The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  This, however, was the only match after which Ramsey reproached his team. Once back at the Hendon Hall Hotel, their headquarters, he castigated them for sins of presumption, though exempting the hard-working Roger Hunt, who had scored both goals. To the onlooker, England’s performance had seemed, if anything, rather better than in the previous two games. The match was significant for an injury to Greaves which allowed him to be gently discarded, and Ramsey’s last attempt to play with an orthodox winger, Ian Callaghan of Liverpool. It must also have convinced him of the value of the absent Ball.

  If Calderon had prayed, Carbajal, after Mexico’s 0–0 draw with Uruguay, kissed both goalposts. It was the thirty-seven-year-old ’keeper’s final match, in his fifth World Cup; and a most satisfactory one for his country. This time it was the Uruguayans, cynical and negative, masters of the ‘tactical’ foul, who shut up shop, knowing that a draw would take them into the quarter-final.

  More cynical and provocative still were their Argentinian neighbours, in a deplorable, goalless match against West Germany at Villa Park. This time the Germans could not frolic as they did against the Swiss, Beckenbauer being much too concerned with countering the clever, inventive Onega. Albrecht, who had outrageously rugbytackled Haller, was sent off after sixty-five minutes for another bad foul, on Weber, but still the Germans played it close to the chest; though Perfumo, acrobatic and resilient, cleared from beneath his own bar.

  These two now proceeded to qualify, Argentina beating the Swiss 2–0 with goals by Artime and Onega, Germany defeating Spain 2–1 at Birmingham in a very tight match. A powerful shot from an astonishing angle by the hefty Emmerich, their left-winger, gave them the lead, but Fuste equalised, and Seeler won the match only six minutes from time.

  Meanwhile the travails of Italy continued—and multiplied. Fabbri, in an evident state of alarm, put out a curiously unbalanced, hitherto untried, team against Russia at Sunderland, dropping Gianni Rivera and both wingers, choosing Giacomo Bulgarelli of Bologna, despite a knee injury.

  With the vastly tall Giacinto Facchetti of Inter, essentially an overlapping full-back, helpless against clever Chislenko, Russia’s outside-right, the Italians never found a rhythm, never made adequate chances for their chief bombardier, the slender but incisive Sandrino Mazzola, son of Valentino. A goal by Chislenko in the second half settled the match. Some critics remarked on the officiousness of the referee, a tiny, bald, dark West German called Herr Kreitlein, of whom more would be heard.

  Italy v. North Korea and Russia v. Chile

  So to the ultimate Italian trauma: Middlesbrough, and the match with North Korea. Finding confidence, the little Koreans had come out of their shells against Chile and, to the delight of the friendly Middlesbrough crowd, gained a draw which could have been something better. Speed, in Fabbri’s view and that of others, was the North Koreans’ only real weapon; it was generally agreed that quick, flexible men were required to counteract it. Fabbri, however, surprisingly chose for his defence two slow players in Janich and Guarneri. Worse still, he called up again the manifestly unfit Bulgarelli, who was out of the game in half an hour after attempting to foul an opponent and definitively injuring his knee.

  The Koreans played with splendid spirit and refreshing sportsmanship: the kind of ‘professional’ foul to which the World Cup exposed them clearly filled these straightforward little men with pained surprise. After forty-two minutes their inside-left, Pak Doo Ik, tackled Rivera—who was back in the team—advanced, and beat Albertosi with a searing cross shot. There were no more goals, and for many months the mocking cry of ‘Ko-re-a!’ would echo over Italian stadiums when Fabbri or any of his World Cup men appeared. He himself in a volley of accusation and counter-accusation, would lose his job.

  Russia, beating Chile 2–1 at Sunderland with a couple of goals by a new left-winger, Porkujan, maintained a one hundred per cent record, and passed into the quarter-finals, against Hungary, on the same ground.

  The Quarter-Finals England v. Argentina

  In this round, run again on a knock-out pattern, the most brilliant and exciting match was unquestionably that between Portugal and North Korea at Everton, while it would be hard to decide which was the more turbulent—Wembley’s England v. Argentina, or Sheffield’s West Germany v. Uruguay.

  The Wembley match, or fiasco, would reverberate for years to come, would polarise European and South American football, evoking almost paranoic reactions from the River Plate. The Brazilians were already away, arriving by train at Euston with the faces of condemned men, muttering, not without justice, of the inadequacies of English referees. Now Argentinian cynicism and provocation met the authoritarianism of Herr Kreitlein; and all was chaos.

  Scarcely had the game begun than the Argentinians embarked on a maddening series of deliberate fouls so that England—who had left out Greaves and brought in Hurst for his first game—found every attack choked at birth. Herr Kreitlein rushed hither and thither, an exacerbating rather than a calming influence, inscribing names in his notebook with the zeal of a schoolboy collecting engine numbers. Where Herr Kreitlein’s tiny form perambulated, there generally followed the much larger form of Rattin, looming above him like a tree in the cork forest he was supposed to own, arguing, protesting, provoking. When he was booked, ironically, it was for a trivial foul on Bobby Charlton, but his whole attitude was one incompatible with the proper running of the game.

  At the same time his large, loping figure was at the centre of Argentina’s elaborate web of short passes, of the occasional attacks which once caused Banks, unsighted, to dive vigorously to a sudden shot by Mas.

  Nine minutes from half-time, however, objecting to the ‘booking’ of a colleague, Rattin was sent off; and refused to go. The incident itself may, in isolation, have been unexceptional, but cumulatively things had gone too far. Herr Kreitlein, bald head gleaming in the sunlight, had had enough. He said the day after that though he understood no Spanish, the look on Rattin’s face was enough.

  For ten long minutes there were arguments, petitions, appeals. Albrecht at one point seemed to beckon his whole team off. The tall, de Gaulle-ish figure of Ken Aston, victim of Santiago and now chief of the World Cup referees, appeared by the touchline to intercede. And at last, slowly and with huge reluctance, Rattin went, making the long, long circuit of the pitch, accompanied by his trainer, exchanging insults with the crowd, pausing now and then to watch as the game went on, like some reluctant phantom.

  The ten Argentinians held out astonishingly well, harshly exposing England’s bankruptcy in midfield, where there was no one with Onega’s subtlety. Hurst, playing his first competitive match since Copenhagen, found the going quite exhausting at first, but his was the first really dangerous English shot of the match, a reward for his power and perseverance. Four minutes after the interval, Wilson, receiving from Moore, dropped a centre over the defence. Hurst seemed almost surprised when it bobbled beneath his feet on the far post, but he recovered in time to strike an immensely strong shot. Roma, with a jackknife dive of fabulous agility, got a hand to it, and turned it round the post.

  Argentina, when they did break, were dangerously effective, with Artime and Mas so quick on the turn, the full-backs so keen to overlap, Onega so inventive. Thirteen minutes from the end, however, Wilson found Peters, whose high cross curled in from the left was met by Hurst, this time at the near post, with a prodigious jump, a header glanced beautifully into the right-hand corner. Mas, having cuffed a small boy who ran on to felicitate Hurst, was nearly through to score from the kick-off, but England were in the semi-final.

  Ramsey, with justice, said he hoped England’s semi-final opponents would not ‘act as animals’. The words would haunt him.

  Uruguay v. West Germany

  Meanwhile, at Hillsborough, Sheffield, two Uruguayans were sent off and West Germany won, 4–0. Neither side was blameless; much went on which escaped notice at the time. Uruguay, beginning well, should have scored early on, but instead fell behind, Haller flu
kily diverting a shot by Held past Mazurkiewiecz. The flashpoint came when Uruguay believed Schnellinger to have handled on the line. When Emmerich painfully kicked Troche, the Uruguayan captain, Troche kicked him back in the stomach, and was sent off, slapping Seeler’s face on the way for good measure.

  To those who accused the Germans in general, and Haller in particular, of ‘acting’, it might be pointed out that when Haller at one point collapsed and writhed, it was because a Uruguayan had seized his testicles, and that night he was oozing blood.

  Troche had gone five minutes after half-time. Five minutes later, Jim Finney, the English referee, expelled Silva, the Uruguayan inside-forward, for chopping down Haller.

  The nine surviving Uruguayans resisted with the determination for which their football is famous, but it could not last. With Beckenbauer able now to go fluently forward as he had not done since the Swiss match, the writing was on the wall; even if it was twenty minutes from time before Beckenbauer brought off a one-two with Seeler, casually dribbled round Mazurkiewiecz, and scored. Seeler and Haller added two more.

  Russia v. Hungary and Portugal v. North Korea

  Hungary, after their excellence against Brazil, now blew up, losing, as they so often have done, to the Russians’ greater physical power. Albert was consigned to the obsessive care of Voronin, who forsook, for the occasion, his usual constructive game to take part in the man-to-man marking. Sabo—ironically himself Hungarian by origin—outshone Albert as a general, splendidly abetted by Chislenko, who had begun the World Cup so well, and would finish so depressingly. He it was who exploited yet another in the series of Hungarian goalkeeping errors which had followed the going of Grosics, Gelei dropping an easy ball after only six minutes.

  Porkujan, two minutes after the interval, made it 2–0, at a corner Gelei did not catch, little Bene replied, and hope revived; only for the energetic Rakosi, ten minutes from time, to miss the equaliser. A marvellous save by Yachine from Sipos’ thumping free kick; and the Russian steamroller rolled on.

  At Everton, the beginning of Portugal v. North Korea was sensational; a goal in a minute, followed by a second and a third; and all for North Korea. Their opening was extraordinary, a thunderclap of dazzling, attacking football, Pak Seung Jin driving home after a cutting right-wing move.

  Portugal had some twenty minutes to ride the punch, but could not do so, Li Dong-Woon scoring a second, Yang Sung Kook, the outsideleft, a third. The Portuguese team, conquerors of Brazil, seemed now quite bouleversés. It would take genius to revive them; and Eusebio provided it, running, shooting and fighting with indomitable flair, long legs threshing past the little Korean defenders.

  After twenty-eight minutes Simoes put him through for his first goal. Three minutes from half-time a Korean brought Torres tumbling like a forest giant. Eusebio belted in the penalty, then urgently picked up the ball and galloped back to the centre-spot, to be intercepted and upbraided by an obscurely outraged Korean.

  Eusebio would, in the event, have the best of the argument. Fifteen minutes from half-time, he sprinted through again to equalise, then, after another of his exhilarating left-wing runs, in which he negotiated tackles with electric ease, he was hacked down—and scored another penalty. At a corner kick Augusto got the fifth, and the Koreans, too generous and ingenuous to sit on their lead, were out. Alas, they would sink back into their strange isolation, leaving us with memories of their courage, their talent, their generosity.

  The Semi-Finals Germany v. Russia and England v. Portugal

  The semi-finals pitted West Germany against Russia at Everton; England against Portugal at Wembley. The first match, played a day earlier, was a wretched parody of football; the second, if it fell short of the glories of Hungary v. Brazil, a tribute to the game.

  The Germans and the Russians produced a sour, ill-tempered, impoverished match, refereed without illumination by the handsome, obtrusive Sicilian, Concetto Lo Bello. Sabo, stupidly trying to foul Beckenbauer and laming himself in the process set the tone, and it was only the majestic goal-keeping, the immaculate sportsmanship, of Yachine that gave the game any distinction. It was especially ironic that afterwards he should be blamed by Morozow, the team manager, for conceding a goal, when he had kept Russia afloat for so long.

  A minute from half-time Russia found themselves in still worse plight. A powerful tackle by Schnellinger robbed Chislenko, and hurt him in the process. The left-back ran on to send a perfect crossfield ball to the blond Haller, who ran on to it and scored. Russia then ill-advisedly brought the hobbling Chislenko straight back on to the field. He at once lost the ball to Held and, in his pain and frustration, kicked him. Lo Bello instantly sent him off; and then there were nine.

  These nine the Germans treated with extraordinary respect and caution. They scored only once more, with a remarkable left-footed shot, curling from outside the box around the Russian wall and in at the far post, by Beckenbauer. But with Voronin and Khusainov fighting bravely and skilfully the Russians actually managed a goal of their own. A couple of minutes from the end Tilkowski, always vulnerable in the air, dropped a left-wing cross under pressure, and Porkujan put the ball in. It was a meagre victory.

  England won much more handsomely, though the score was the same, in a game which they should have won with ease, but nearly allowed to slip away from them, a game in which Eusebio, the tournament’s leading scorer, was simply blotted from sight by the tenacious Stiles, who also found time to exhort, upbraid and castigate his own defence.

  Bobby Charlton had much his best game of the World Cup, perhaps the best he ever played for England, his distribution for once being quite the equal of his fine running and shooting. When, after half an hour, Ray Wilson cleverly sent through Hunt, and Pereira could only block the shot, Charlton coolly drove it back into the net. At half-time, with Ball running like a Zatopek—or a Zagalo—the score 1–0 remained, and England had missed a dangerous number of chances.

  For a quarter of an hour after the break, Portugal’s gifted forwards pressed, only to find a defence in which the tall, blond Moore and Jackie Charlton, the faultless Banks, the galvanic Stiles, defied them, too compact to be breached.

  So England regained ascendancy, and eleven minutes from the end they at last scored again. Hurst forcefully shook off Carlos’ challenge, went to the right-hand goal line, pulled the ball back, and Bobby Charlton’s right foot struck a fulminating goal.

  Portugal again revived, driven on by the muscular, tireless Coluna. In another three minutes, Simoes had curled the ball over from the right, Torres rose to it above the defence and headed over Banks, Jackie Charlton punched it out, Eusebio scored still another penalty.

  Now Portugal assailed the English goal, and only Stiles’ fine covering tackle thwarted Simoes, after which Stiles turned on his defence with a wealth of outraged gesture. Bobby Charlton let fly a left-footed shot which Pereira smothered but again could not hold, and Banks had to tip over a raking, right-footed shot by Coluna. Then it was time; England had reached the Final.

  The Final England v. Germany

  They had reached the Final without Greaves, and the question now was whether he would return. To Greaves himself, it was one of absolute importance; this was the match on which he had set his heart. Hurst, who had replaced him, was obviously playing far too well to be dropped; if anyone went it would plainly be Roger Hunt, diligent but mediocre, a selfless and intelligent runner, a more than adequate finisher, but never a forward of true international class.

  The Germans had two problems: goalkeeper and outside-left. They were not satisfied with Tilkowski’s performances, above all when it came to dealing with high crosses, and he had injured his shoulder against Russia. Helmut Schoen, their team manager, would have liked to replace him with the fair-haired Bayern Munich goalkeeper Sepp Maier; but Maier was himself injured.

  Then there was the question of Lothar Emmerich, the Bundesliga’s most prolific scorer, a tall, strong player with a ferocious left foot who had got that impor
tant goal against the Swiss, but was not renowned for his audacity. The temptation was to drop him; the fear was that should Germany then lose, fury would break about Schoen’s head. He chose Emmerich.

  Ramsey, following a strangulated Press conference on the Bank of England grounds at Roehampton at which, after agonised reflection, he reaffirmed that England would win the World Cup, chose Hunt.

  So, after a meaningless third-place match in which Portugal, with yet another penalty by Eusebio, beat Russia 2–1, the lines of battle were drawn.

  History spoke firmly in England’s favour. After sixty-five years they had yet to lose to Germany, whom they had been beating regularly since a team of amateurs overplayed them 12–0 at Tottenham in 1901. The Germans, now esconced at Welwyn Garden City, were all too cognisant of the fact. To beard the lion in his den was no joking matter. Perhaps if the match had been played elsewhere, Schoen would have been more enterprising than to sacrifice Beckenbauer to the ungrateful task of ‘policing’ Bobby Charlton. The Germans would in fact again play a flexible version of catenaccio, with the robust Willy Schulz as sweeper, Weber at centre-back, Haller and Overath in midfield, Seeler, Emmerich and the rapid Held up front.

  Ramsey had hoped to exploit the relative slowness of Schnellinger by getting Ball to draw him into the middle. In fact this slowness would be much more fully and logically exploited out on the wing, where Ball would show an unsuspected talent for beating his man, then leaving him standing.

  England, however, made a bad beginning. After only thirteen inconclusive minutes Ray Wilson, most uncharacteristically, headed Held’s left-wing cross straight to the feet of Haller on the far post. Haller crisply controlled the ball and drove it low and wide across Banks into the left-hand corner. The banners waved in triumph.