The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  Thorough, calm, reputedly and invariably ‘lucky’ in all that he did, Zagalo made certain small but vital changes. The most important of them was using Rivelino, a powerfully built inside-left with a magnificent left foot, the equal of the celebrated Gerson’s, as a nominal left-winger. This, at one blow, solved the problem of incorporating both these splendid talents in the team and also relieved Rivelino of the necessity to play flat out for ninety minutes. His previous appearances had been distinguished but insufficient, falling away after one dazzling half.

  Zagalo’s famous luck was confirmed by the recovery of Tostao from a severe eye injury. Suffered in training, when a ball hit him, all unaware, and detached the retina, it had necessitated two operations in Houston, Texas. Since his brief appearance in the 1966 World Cup, Tostao had developed into a player of glorious technical skill, great subtlety and considerable courage. Certainly the lack and loss of him had clipped the wings of Saldanha’s Brazil; but now he was back.

  Back, too, though less significantly, came the little Fluminense goalkeeper, Felix, first called up and then jettisoned by João Saldanha. Felix would play every game in Mexico, but his performances, his vulnerability to the high cross, would, mutatis mutandis, recall the old, cruel Harry Truman joke; that indeed, ‘anybody’ could be President; ‘any’ goalkeeper could win a World Cup medal. A far cry, this, from the immaculate, imperturbable Gilmar.

  Brazil were assigned to the same qualifying group as England, Guadalajara, together with Romania and Czechoslovakia. They arrived there with an evident, shrewd policy of ‘beads for the natives’. Clearly they knew their Mexicans. Distributing flags, smiles and pennants, full of protestations of good will, admiration and affection for the local populace, they had done a thorough job of seduction by the time they took off for their training redoubt at Guanajuato. On their return, they ran their training camp, outside Guadalajara at the Suites de Caribe, like a fortress, even obliging journalists to obtain and produce a separate identity card from that required and issued by the World Cup Committee. It did not matter. Good will had been shown and reciprocated. It would cost England dear.

  England

  It was clear at the time, and is still clearer now, that the confrontation between Ramsey and the Mexicans, ultimately so disastrous for his team, should have been mediated. Indeed, it was quite clear on England’s exploratory tour in 1969. It was Sir Alf ’s hope and ambition, frequently and fervently expressed, that England in 1969 would make friends, and create the climate they required for success in 1970. In these circumstances, his own performance was sometimes a little surprising.

  After the goalless draw between Mexico and England in the Azteca Stadium in May 1969, he gave a short Press conference outside the dressing-rooms, and was asked if he had anything to say to the Mexican Press. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘There was a band playing outside our hotel till five o’clock this morning. We were promised a motor cycle escort to the stadium. It never arrived. When our players went out to inspect the pitch, they were abused and jeered by the crowd. I would have thought the Mexican public would have been delighted to welcome England. Then, when the game began, they could cheer their own team as much as they liked. But’—a happy, hasty, afterthought—‘we are delighted to be in Mexico, and the Mexican people are a wonderful people.’

  In Guadalajara a few days later, after an England XI had thrashed a Mexican XI 4–0, there were further solecisms. When the game was over, the Governor of the state of Jalisco made a presentation to Ramsey, and was then escorted into what were then, before the building of the World Cup stadium, the underground dressing-rooms. After them scuttled a flock of Mexican journalists, who re-emerged almost instantly, chivvied by an irate Sir Alf, very much like the moneychangers being driven from the temple. ‘You’ve got no right in here!’

  Whatever Ramsey’s many solid qualities, diplomacy was scarcely one of them, and in the difficult circumstances it was of the essence. Instead, apparent xenophobia was compounded by his well-known aversion to the Press; one which had by now been widely reciprocated. It was no use explaining to Mexican journalists that they were being treated no more brusquely, no more indifferently, than their English counterparts. The Mexican capacity for self-hatred, wounded feelings, is large; the seed fell upon ground already dangerously fertile.

  England, indeed, had clearly become the team the Mexicans loved to hate: ‘a team of thieves and drunks’, as one local newspaper amiably put it. There had been Ramsey’s indifference to the Press, Bobby Moore’s absurd persecution in Colombia, and the arrival of Jeff Astle, most nervous of air travellers, at Mexico City airport in a state of some disarray.

  Moore’s astonishing, impregnable calm, that icy self-possession which had made him such a force in the England defence, had never been so impressively manifest as it was in his Colombian tribulations. While the England team were staying at the Tequendama hotel in Bogotà, he and Bobby Charlton visited the Green Fire jewellery shop inside the hotel. While they were afterwards sitting just outside it, they were approached, and asked to explain the alleged disappearance of a bracelet. Both were naturally astonished, unaware of the well-established Colombian pastime of thus accusing visiting celebrities. Indeed, when the news of Bobby Moore’s subsequent arrest and detention broke upon the world, a rash of similar cases was exposed, their victims ranging from singers to bullfighters.

  England, despite the eight thousand-foot altitude, won easily against Colombia in Bogotà—as did their second eleven, on the same night—then travelled for two similar matches in Quito, Ecuador (nine thousand feet), both of which they also won, Moore behaving throughout with his customary poised detachment. On arriving once more in Bogotà, on the way back to Mexico City, he was arrested by the Colombian police and put under house arrest in the care of the President of the Millonarios Football Club.

  Accusations were made against him by the proprietor of the jewellery shop, the shopgirl, and a mysterious ‘witness’, whose background would turn out to be, at the least, equivocal, and who would ultimately disappear. Following diplomatic intervention, Moore was ‘bailed’ to play in the World Cup, played superbly, and was persecuted for a few months more with threats of further charges before the case died a belated, murky death. Plainly it was a fabrication from the start (its perpetrators were charged for conspiracy in 1972), but this cannot detract from the extraordinary qualities of resilience shown by Moore, whose 1970 performances outstripped even those of 1966.

  England’s hopes of keeping the World Cup seemed quite substantial, for all the oppressive conditions. Though Cohen and Wilson, the full-backs, Nobby Stiles, Hunt and Jackie Charlton had dropped out of the 1966 side (Stiles and Charlton remaining in the 1970 party) morale was excellent. New stars had been discovered. A most useful aid, slow sodium, had been adopted. Of the old brigade, Bobby Moore, Gordon Banks and Geoff Hurst seemed better than ever. Terry Cooper, a small, strong, immensely mobile left-back who had begun with Leeds as a left-winger, was the perfect man for an overlap, full of pace, control and enterprise. Alan Mullery, a cheerful Londoner, had efficiently succeeded Stiles. He was a solid, all-round player who, though scarcely an artist, was technically better endowed than his predecessor, even if he lacked Stiles’ galvanising qualities. Both he and Manchester City’s lean inside-right, Colin Bell, had excelled on the 1969 Latin American tour.

  Francis Lee, the blond, stockily-built Manchester City striker, had come into the team at outside-right in 1968 and shown a heartening response to the great occasion. An explosive runner with a strong shot, especially happy when operating on the right flank, he was a most useful ally for the muscular, self-sacrificing Hurst, whose positional play now equalled his admirable finishing.

  Perhaps the team had no great flair; it had gone out to Yugoslavia in the violent semi-final of the 1968 European Championship, had continued to exalt effort over talent. Nevertheless, it was respected and feared.

  Some World Cup countries perhaps took caution too far—England among them. Th
e English players arrived in Mexico early in May, the best part of a month before their first game. The West Germans, who would ultimately beat them, arrived weeks later.

  Germany

  West Germany, playing in the group at Leon—a small, hot, rather squalid city north-west of Guadalajara—were moderately fancied. They could again call on the gracefully inventive Franz Beckenbauer and Wolfgang Overath in midfield, not to mention the resilient Uwe Seeler, playing his fourth World Cup. Moreover, there was a new and formidable threat in the person of Gerd Muller, the young Bayern Munich centre-forward. Short, dark-haired, with heavy, powerful thighs, Muller was a finisher par excellence, deadly in the box, a splendid volleyer.

  How, then, could he be reconciled with that other fine centre-forward, the veteran Seeler? Helmut Schoen, though violently and vociferously criticised by his lieutenant of 1966, little Dettmar Cramer, resolved the question masterfully. First, Pozzo-like, he set Seeler and Muller to share a hotel room. Secondly, he decided to play Seeler in midfield; an inspired choice.

  West Germany had strong rivals in Peru, whose ebullient, inventive, highly adventurous team had put out dour Argentina. Skilfully managed by Didì, the old Brazilian general of 1958 and 1962, the Peruvians scorned negative methods—even in their last, decisive qualifying game in Buenos Aires, when they had daringly used two wingers in a 4-2-4 formation, forced a draw, and come through. Though star players had been suspended for violence perpetrated in that eliminating series, there was talent to burn: the black, effervescent, twenty-year-old Teofilo Cubillas at inside-forward; the powerful, adventurous Chumpitaz, with his mighty right foot; the experienced black striker, Gallardo.

  Italy

  The Italians, drawn in the high altitude Puebla-Toluca group with Israel, Uruguay and Sweden, were placing almost messianic hopes in Luigi Riva. Long before they flew off to Mexico, it was clear to any visitor that the country was burdening the Cagliari forward with a responsibility and a mission he could scarcely hope to discharge.

  Of Riva’s great, goal-scoring talent, of his control, acceleration, his mighty left foot, his courage, there was no doubt. Yet his very fame and presence were enough to confirm Italy in their dreadfully sterile addiction to catenaccio tactics; enough to lull them into a belief that if ten men stayed in defence and Riva was upfield, it was sufficient to guarantee goals. On top of this, and the North Korean complex which exacerbated it, there was the contretemps of Rivera and Mazzola, which threatened to split the team asunder before ever a ball was kicked.

  We are familiar by now with both players. Gianni Rivera, as poised, elegant and economical as ever, captain and orchestrator of Milan, was now a ripe twenty-six, playing in his third World Cup, chosen as European Footballer of the Year. Sandrino Mazzola, who had made his name as a scoring centre-forward or striker, had in 1968, when Rivera was injured, used the Nations Cup final against Yugoslavia, in Rome, to affirm himself as a superb midfield player. Finals, indeed, seemed to bring out the best in him, for he played heroically well in Mexico City.

  If the Italians were haunted by nightmares of North Korea, at least the North Koreans were not there to trouble them in person. After their mysterious and remarkable presence in England, they had characteristically withdrawn from the 1970 World Cup, refusing to play qualifying games against Israel. The Israelis, in consequence, were able to win in an immensely far-flung group, including South Korea and the ultimate runners-up, Australia. Their team had already played, and played well, in Mexico in the 1968 Olympics, and had an excellent inside-left in Mordecai Spiegler, an Israeli of Russian birth.

  This time, there was both an African and an Asian entrant, for the Afro-Asians had had their way, the groups had been separated and a displeasingly anomalous situation thus created. De-zoning alone could at once content the Afro-Asians and see to it that Europe had a proper representation. As it was, Morocco and Israel qualified, while such teams as Scotland, Yugoslavia and Spain did not.

  Belgium

  Group i, in Mexico City, had the Mexicans themselves, the mathematical and solid Russians, El Salvador—whose elimination of Honduras had provoked a short and bloody war—and Belgium, greatly favoured. Discovering a fine midfield player in Odilon Polleunis, reaffirming the talents of Paul Van Himst, ‘motivated’ by a forceful coach in Raymond Goethals, they had surprisingly put out both Yugoslavia and Spain, though they had flagged towards the close. Alas, they would disappoint everybody with their wretched performances in Mexico.

  The Opening Games

  The tournament opened with a ploddingly dull midday game between Mexico and Russia at the immense, vertiginous Azteca Stadium. No goals were scored, little drama was distilled. Mexico did not choose their admirable striker, Enrique Borja, who had been enmeshed in the coils of their tangled football politics, transferred from Universidad to America and mysteriously kept on the sidelines. Russia, with their big captain, Albert Chesternijev, sweeping up in his diligent, crouching bird dog’s manner, obviously suffered from the great heat, and showed scant initiative. The most passionate moment was evoked by the appearance of the Union Jack in the parade before the game; it was fervently and ferociously whistled.

  If the Mexico-Russia game was notable for anything, it was for the fussy, officious refereeing of West Germany’s Herr Tschenscher. Strong in what to many of us seemed the equivocal experience of the Olympic tournament, the FIFA Referees’ Committee had once more put its trust in the flourishing of coloured cards, and in Draconian instructions to its officials. Herr Tschenscher, all too keenly conscious of the occasion, ‘booked’ a succession of largely inoffensive Russians, dealt much more leniently with the Mexicans, and was partly responsible for the tedium of the occasion, which was to a certain extent redeemed by a fine save in each half by the Russian goalkeeper, Kavazashvili. Mexico certainly felt the unlucky loss of their midfield player, Onofre, who had broken a leg in training only a few days previously.

  That Herr Tschenscher’s interpretation of the new refereeing dispensations was largely personal was shown the following Tuesday, when England opened their series against Romania in Guadalajara. Mocanu, the Romanian left-back, committed at least three brutal, crippling fouls, swinging knee-high kicks which lamed two English players, yet was so indulgently treated by M. Loraux, the Belgian referee, that he did not even have his name taken.

  England, winning with a goal smartly and powerfully taken by Geoff Hurst’s left foot in the second half, certainly deserved their victory. The star of the afternoon was unquestionably Terry Cooper, who exploited Romania’s defensive tactics to overlap, on both flanks, with high spirit and effectiveness.

  Meanwhile, the Brazilians had begun more impressively with their 4–1 victory over the Czechs, featuring the prodigies of Pelé, Jairzinho, Gerson and Rivelino. As so often in the past, the Brazilian defence had not looked remotely equal to the attack, yet it had not mattered. Perhaps it would have done had the Czechs been less prodigal with their chances. ‘They played basketball football,’ said Ball scornfully. ‘As soon as the Brazilians got the ball, they all ran back, seven of them. The midfield was wide open.’

  Petras, the stalwart, blond Czech centre-forward, swept easily past Brito to give his side the lead, and might in that opening period have had at least one other goal. One of Rivelino’s swerving, fulminating, celebrated free kicks brought an immediate equaliser, and just after halftime Pelé got the second. He immaculately caught a long, high pass from Gerson’s superb left foot on his chest, before volleying in.

  The tall Kvasniak, a star of the 1962 World Cup Final, who had come on as a slow substitute, missed a palpable chance to equalise, after a corner, and the error was punished at once, Jairzinho breaking away to score from what might have been an offside position. There could be no doubts, however, about his and Brazil’s last goal. Running with marvellous control and power, shaking off three defenders and an attempted foul, he cut in to drive the ball home with his strong right foot.

  Didì, their black master spirit, and st
rategist of two World Cups, meanwhile took his gifted Peruvians into action. The omens and the beginning could scarcely have been more depressing. A minute’s silence was observed in Leon for the appalling Peruvian earthquake. No doubt the psychological reaction had something to do with the fact that the Peruvians quickly went two goals down to Bulgaria, who cleverly exploited a couple of free kicks. But then, bringing on substitutes, in Campos to tighten the defence and Hugo Sotil to enliven the attack, Peru hit back. The elusive dribbling of Cubillas, the powerful breaks from the back four of Hector Chumpitaz, the running of Sotil and Gallardo, turned the tide. Gallardo, once an unsuccessful Milan player, later with Cagliari, answered Bonev’s goal quickly with a cross shot. In the second half, Chumpitaz’s mighty right foot scored from a free kick for Peru, by way of revenge, and Cubillas ran on to the impressive Mifflin’s pass to get the winner.

  The following day, on the same ground, the untrumpeted Moroccans gave West Germany an appalling fright. Who would have expected these minnows to come out and attack furiously for the opening twenty minutes? Not the puzzled Germans, whose catenaccio, Schulz, sweeping up again, was overcome when Hottges headed weakly back to his blond goalkeeper, Sepp Maier, and the ball fell as a gift before Houmane, who scored.

  For the first but by no means the last time in this tournament, Grabowski came on as substitute, with telling effect. This was, indeed, the first World Cup in which substitutes had been allowed—two for each side, at any juncture of the game, the formality and fiction of being able to replace only an injured man having been abandoned. Ironically, as we shall see, the Germans would later be hoist with their own petard. Meanwhile, Helmut Schoen made his first good use of Grabowski, a fair haired right-winger of pace, initiative and subtle control, who replaced Helmut Haller and created the winning goal.