Eight World Cups

by George Vecsey

  (I was later glad I observed Scirea as he marked Maradona; Scirea would die in an auto accident in Poland three years later while scouting for Juventus. His name still evokes sadness among Italian fans.)

  * * *

  Back in Mexico City, I arranged an interview with David Socha, a referee from Ludlow, Massachusetts, and the only Yank in uniform in Mexico. FIFA had decreed 1986 as “The Year of the Referee,” whatever that meant. The referee “acts simultaneously as prosecutor, judge, and executor,” said the general secretary of FIFA, a gent named Joseph S. Blatter. I was thinking, the last thing FIFA should want was for the referees to be noticed.

  Socha had been working the line at the Brazil-Spain match when a Spanish volley hit the underside of the crossbar and bounced straight down near the goal line—very similar to the most notorious crossbar decision in World Cup history, the Geoff Hurst shot that was ruled a goal in the 1966 finals, helping England beat West Germany.

  The goal-line call is virtually impossible for the human eye. So, according to eye specialists, is offside, which involves calibrating three separate moving objects at once. In the Brazil-Spain match, the referee, Christopher Bambridge of Australia, had to make a call on the spot, from one microsecond of “seeing” the ball hit on or near the line, and he signaled the teams to play on, as the Spanish players raged at him. But FIFA had no technology available to judge the geometric lines of the goal area, and the referee’s call stood. And for emphasis, the English broadcaster noted, “David Socha from the United States kept his flag down.” Brazil went on to win, 1–0, on a tap-in header by Sócrates.

  A few days after the match, I met Socha at the hotel where many of the thirty-six referees were housed. If he was smarting over the publicity from the non-call against Spain, he did not show it. He told me he could not speak about specific instances but could talk about himself—a former player, briefly in England, a veteran of various ethnic leagues in America. At age forty-seven, Socha worked in a tavern when not officiating.

  “I am the biggest unknown commodity in the U.S.,” Socha told me. He had worked the line in the Italy-Poland semifinal in Barcelona in 1982 and had also worked a UNICEF all-star game in New Jersey that same year. “I looked around me and I saw Falcão and Sócrates and Zico, and I told the players, ‘Just play,’” he recalled. “I am such a big admirer of Franz Beckenbauer. I was standing five yards from him watching him do things with his toe that I could not do with my hands.”

  I told him I hoped nobody would notice his work for the rest of this tournament. Some of his colleagues would not be so lucky.

  * * *

  My wife flew down, and we drove out to Querétaro to see the last match in the 1986 Group of Death, which included Uruguay, Scotland, West Germany, and Denmark. This city was an appropriate setting for the Group of Death, inasmuch as it is the home of La Corregidora, the heroine in the struggle for independence of 1810, and also the site where the Austrian puppet king, Maximilian, was executed in 1867.

  The hotel reeked of cigarettes and beer, courtesy of the Danish and German reporters and fans. Corregidora Stadium was not filled, so officials allowed fans to filter down to the front rows, which ensured that their light hair and red-and-white painted faces would show up on international television.

  The Danish fans, celebrating their nation’s first World Cup appearance, were called roligans, a pun blending rolig, the Danish word for “calm,” and “hooligans,” and they were fun to be around—happy tourists, knowledgeable fans. They were even happier when Denmark beat West Germany, 2–0, to lock up first place in their group. However, West Germany managed to do collateral damage late in the match when Lothar Matthäus took a tumble near Denmark’s Frank Arnesen, causing the referee to flash a yellow card that would make Arnesen ineligible for the next match. Matthäus promptly jumped up and hugged Arnesen as he left the field in distress. (Similar overacting by a Croatian player would cost France a player for the 1998 final. It’s a bit late to console a dupe when you have caused him to be banned from the next match.)

  On June 17, I was back in Mexico City, this time at Olympic Stadium, for France against Italy. Michel Platini, voted the best player in Europe in 1983, 1984, and 1985, scored one goal in the fifteenth minute and set up another in the fifty-eighth minute as France dismissed the defending champions, 2–0.

  I was watching on television later that day as West Germany was awarded a free kick during a scoreless draw in the eighty-eighth minute against Morocco. Matthäus, aware that only two Moroccans were lined up on the right side of the wall, blasted a vicious right-footed ground shot with heavy topspin that curled back into the right corner of the goal. (A decade later, Matthäus would materialize in Major League Soccer, seeking, like many other aging European stars, the money and relative anonymity of America, like a paid luxury senior hostel trip. I introduced myself to him and said, “Monterrey—1986—free kick.” He flashed his toothy warrior smile and said, “I will remember you.”)

  * * *

  I was dragging—not the classic turista but rather, according to my self-diagnosis, a result of having gone out for a run in Chapultepec Park upon arriving. The problem was not so much the thin air—I was used to that from visits to Denver and other high locations—but rather the bad particles I had dragged deep into my lungs. I came to think of Mexicans as a superior race, evolved in a post-oxygen age.

  On June 18, I watched England beat Paraguay, 3–0, at Azteca—another huge crowd, another hot afternoon, because of European television demands. After my day’s work, I came back to the hotel room and felt the air-conditioning recycling the same bad air. My wife and I were having a great time seeing the country and visiting friends; she made sure I had fresh food and fluids, but still I was wearing down.

  Plus, I was very much aware of having signed on for a trip to Moscow for Ted Turner’s Goodwill Games, which started on July 5. I knew that if I stayed until the end of the World Cup, on June 29, I would have only a few days’ turnaround in New York. My boss and friend, Joe Vecchione, told me to come home and rest up for Moscow. Alex Yannis, the Times’ soccer writer, was in Mexico with a credential and could handle it by himself. (Soccer people were always asking me, “Where is Alex?” I knew my place.)

  I hated to leave a country I love, an event I love. My wife said I looked better as soon as the air-conditioning started on the plane. My doctor checked me out at home—verdict: nothing wrong except exhaustion—and I wrote about the rest of the World Cup from New York.

  It was strange to suddenly see this event through the filter of television. I always want to see the entire field—who is coming from where? what are the options for the player with the ball?—but the control room often calls for a close-up of one player. Plus, for American audiences, announcers yammer far too much about potential goals (“the U.S. would sure love to score by halftime”) as if a baseball home-run derby were about to break out. Still, I was enjoying sea level and air-conditioning, family and friends.

  In Guadalajara, France met Brazil in a quarterfinal that could have been a final. The two artistic teams played a 1–1 draw, and Sócrates was stopped early in the shoot-out, which enabled France to win on penalty kicks. Once again, Brazil would not win the World Cup.

  Spain, after beating the rollicking Denmark team, 5–1, in the round of 16, added to its reputation for inconsistency by losing to Belgium in its quarterfinal, also on penalty kicks. Few people outside Spain and Belgium paid attention; this was the day the Hand of God appeared in the sky.

  * * *

  Diego Armando Maradona had come into the World Cup with a pack of troubles, most of them personal. While playing for Napoli, he had become involved with a woman who was now expecting a son. His longtime Argentine companion, Claudia Villafañe, was pregnant with a daughter. Some athletes thrive under chaos.

  England and Argentina, the two combatants in the 1982 Malvinas/Falklands war, collided in the quarterfinals at Azteca, with newspapers in both nations reviving the tensions. Before the
match, John McDermott, the great soccer photographer, watched the two teams lining up side by side, making even less eye contact than usual. Then John noticed Peter Shilton, the English keeper and captain, reaching out his hand to Maradona, the Argentine captain. The gesture was clear: we are footballers, and this is not war. Maradona totally understood Shilton’s gesture and shook his hand—a lovely moment, unfortunately hidden from the crowd, McDermott recalled.

  In the ninth minute, playing the role of Claudio Gentile in this performance, Terry Fenwick hammered Maradona. The Tunisian referee, Ali Bennaceur (alternatively listed as Ali Bin Nasser) could easily have shown Fenwick a red card but instead displayed a yellow. In the Year of the Referee, FIFA had an official from Tunisia, not exactly a stronghold of the sport, working with line officials from Costa Rica and Bulgaria, in a quarterfinal with overtones of a territorial war. The officials may have graded out well for fitness, had knowledge of the rules, brushed their teeth, and said “yes, sir” to FIFA, but they were not necessarily up to the aggression and gamesmanship that this match would produce.

  This is a fact of sports—the great players are often ahead of the officials sent out to monitor them. That was partially what drove John McEnroe mad; he could see the lines better than the official in the chair.

  Later in the first half, Fenwick creamed Maradona with a straight arm. Perhaps the ref reasoned that Fenwick already had a yellow, and, what the heck, it was almost halftime, so why toss the bloke out? As a result, England still had a full formation in the fifty-first minute as Maradona made a quick foray toward the goal. Steve Hodge got his foot on the ball and squibbed it into the air. Shilton, eight inches taller than Maradona, came out to punch the ball away, as he had done thousands of times in his career. Maradona kept running and leaped toward the ball, somehow getting higher than Shilton. He elevated his left fist above his head, as if imitating the Statue of Liberty holding a torch. Watching on the tube back home, I could see the fist raised, could see the ball bounce into the goal, could see Maradona wheel away, jubilantly, trying to sell the goal to the official and the crowd. The broadcaster quickly said it looked like a handball. The Argentines flocked after Maradona to celebrate. And the referee went for it.

  In this Year of the Referee, nobody from FIFA had sensitized the two sideline officials that they were also part of this operation. There was no electronic communication from the fourth official between the two benches or anybody else to tell the ref to hold a consultation before resuming play.

  Instead, Maradona had heard his personalized will of God and made the instant calibration that it was worth a try—a red card for cheating versus a goal during a scoreless draw. The replay on television immediately confirmed that Maradona had punched it home. Everybody in the stadium knew he had, except Ali Bennaceur and his two assistants.

  Play resumed, with the English probably still in shock from the blatant cheating and referee error. Then Maradona performed one of the greatest scoring romps ever seen in his sport. He received the ball near midfield, with Hodge and Peter Beardsley at his flanks. As Maradona took off, one broadcaster likened him to “a little eel.”

  Maradona wriggled onward, flicking the ball back and forth between his feet, as the defenders planted their own feet in the turf. He outraced Peter Reid, left Gary Stevens behind, and cut inside, leaving Terry Butcher with his back to Maradona, his right leg kicking backward in a vain attempt to slow Maradona down. Just outside the box, Fenwick seemed close enough to jostle Maradona, but, playing with a yellow card, Fenwick avoided contact, or maybe Maradona avoided him.

  Now it was between Maradona and Shilton, the two pals from the pregame handshake. Shilton knew how to cut off angles, but he had never done it against Diego Maradona at the absolute peak of his career. Maradona shifted his weight, moved the ball from right foot to left foot, and slipped it past Shilton, so softly, so gently. The announcer shouted. We all shouted, even in my den, so far away.

  Brian Glanville, the great chronicler of British sport, wrote that the goal was “so unusual, almost romantic, that it might have been scored by some schoolboy hero, or some remote Corinthian, from the days when dribbling was the vogue. It hardly belonged to so apparently rational and rationalized era as ours, to a period in football when the dribble seemed almost as extinct as the pterodactyl.”

  Years later, when he had time to understand what he had done, Maradona told an interviewer: “When I caught the ball towards the right and saw that Peter Reid couldn’t catch me, I felt a very big urge to go on running with the ball. I seemed to be able to leave everyone behind.”

  Given Maradona’s closeness with his creator, he no doubt had a sense of redemption. He had sinned and then sought absolution with the most developed part of his being—that is to say, his feet.

  Later in the match, Terry Butcher was close enough to Maradona on the field to ask if he had indeed punched the ball into the goal. Maradona spoke just enough English to understand the question.

  “He just smiled and pointed to his head,” Butcher reported.

  England scored late, and Argentina hung on for a 2–1 victory, followed by a worldwide dialogue about the border between gamesmanship and cheating. I normally absolve athletes who try to con the officials—it’s part of the game—but Maradona’s caper was so gross that I call it cheating.

  Maradona seemed quite proud of himself. In the documentary of that World Cup, there is footage of him in the Argentina locker room, wearing only shorts and a smirk, pumping his left fist. His teammates all cheer.

  In years to come, Maradona admitted he punched the ball because it was there. He would flash a childlike smile, like a boy caught stealing a cookie from his family pantry.

  “This is something that happens,” he told one interviewer.

  * * *

  Argentina then beat Belgium, 2–0, in the semifinal, with Maradona scoring both goals. Kinesiologists could still study films of his goals in this tournament—his low center of gravity, his ability to make ninety-degree turns in heavy traffic and somehow get power on his shot with the outside of his foot. Gravitational scientists could study the way he faked Eric Gerets of Belgium into a suicidal pirouette.

  The other semifinal that day was between West Germany and France, a replay of the 1982 semifinal, the game of the once tontos. An hour before the match, the two aging lions, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge and Michel Platini, were chatting on the green lawn of Guadalajara. How did they communicate? In their common language, Italian. Platini was a fixture with Juventus of Turin and Rummenigge was playing for Internazionale of Milan. The Germans broke no jaws this time but scored a goal in each half to reach the final again.

  In the final, Maradona was marked by Matthäus, one great offensive force trying to nullify another. Maradona did not score, but he did set up two goals early before Rummenigge and Rudi Völler tied the match. In the eighty-fourth minute, Maradona used an extra gear, swiveling past a defender and bursting toward the left corner, letting loose a left-footed parabola past Toni Schumacher, directly to the moving head of Jorge Burruchaga, who put it into the goal. Four years after his failure, Maradona had brought the World Cup back to Argentina.

  6

  THE SWEETEST FANS

  PORT OF SPAIN, TRINIDAD, 1989

  After watching the pleasant little army of Costa Ricans march over the hill in 1985, I thought I had encountered the true passion of World Cup qualifying.

  You haven’t seen anything, people advised me. The atmosphere is far more volatile on the road, in nasty little corners of the Americas, where fans toss missiles and insults. Visiting players told me of being serenaded by horns—entire marching bands—outside their hotel windows in the middle of the night. Funny how fans always knew where the U.S. team was billeted. And distorted officiating on the road was legendary.

  In November 1989, the Americans were again trying to get into the World Cup, which would be held in Italy in 1990. Going into their final qualifying match at Trinidad and Tobago, the United States had
nine points and a goal differential of two while T&T had nine points and a goal differential of three. The Americans had to win to go to Italy.

  The people of Port of Spain, a mix of black and white and Indian, were anticipating the first finals ever for the Soca Warriors (named after a form of Trinidadian music). When I wandered around downtown, people said hello. This did not seem like the kind of regional road match that had been described to me.

  The fans had no idea what was about to come down. The secretary of the T&T federation, the highly entrepreneurial Jack Warner, had taken it upon himself to print more than 45,000 tickets.

  The problem was, the National Stadium held only 28,500 fans. What was the sense of being a big man in FIFA if Warner could not print extra tickets?

  The American team was staying in an upscale hotel behind strong gates, high on a hill. Most national teams, I was coming to understand, were essentially all-star aggregations, called together for periodic training and matches. When I got there, the players were enjoying table tennis and eating together in the training room, rekindling team camaraderie between workouts.

  Only two starters were holdovers from the squad that had lost to Costa Rica four years earlier—Mike Windischmann, from the Queens neighborhood near Metropolitan Oval, and Paul Caligiuri, the UCLA player who had gone to West Germany to improve his game.

  Caligiuri had tried to play for Hamburger SV but was lent to SV Meppen in the second division. The West German league, the Bundesliga, was a harsh Darwinian experience of practicing in the wintry sleet, on rock-hard fields, with desperate teammates trying to take each other out in a midweek scrimmage, just to impress the stoic coach and possibly earn a uniform on the weekend.