The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  Scotland, seemingly weary after their display against the Yugoslavs, went down 3–2 to Paraguay at Norrkoping where Silvio Parodi, an inside-forward with experience of Italian football, was the dominant player and Bobby Evans an excellent centre-half. Indeed, not one of the British teams won their match in this round, for Wales played very poorly in Stockholm, to be held 1–1 by Mexico. ‘Every time you knocked one of them down, he cried,’ complained the Manchester United forward Colin Webster, never the most gentle of players, but Kelsey was impressed by their ball control and fitness.

  Sweden made heavy weather of winning their evening game in the same stadium against Hungary, a match notable for the tremendous right-footed shooting of Hungary’s Lajos Tichy and the deadly finishing of Sweden’s Kurre Hamrin.

  The concluding round of matches brought, above all, the annihilation of Argentina by Czechoslovakia at Hälsingborg, a humiliation which may now be seen as the bleak turning point in Argentinian football. What was especially strange was that the Argentinians should be made to look so slow and obsolete by the Czechs, so often criticised—as they would be even in the 1962 World Cup—for one-pace football.

  The Czechs, who confirmed the burly Popluhar at centre-half in his second World Cup match, simply overwhelmed the Argentinians. Borovicka, who had missed the German game—there were tales of a bitter quarrel in the dressing-room during the Irish match—returned to blend perfectly with the powerful Molnar, while Hovorka was a strong and effective outside-right, making two goals and scoring the last two. Another two went to Zikan, the outside-left, and Argentina’s only reply came from a penalty by the inevitable Corbatta. With the exception of him, Menendez and Varacka—who, commentators were quick to point out, was of Czech origin—the team looked slow and unfit.

  When the Argentinians arrived at Buenos Aires airport initial disbelief had turned to fury and they were pelted with rubbish. The wound went deep. In future, Argentinian football would shed its old traditions of spectacle and artistry and become more destructive than the most negative.

  In Malmö, with thousands of their supporters in attendance, West Germany were held to an exciting 2–2 draw by Northern Ireland, for whom Harry Gregg, superb in goal, and Peter McParland, a deadly opportunist, surpassed themselves.

  In Gothenburg, Brazil at last let slip the astonishing Pelé and the inimitable Garrincha, routing the Soviets in the process. Though the score was 2–0 it might easily have been doubled or even trebled.

  Pelé had been an international for almost a year, a striking inside-forward who came from a poor black family at Tres Coracoes in the heart of the great state of Minas Gerais. As a boy he had been coached by the old Brazilian international forward, de Brito, who brought him to the Santos club where his progress had been phenomenal. Five feet eight inches tall, weighing some ten and a half stone, superbly muscled, he was at this stage a goal-scorer par excellence, gymnastically agile and resilient, a tantalising juggler of the ball, a fine right-footed shot with the ability to climb and head like a Lawton. Above all, his temperament was extraordinary, his coolness in the thick of the battle, the most tense and dramatic situations, uncanny.

  His face, which would become so familiar throughout the world over the next decade, never lost its innocence, its boyish appeal. He was no saint; in years to come his policy under provocation was much more the Old Testament one of an eye for an eye than the New Testament’s turning the other cheek, but somehow the image remained untarnished, the pristine appeal untouched.

  Garrincha came into the team by popular request of the players themselves. A deputation led by Nilton Santos went to Feola and asked for his inclusion. Feola gave way. From the opening minutes, Garrincha’s incomparable swerve and acceleration left his opponent Kuznetsov helpless. First he beat him to the wide, shot, and hit the left-hand post. Next, Pelé hit the right-hand post. Finally, after three minutes, Didì emerged calmly and magisterially from a group of Russian opponents, and with an exquisite pass found Vavà who dashed through to score.

  Didì had now found his ideal complement in the Santos right-half Zito, who had replaced Dino. Stronger in defence, much less inclined to carry the ball, an adroit passer who could strike for goal when necessary, Zito would emerge as the best half-back in the tournament.

  It was extraordinary that Russia’s bemused defence should hold out till thirteen minutes from time when Vavà, after an exchange of passes with Pelé, got the second. At one late, memorable instant, Garrincha had and held the ball against five encircling Russians. Genius had overwhelmed mere effort.

  At Boras, in a match played on a lower plane, England laboured to a draw with the ponderous Austrians, who were twice ahead. The British sailor who ironically blew the Last Post when a histrionic Austrian went down might well have been blowing it for England. Haynes, at his best, must have made more of Kevan’s dominance of the ageing Happel, Austria’s stopper. He himself scored England’s first goal after fifty-six minutes and made the second for Kevan. Austria’s goals both came from impressive, uncharacteristic long shots, by Koller and Koerner.

  In Group II France duly beat Scotland, but they found it hard. Each team changed its goalkeeper. Bill Brown, of Dundee and later of Spurs, won the admiration of Kopa and Fontaine with his agility; Abbes replaced Remetter for France. Kopa volleyed home Fontaine’s cross—a brief reciprocation—but Scotland struck back forcefully. Abbes had to make a fine save from Murray; then, when the Hearts forward was fouled—by Jonquet and the talented right-half Armand Penverne—John Hewie, Charlton Athletic’s South African, wastefully hit the penalty against a post.

  It was as well for France that in the very last seconds of the half Fontaine, served by Jonquet, should sprint away to make it 2–0. In the second half, when they were much less good, Baird emulated him and the final score was a narrow 2–1.

  At Eskilstuna a hero tottered, Vladimir Beara having one of his worst games in goal for Yugoslavia against Paraguay. The score was 3–3, and all three Paraguayan goals could be blamed on the unhappy Beara. Three times the Paraguayans, inspired again by Parodi, equalised against a Yugoslav team which had dropped the graceful Milutinovic; but the Slavs went through.

  Play-Offs for Quarter-Finals

  Goal average counting for nothing, three of the British teams now entered play-offs—and two got through. It was, most unforeseeably, England who failed, losing 1–0 to Russia in Gothenburg. Almost perversely, having stubbornly refused to make changes, they now, still disdaining Charlton, capped two new forwards: Peter Brabook, the Chelsea right-winger, and Peter Broadbent, the industrious young Wolves inside-right.

  In the tepid Ullevi—tepid till Sweden arrived there—England did not deserve to lose, though Haynes, apparently untouchable, had another grim game. Brabook twice hit a post; Ilyin hit one after sixty-eight minutes, and scored. Sadly for the otherwise faultless McDonald, it was his careless throw which put Russia away.

  Decimated Ireland, faced by a Czech team which had swamped Argentina, patched up their team at Malmö and won, as Peter Doherty promised they would.

  Norman Uprichard replaced Gregg in goal, and Jackie Scott was capped for the first time in place of the injured Tommy Casey. Uprichard was hurt, Peacock was hurt, Czechoslovakia took the lead, the game went

  into extra time; and still Ireland won. Zikan gave the Czechs the lead after nineteen minutes, but on the stroke of half-time the irresistible McParland equalised after Cush had had two shots blocked. Nine minutes into extra time he volleyed home Danny Blanchflower’s free kick. Bubernik of Czechoslovakia was sent off. Ireland qualified.

  So did Wales, eliminating Hungary at Stockholm; a match in which an opponent was also sent off—Sipos, for brutually kicking Hewitt; also in extra time.

  Neither British team survived the quarter-final, though Wales, even without the mighty John Charles, gave Brazil immense trouble in Gothenburg. Perhaps Charles would have exploited the early centre with which Webster, his deputy, did nothing.

  Thereafter, it w
as the iron Welsh defence against the Brazilian attack which found the going harder and harder. Mazzola was back again for Vavà, Garrincha was most cleverly played by Mel Hopkins, Dave Bowen was an inspiring captain, Stuart Williams and Derek Sullivan a muscular right flank. Behind them, Jack Kelsey held everything. ‘Chewing gum,’ he modestly explained afterwards. ‘Always use it. Put some on my hands. Rub it well in.’

  Pelé has often said that the goal with which he cut the Gordian knot after sixty-six minutes was the most important he ever scored. It was also one of the luckiest, for Kelsey had the shot covered before it struck the foot of the impeccable Williams and was deflected past him. There was a pile-up, a very pyramid of yellow-shirted Brazilian bodies in the goalmouth.

  The weary and depleted Irish team, all the wearier for an ill-planned coach journey, did their best against France but blew up. The two hundred and ten-mile drive to Nörrkoping the previous day was bad enough preparation; the absence of Gregg and Peacock (with torn ligaments) and the need to play the damaged Casey still a greater handicap. There was just one early moment in which the team might have scored and thus found the morale, the magic energy, they had before. In one of their set-piece throw-ins, Blanchflower threw the ball to Bingham’s head and the little winger flicked it on for McIlroy, but he, clear through, squared it instead of shooting. That was that. With McParland on this occasion lost in the middle, Wisnieski scored just before half-time and Ireland collapsed. In the second half Fontaine, twice more, and Piantoni added goals.

  The Quarter-Finals

  Sweden found a weary Russian team stiff opponents in the first half at Stockholm, where the public’s incredulity still kept the crowd down to less than 32,000. In the second half Kurt Hamrin embarked on a one-man siege of the Russian goal. Twice he almost headed in; eventually, after his own run and cross, the ball bobbled loose and head it in he did. He made the second goal for Simonsson from the left-hand goal line two and a half minutes from time.

  Jasseron, an experienced French coach, observed of the Swedes that they were a good enough team provided they were not outpaced. Raynor knew it; Brazil would capitalise on it.

  At Malmö Helmut Rahn yet again won the match for Germany, racing away from the vulnerable Crnkovic to score after twelve minutes, Krivocuka, Beara’s equally unhappy replacement, failing to narrow the angle. It was a match blemished by the ruthlessness of Juskowiak and Erhardt, who was lucky indeed not to give away a penalty when, nine minutes from the end, he not only brought down Milutinovic—restored and iridescent—but held his leg for good measure.

  The Semi-Finals Sweden v. West Germany

  The semi-finals pitted Sweden against West Germany in Gothenburg and Brazil against France in Stockholm. The Gothenburg match provided an extraordinary study in national behaviour, as the Swedes’ unfettered chauvinism put even the Germans’ in the shade, and very nearly resulted in the game not being played at all.

  In the first place, the Swedes outraged all the canons of hospitality by bringing their own cheerleaders right on to the pitch before the match, to incite the crowd. The German cheerleaders, meanwhile, were confined to the running-track.

  In the stand, an embittered row was going on between Dr Pecos Bauwens, the Olympian President of the German Football Association, whose own chauvinistic pronouncements after the 1954 World Cup had caused concern in West Germany, and Swedish officials. The Swedes would not provide seats for some of the West German supporters. Dr Bauwens threatened that if they were not forthcoming he would withdraw his team from the match. They were provided.

  The game itself was a fascinating one, even though blemished by fouls and at least one major refereeing error. With the tremendous Swedish choruses of Heja, heja, heja! thundering over the stadium, the home team dictated the early play. Erhardt had chosen the wrong studs and slipped about parlously on the greasy ground, while Herkenrath looked an uncertain goalkeeper. Nevertheless, it was Germany who broke away for a sensational goal.

  Seeler, always busy and thoughtful, went to the left to catch a ball rolling out of play and centred, and Hans Schaefer despatched it past Svensson with a ferocious twenty-five-yard volley.

  Sweden’s equaliser, after Liedholm and Gren had gradually brought them back into the game, should never have stood. Liedholm blatantly brought the ball under control with his hand before running on with an approving wave from the referee, and Skoglund ultimately scored from a sharp angle. There were only five minutes between the goals.

  It was Hamrin, already tormenting Juskowiak, who turned the game early in the second half, though in a somewhat unusual way. In the third minute Herkenrath had to plunge at his feet. In the twelfth he fouled Juskowiak, who was foolish enough to kick him. Hamrin made the most of it, rolling about in apparent agony, though when Juskowiak was sent off, his recovery was quick.

  Parling, the large, blond Swedish left-half known as the Iron Stove, was just as worthy to be sent off for a dreadful foul on Fritz Walter sixteen minutes from the end. Walter was carried off for a couple of minutes, and spent the next day in bed. So Sweden, now virtually playing against nine men, finished the job.

  Nine minutes from time, when Hamrin’s shot was blocked, Gunnar Gren let fly immediately for the top left-hand corner, for one of his rare goals. Finally, Hamrin scored a goal of rare skill and impertinence, first stopping with the ball and walking it towards the right touchline like a man bemused, then coming to galvanic life, dancing past three men and beating Herkenrath. The slowest team in the tournament had reached the Final.

  Brazil v. France

  So did Brazil, though the promised feast against France never materialised. It would have been fascinating to see how the deep central thrust of Fontaine and Piantoni, fed by Kopa, would have fared against Brazil’s uncertain central defence. For thirty-seven minutes, indeed, the marvellous little Kopa caused all sorts of trouble. Didì, Garrincha and Pelé made Vavà a devastating goal in the second minute, but Fontaine had equalised within nine. Then Bob Jonquet was hurt and left the middle, Didì scored within two minutes, and in the second half the fabulous Pelé ran riot with three more goals, Piantoni scoring a late, meaningless second for France.

  The Final Sweden v. Brazil

  So Sweden would play Brazil, and the Brazilians worried about the effect an atmosphere as torrid as Gothenburg’s might have on their emotional players. The World Cup Committee set their minds at rest by sternly forbidding the Swedes to bring cheerleaders on to the pitch again. Thus deprived of example and instruction, the crowd at Rasunda was astonishingly quiet.

  As an hors d’oeuvre Kopa and Fontaine played ducks and drakes at Gothenburg with a weakened Germany—in which the young, blond Karl-Heinz Schnellinger made his second appearance of the series, at right-half. Kopa, the son of a Polish miner and a Frenchwoman, who might never have turned professional footballer were it not for a boyhood mining accident, was irresistible. Svengali to Fontaine’s Trilby, he helped him to four splendid goals and got a penalty himself. France took the third-place match 6–3.

  Thus to Stockholm, and a day heavy with rain. George Raynor cheerfully forecast that if the Brazilians went a goal down they would ‘panic all over the show’. They did go an early goal down; and stayed serene.

  Feola made a bold change in defence, suddenly withdrawing his right-back de Sordi to give the powerful black Djalma Santos, a veteran of 1954, his first game in the competition. The two Santoses snuffed out Hamrin and Skoglund with the nonchalance of men extinguishing a candle.

  Yet Sweden had a goal in four minutes, a goal worked out by Gren and Liedholm with such facility that many seemed sure to follow. Gren gave Liedholm the ball, Liedholm picked his way precisely past two Brazilian defenders in the penalty box and beat the poised Gilmar with a low, strong shot into the right-hand corner. It was the first time in the tournament that Brazil had been in arrears.

  Six minutes later they were level, thanks to the pantherine Garrincha. Receiving from Zito on the right wing, he took the ball up to Parling
and Axbom, caught them both off balance with a miraculous swerve and acceleration down the line and cut the ball back hard and fast. In tore Vavà to score.

  The game grew wonderfully vivid. Pelé crashed a shot against the post, tireless Zagalo headed out from almost beneath the Brazilian bar. After thirty-two minutes, however, Garrincha again left the Swedish left flank standing, and Vavà again drove in his pass.

  Sweden were losing the battle in midfield and were impotent on the wings. Their last hopes died ten minutes after half-time, when Pelé scored a marvellously impertinent goal. Catching a high ball in the thick of the penalty box on his thigh, he hooked it over his head, whirled round and volleyed mightily past Svensson.

  Now Zito and Didì were switching play at will, now Djalma Santos was racing up from full-back, now Pelé and Vavà were probing, interpassing. With thirteen minutes left Zagalo went past Boerjesson, then Bergmark, and shot the fourth, and knelt in tears of joy.

  Next, with the overjoyed Brazilian fans keeping up a shout of Samba, samba!, Liedholm sent Agne Simonsson through the middle, possibly offside, for Sweden’s second goal—only for Pelé to reply with Brazil’s fifth. Zagalo’s was the centre, and Pelé rose to it with majestic elevation and power.

  The World Cup was Brazil’s at long last, and who could not rejoice with them as they ran, like ecstatic children, round the pitch, holding first their own flag, then the Swedes’? There was no doubt this time that the best, immeasurably the finest, team had won.

  RESULTS: Sweden 1958

  Pool I

  Germany 3, Argentina 1 (HT 2/1)

  Ireland 1, Czechoslovakia 0 (HT 1/0)

  Germany 2, Czechoslovakia 2 (HT 1/0)