saving the one tamely hit effort from Sporting Gijón winger Eloy.

  SEMI-FINALS

  One semi-final was a repeat of the 1982 match against France, but this wasn’t as good a contest. France seemed spent after their efforts against Brazil four days earlier, and their best striker, Dominique Rocheteau, was injured (as usual). The midfield quartet of Giresse, Fernandez, Platini (not fully fit) and Tigana was quelled by the power of Matthäus and his cronies and when the French did find a way through they found their old nemesis Schumacher in defiant form. There was no quibble this time; goals at the beginning and of the match from Andreas Brehme (a horrible blunder by Joel Bats) and Rudi Völler (a cheeky finish) settled it and yet again an unfancied German team was in the World Cup Final.

&
nbsp; In Mexico City Maradona had the Azteca Stadium in uproar with his outrageous talent. Belgium had sent three attackers home injured and Claesen had neither the pace nor the height to worry Brown and Co. Enrique, the man-marker, was put on Ceulemans and Belgium had little else to offer. Argentina nearly got another assist from God in the first half, but this time the linesman spotted Valdano using his arm to score; Maradona set up the chance with a sizzling volley which Pfaff could only palm back into play. Giusti missed the best chance of the half when another incisive run from Maradona created an opening.

  The first goal came early in the second period, from an inevitable source. Burruchaga, rangy and skilful, was excellent in this match, helping his captain dictate the pace of the game. It was his clever disguised pass with the outside of his right foot that gave Maradona the merest hint of a chance. The finish, with the outside of the left foot, was masterful, the timing of the shot as Pfaff came out was perfect.

  Enrique missed a chance created by Maradona’s deft chip, and Olarticoechea had a shot well saved by Pfaff. It was one-way traffic, Belgium were working overtime just to stay in the game. After sixty-three minutes they weren’t. Maradona’s second goal was a reprise of the solo effort against England. There is a famous picture of Maradona, ball at his feet, poised to run at a massed Belgian defence. It looks inconceivable that he could pick his way through, but he did, at pace, ball glued to his feet. The general consensus is this was the better goal of the two. In the previous game against England the defenders were a bit shell-shocked after the award of the controversial first goal; no such scenario against Belgium and these were better defenders than England’s, the centre-backs Renquin and Demol had been superb all tournament.