Nandor Hidegkuti had perfected a quite new concept of centre-forward play. His secret was that he not only lay deep much of the time, allowing Kocsis and Puskas to work as a double spearhead and to ply them with clever passes; he was also deadly when he broke upfield, to make use of his own tremendous right-foot shot.
In midfield—a term which then still lay in the future—Hidegkuti had the vigorous assistance of the team’s right-half, Josef Bozsik, a driving, attacking player, with strength, confidence and, of course, superb control; his side’s chief dynamo.
On the wings there were excellent players, little behind these three, in Budai II on the right, and the fast and incisive Zoltan Czibor on the left.
Gyula Grosics, the goalkeeper, was a player of particular importance, not only because he was an excellent and supple performer beneath the bar, good with crosses, but because he was so ready to tear out of his penalty area to kick clear as an extra back.
Though nobody applied the term at the time, it can be seen with hindsight that Hungary’s tactics were an early version of 4–2–4. Zakarias, the left-half, was always tucked in beside his burly centre-half Lorant, leaving Bozsik to roam the area of midfield. The tendency of Hidegkuti to go up as well as back, however, was a major variant.
The Hungarian backs, Buzansky and Lantos, were big, muscular players who did not stand on ceremony. The tendency was to say that Hungary’s attack carried its defence, but if the record were analysed the ‘goals against’ were relatively few.
Over this remarkable team presided the Deputy Minister of Sport, Gustav Sebes, and under him a coach, Gyula Mandi. Training was varied and inventive, and the players were encouraged to practise athletics, even mountaineering. Needless to say there was great emphasis on training with the ball—still, amazingly, a rare thing in bizarrely conservative Britain—and ‘match situations’ were re-created in practice.
It seemed as if, having harnessed finishing power to their new Sarosis, Orths, and Konrads, Hungary had produced a type of superfootballer, had found a way of preparation which was ideal. Yet when the smoke cleared, when Puskas and Kocsis decamped a couple of years later, it became perfectly clear that all we had been seeing was an illustration of Walter Winterbottom’s dictum that every great team is built round a core of great players. While Kocsis and company were present, every man looked a giant, Sebes was a wizard, Mandi an inspired manager. When they went, the fabulous structure of Hungarian football proved to be nothing of the sort; the lean years began.
The Opening Matches
The Hungarians began by scoring seventeen goals in their first two games. Ultimately more significant was the fact that in the second, against West Germany, they lost Puskas, kicked by the big, blond German centre-half, Werner Liebrich. In retrospect, it was the kick that won the World Cup. Puskas would later vow it was deliberate. Observers felt that the tackle was at least harsh.
Hungary found no great difficulty in scoring nine goals against South Korea in Zurich. Kocsis and Puskas scored five between them and Lantos, the burly left-back, belted a free kick through the Korean wall.
West Germany, having easily beaten Turkey 4–1 in Berne, virtually threw away the Hungarian match in Basel. All the German forwards but Fritz Walter scored for Germany, the first goal going to Berni Klodt, for the moment their right-winger. In the wings lurked the brawny, dark-haired Helmut Rahn, belatedly recalled in the nick of time from Montevideo, where he had played superbly for his club, Rot Weiss Essen, when they beat Penarol—who had offered him a prodigious contract.
The team annihilated 8–3 by Hungary at Basel was not quite the scratch side some later called it. For one thing, it included Rahn himself, scorer of the third German goal; an augury to which few can have paid attention. For another, it introduced at centre-half Liebrich, who would regain his place in the quarter-final. But it cannot be pretended that Germany played flat out. Even with Puskas off the field for an hour with his injured ankle, it was a Hungarian picnic; especially for Kocsis, who scored four. The Germans then made seven changes of personnel and thrashed Turkey 7–1 in Zurich, with Morlock, the strongly-built inside-right, scoring three. Clearly their Hungarian experience had left no trauma.
England began with a curious game against Belgium in Basel; one awash with goals. The Belgians had eliminated Sweden, hopelessly denuded of their stars by Italian clubs, and had beaten Yugoslavia in Zagreb. They had two admirable centre-forwards in Anderlecht’s greathearted Jef Mermans, who now played on the right wing, and Rik Coppens, the well-sprung Beerschot leader, famous for the skill he showed with his back to the goal.
This game, like many others, was televised. Television would now become a potent reality in the World Cup; not always, as we shall see, for the better. The beginnings, in 1954, were modestly substantial; by 1970 the television audience for the Final had built up to a stupendous 800 million.
For the English television audience at least, the game was a disappointment, even though there was consolation in the splendour of Matthews, sinuously beating opponents, cleverly making openings, a complete forward and footballer whose suggestions were all too often spurned.
The English team, lamented The Times, were ‘like those rare children of light who can pass through any experience protected by a sheath of impenetrable innocence’. The blond, versatile Pol Anoul shot Belgium into the lead from the irrepressible Coppens’ pass after only five minutes. England responded with three goals. After twenty-five minutes an admirable through pass from Billy Wright sent Broadis through to equalise. Nat Lofthouse, with a spectacular diving header, gave them the lead and in the second half, after Taylor of Manchester United should have had a penalty, Broadis made it 3–1 with a deflected shot.
The match looked signed, sealed and delivered; but then the English defence, in which Luton’s Sid Owen was a shaky centre-half and Merrick a porous goalkeeper, collapsed twice, allowing first Anoul and then Coppens to make it 3–3. Another remarkable burst by Matthews, finishing this time with the untypical crescendo of a fine shot, almost restored the lead, but Gernaey seized the ball under the crossbar.
So there was extra time, and a very quick goal for England; a dummy by Taylor, a square pass by Broadis, a strong, high shot by Lofthouse. The crowd, steadily pro-British throughout the series, seemed relieved; but then Jimmy Dickinson, the quiet, consistent Portsmouth left-half, headed Dries’ long free kick into his own goal. 4–4. Billy Wright, significantly, spent the closing minutes at centre-half, with Owen limping on a wing with cramp. Wright would stay there for five distinguished years.
The previous day, a Scottish team showing plenty of fight had lost 1–0 to Austria in Zurich. The defence played strongly and well; the forwards might have had two goals: once when Ernst Happel flung Mochan to the ground in the penalty area—but the kick was given outside it—and once in the very last minute. Willie Ormond, the clever Hibernian left-winger, crossed the ball, Alan Brown backheeled, Neil Mochan shot through a crowd of players. The ball struck Happel, and as Schmied, Austria’s goalkeeper, plunged, it hit his hand, rolled up his arm: he finally seized it just the right side of the line.
So the goal which Probst had coolly scored, taking a return pass from Alfred Koerner to beat Martin after thirty-three minutes, won the game.
What Scotland had lacked in finesse they had largely made up in spirit, but now came disaster. Andy Beattie resigned. He would go, he said, immediately after the second game, which was to take place in Basel against the champions, Uruguay. The implication was that the Scottish officials, having gone as far as appointing a team manager, could not bring themselves far enough to let him manage. The immediate consequences would be atrocious.
Uruguay had not begun well. In Berne, they had beaten the Czechs 2–0 on an unfamiliar, muddy pitch, presenting Abbadie, Borges and Ambrois in attack, and the powerful, fair-haired José Santamaria as stopper. So far, indeed, did he sometimes fall behind the rest of his defence that he virtually became a sweeper. The champions did not score till Mig
uez headed in Ambrois’ centre twenty minutes from time. Schiaffino adding a second with a thundering free kick; one of those shots which belied the slenderness of his limbs.
In Basel, the Uruguayans simply cut the Scots to pieces; ridiculed them, toyed with them, humiliated them. The ‘vulnerable’ defence contained Scotland’s plodding forwards without difficulty, while Scotland’s own defenders, in the words of an English critic, ‘stood around like Highland cattle’.
‘They will die in the sun,’ predicted Vittorio Pozzo before the kick-off—and, metaphorically at least, he was right. Schiaffino quite simply bestrode the field, his swerve and footwork baffling Scotland’s defence, his passes splitting it time and again. To such delectable promptings Abbadie and Borges responded with glee, running the Scottish backs ragged. Obdulio Varela, huge-thighed and ubiquitous, made nonsense of the fact that, at thirty-nine, he was a few months older even than Stanley Matthews. Rodriguez Andrade, on the right flank now, distributed the ball immaculately and controlled it effortlessly. Again one was told that the defensive system ‘left gaps’, though a more obvious inference was that the system as a whole was flexible, and would open or close, oyster-like, according to the circumstances.
Not one of Uruguay’s seven goals was headed. Borges and Miguez scored in the first half, while in the second Borges and Abbadie got a couple each, Miguez another. The last of all, ten minutes from time, saw Abbadie dribble round both Scottish backs and then Martin, the goalkeeper. With their glorious technique, their bewildering changes of pace—an ability they shared with the Hungarians—Uruguay had taken Scotland back to school. Most ironically, it was in Scotland itself that such football had been conceived.
Italy, meanwhile, were having vertiginous ups and downs. Their first game, held in Lausanne, was narrowly lost to Switzerland when it might have been won. The Swiss, who had drawn 3–3 with Uruguay a month before the tournament, had less of the play, but prevailed through enthusiasm, while the erratic refereeing of Brazil’s Viana led to chaos. ‘An English or Scottish referee,’ wrote the doyen of French critics, Gabriel Hanot, ‘would have given two or three penalties in the first half against the Swiss, and would have sent the two Italian backs Vincenzi and Giacomazzi off in the second.’ Galli and Boniperti were dumped or obstructed time and time again without let or hindrance, till the Italians decided on lynch-law, Fatton being kicked in the stomach and Flueckiger in the back.
Twenty-four minutes into the second half, when Benito Lorenzi scored a goal which would have made it 2–1 for Italy but was given by Viana as offside, there was pandemonium.
The goal looked a perfectly good one to most people, and there were those who thought Viana’s decision had been influenced by the way Lorenzi had been chiding him throughout the game. After a limpid movement, Galli drove Pandolfini’s pass against a post, and Lorenzi finished the job; only for the goal to be denied.
One then, as the Corriere della Sera put it, ‘witnessed one of those scenes which often occur on our grounds, the players swarming round the referee, some tearing their hair, some eating the grass in their desperation. Boniperti was the fiercest towards Viana, who in his turn vigorously shoved the azzurri away until the little storm had blown over.’
So, some twelve minutes from time, when Giacomazzi missed a pass by Jacky Fatton, Hugi was able to beat Ghezzi for the winner.
The Italians now made three changes and, on the familiar territory of Lugano, thrashed a wearied Belgian team 4–1, to force a play-off with Switzerland. The star of the Italian attack was the vivacious Lorenzi, switched to the centre from the right wing after thirty-five minutes. This time when he scored, in the second half, the goal was allowed, and he might have had several more, in a dazzling performance.
Switzerland, meanwhile, lost 2–0 to a far from exceptional English team on a boiling hot afternoon in Berne. England made a number of changes, the most significant of which was the moving of Billy Wright to centre-half, where he had a dominating game. Matthews and Lofthouse were unfit, so the Wolverhampton left-wing pair of Dennis Wilshaw and the veteran Jimmy Mullen, in his fifteenth year as a professional, played. Tommy Taylor, who would die so wretchedly at Munich four years later, led the attack, while Bill McGarry (Huddersfield) was successfully capped at right-half. Merrick, encouragingly but, as it proved, deceptively, had a much better game in goal.
The most distinguished features of the match were the goals scored by Wolves’ left wing. Mullen, receiving Taylor’s flick three minutes from half-time, went round Parlier, the goalkeeper, for the first. Midway through the second half, Dennis Wilshaw calmly and cleverly evaded Eggimann, Bocquet and Neury, before beating Parlier, too. So much, it seemed, for the Swiss catenaccio; Italy must surely win the play-off in Basel.
But in their castellar retreat the Italians were in a state of turmoil and anarchy. ‘Open acts of indiscipline’ were spoken of, and when Czeizler announced his team it was a weird one. Cappello was out, Galli was out and Segato, the Fiorentina left-half, an essentially defensive player, was at inside-left. The formation never began to get together. ‘It was not a defeat,’ observed the Corriere della Sera, ‘it was a disaster…. We left the stadium in a state of authentic prostration, unable to look the Swiss in the face.’
At half-time the Italians were but one goal behind—scored by Josef Hugi after thirteen minutes. But a couple of minutes into the second half the lively Ballaman headed in a corner he himself had forced, and Italy cracked. Though Nesti did head a goal some twenty minutes later, the Swiss were constantly on top, Hugi and Jacky Fatton adding goals in the last five minutes. Switzerland were triumphantly through to the quarterfinals against Austria.
Having squeezed through against Scotland, the Austrians had had no trouble with the Czechs, whom they despatched 5–0 in Zurich; two for Stojaspal, three to Probst, all but one in the first half.
The best of all these group games was unquestionably that drawn 1–1 by Brazil and Yugoslavia in the exquisite setting of Lausanne’s Olympic Stadium, with Lake Geneva lambently below and the misted Savoy Alps above. The teams provided football of a purity worthy of the setting, though it was a pity that the tournament’s silly rules should automatically oblige them to play extra time when there was no question of a deadlock on points.
Yugoslavia were an impressive blend of youth and experience, their 1950 stars now being supported by such players as Bernard Vukas, the wiry, blond centre-forward, and Milos Milutinovic, a fair-haired, skilful outside-right. Zeze Moreira had justified the ‘new order’ in Brazilian football on the grounds that 1950’s was a fair-weather attack, capable of scoring goals only when it did not matter; yet now his team played some beguiling football.
At first, the supple Vladimir Beara had much to do in goal, but then Yugoslavia, strong in their formidable ‘quadrilateral’, took hold of the midfield and might have scored, were their finishing only better. The Brazilians entertained with the wizardries of Didì and the tight, fast dribbling of Julinho, his face as impassive as an Aztec god’s, his right foot a mighty hammer.
Three minutes from half-time, Vukas and Mitic made an opening for Branko Zebec which the left-winger exploited. From that point, Brazil controlled the game. Didì hit a post, Julinho put in three deadly shots and at last Didì, with a cannonade on the turn, got the equaliser. Neither team over-exerted itself in extra time.
The draw meant that France were eliminated. Narrowly defeated by Yugoslavia in their opening game, they had a most impoverished 3–2 win over Mexico, secured with a late penalty by Raymond Kopa, which prompted several enraged Mexicans to attack the referee.
The Quarter-Finals Brazil v. Hungary (Battle of Berne)
The quarter-finals pitted Hungary against Brazil at Berne, in a match which was destined to become notorious; England against Uruguay in Basel; Germany against Yugoslavia, in Geneva; Austria against Switzerland, in Lausanne.
The Battle of Berne, as it has come to be known, has in retrospect been blamed chiefly on Brazil. Theirs were the first and
greater excesses on the field, theirs the shameful, brutal invasion of the Hungarian dressing-room after the game. Yet there was provocation. The World Cup Disciplinary Committee would, Pilate-like, wash its hands of the horrid affair; Brazil and Hungary themselves would lamentably refuse to punish their players. Indeed, when Arthur Ellis, the game’s one hero, later asked the expelled Josef Bozsik whether he had been suspended, Bozsik haughtily replied: ‘In Hungary, we don’t suspend Deputies.’
What remains a matter for contention is the exact part played in the fracas by the injured Ferenc Puskas, who watched the match from the touchline. At the end of the game, according to the Corriere della Sera, he ‘struck the Brazilian centre-half Pinheiro in the face with a bottle as he was entering the dressing-rooms, causing a wound eight centimetres long.’ The same report quoted Ernst Thommen, the Swiss President of the World Cup Committee, as saying that he had seen Puskas’ attack on Pinheiro, that he had been present at the battle in the dressing-rooms which followed, and that he would be making a full report. Subsequently, however, doubt was cast on Puskas’ alleged aggression; though there is no doubt that Pinheiro left the stadium heavily bandaged. Some accounts later made the assailant ‘a spectator’; but which?
In the event, it was only the superb refereeing of Arthur Ellis that enabled the match to be completed at all; and even then he was obliged to send off three players. In England his refereeing was eulogised, in Brazil it was excoriated—but neutral critics agreed that it deserved the warmest praise. An Italian journalist called it ‘magisterial’, adding that if it was severe, then ‘severity was legitimate and necessary’.
The Story of the World Cup Page 7
