What is quite beyond doubt or argument is that England, forty minutes from the end, were leading 2–0, and that they finally lost, in extra time, 3–2.
The match, in prospect, had several fascinating attributes. In the first place, it included the teams which had contested the 1966 Final. In the second, West Germany had at long last broken their protracted run of defeats against England; a run which had begun in 1901 with the visit of the first German team to play in England. Admittedly, the crucial victory had more extrinsic than intrinsic significance, for West Germany’s 1–0 win against England in Hanover in May 1968 was a trivial one. The England team was below strength, the standard low, the occasion tedious. Nevertheless, after sixty-seven years, a win was a win.
The West Germans, however, looked strong favourites. After their dull beginning against Morocco they had swept aside Bulgarians and Peruvians in a flurry of goals, Wolfgang Overath, with his splendid, long, ‘quarter-back’s’ left-footed passes, combining with Seeler and the matchless Beckenbauer in midfield, to make the bullets for the formidable Muller to fire. The wingers, all three of them, had been fast and dangerous, ideas had been many. By contrast, England had scored only a couple of goals, and though admittedly below full strength had looked dreadful against the Czechs. Their 4-4-2 plan, described by the Manchester City manager and former England left-half, Joe Mercer, as ‘cruelty to centre-forwards’, had been neither effective nor entertaining. Later, the handsome, multilingual Romanian World Cup captain, Mircea Lucescu, an anglophile and an admirer of British football, would complain that England had come to Mexico with the too narrow ambition of keeping the World Cup rather than of playing good football.
Among England’s senior players there had been a rumble or two; some would have preferred a more active policy against the Brazilians. But Ramsey, putting Lee back into the team alongside Hurst, was unshakeably committed to 4-4-2, and it was only to be hoped that the full-backs’ overlap would compensate for the lack of wingers, that Martin Peters would at last rediscover his 1966 form in midfield and around the goal area, and that Bobby Charlton would do something special in his record-making 106th appearance.
Bonetti, Banks’ replacement, was no tyro. A vastly agile, slim, spectacular keeper, he had made his debut just before the 1966 World Cup, and in his sporadic games for England had always shown a fine response to the occasion. But he had never played in so important a match before, and he had not taken part in a competitive game for a month.
Yet for an hour England played quite splendidly, showing strength, pace and invention, together with a finishing power quite absent in their previous games. The two goals came, but they were not enough.
The first was scored after half an hour; a goal transcendently Mullery’s from start to finish, in conception and execution. First giving and taking passes with Lee, he hit a splendid crossfield ball out to Newton on the right. As the full-back made ground, Mullery raced diagonally towards the far post, getting there, meteoric and unexpected, exactly with Newton’s centre, which he drove past Maier.
Five minutes after the interval Geoff Hurst, tirelessly unselfish, set Newton off again. Once more the run finished with an excellent cross, and this time it was Martin Peters, in his best 1966 manner, who popped up, to score.
It was just after this that Schoen took off Libuda and put on Grabowski; and the game changed. In a nutshell, Grabowski was fresh and full of running, Cooper exhausted by the killing heat and unaccustomed altitude. From being one of England’s most effective players, he now degenerated into one of their most vulnerable; and was not substituted. It was the second German substitution, for Willi Schulz had come on instead of Hottges at half-time to take over the marking of Hurst, who had been rather too much for Fichtel.
Grabowski’s pace and enterprise gave the Germans new heart, and it is significant, given the subsequent theory that all went awry when Charlton departed, thus allowing Beckenbauer to come forward, that Beckenbauer scored his vital goal before Charlton was replaced. It came when he advanced, picked up a rebound, and sent a low, right-footed, unexceptional shot towards the left-hand corner. Bonetti went down too late, the ball ran under his dive, and the score was 2–1.
Now Bell came on for Charlton, who had been showing certain signs of wear; though hardly as obviously as Cooper. On, too, subsequently and quite inexplicably, came the hard-tackling, quintessentially destructive Norman Hunter of Leeds in place of Peters. Thus, almost at a stroke, the English midfield had been radically altered. Moreover, the obvious inference that Hunter had been brought on to stiffen the defence was proved wrong when he began to run wild and free; even, at one moment, taking a corner.
England were far from recumbent. Ball unleashed Bell, to whose low, near-post centre Hurst—who had had far too few of them—stooped in his most effective manner. The ball flew across the goal, beating Maier, but passed just outside the far post.
So Germany, with an extraordinary headed goal by Uwe Seeler, were able to equalise. A weary Labone cleared out of the goalmouth straight to Schnellinger, who lobbed back again. The English defence had not moved up quickly enough to put Seeler offside, and the stocky little forward, leaping mightily with his back to goal, managed to send the ball in a remarkable, tantalising parabola over the head of Bonetti, who was off his line and in limbo.
Thus there was extra time, and the initiative was now palpably Germany’s. England’s last chance went when Lee wriggled past Schnellinger on the right-hand goal-line, delivered one of the few perfect, pulled-back crosses which England produced in the series, and Hurst drove it in. The goal was disallowed for no evident reason; neither English player could have been offside, and Lee had certainly not fouled Schnellinger. So Muller, with a thundering volley, knocked the last nail into England’s coffin. Inevitably, the goal derived from Grabowski’s mastery of Cooper. Beating him again, he crossed, Loehr headed the ball back from the left, and once more Bonetti was out of the picture.
It was a splendid recovery by West Germany, a harsh blow to England, whose exhausted players sprawled in the sunshine on the lawn of their hotel like the casualties of a war. The burden placed on their overlapping full-backs in such cruel conditions had finally worn them out; and yet it had been such a close thing.
The Semi-Finals Brazil v. Uruguay
The semi-finals pitted those old foes, Uruguay and Brazil, against each other at Guadalajara, and Italy against West Germany in Mexico City. The Uruguayans were highly displeased to be playing on what was by now Brazil’s home from home ground. They maintained, not without some logic, that the game should take place in Mexico City, arrived late in Guadalajara, and snubbed the Governor’s reception.
Nonetheless, with poor Felix’s complicity they took the lead. Little, dark Cubilla advanced with the ball along the right-hand goalline, to be confronted by Piazza. He shot from the ‘impossible’ angle and the ball, against all probability, bounced past Felix into the goal.
Uruguay held their lead till late in the first half, when Clodoaldo ran in on the blind side to score a fine equaliser. The sturdy, twenty-year-old right-half was now expressing the full range of his exceptional talent; a self-expression which would bear strange—and bitter—fruit in the Final.
Pelé, Clodoaldo’s idol and mentor at Santos, was again in glorious form and, as in the opening match, came close to scoring a spectacular goal. Having observed Mazurkiewiecz’s habit of kicking the ball out, short, to his defenders, he once whirled to intercept one of these clearances, volleyed superbly, and brought from the goalkeeper an equally superb save.
The first half was marred by a great deal of violent play by the Uruguayans; Zagalo, indeed, had feared the consequences of Uruguay scoring first, then tried to shut up shop. Though Jairzinho had too much speed and power for Mujica, Ancheta and the veteran Matosas covered well, the Uruguayan defence survived the free-kicks they ruthlessly and recklessly gave away, and it was only in injury time that Clodoaldo raced on to Tostao’s fine pass to make it 1–1.
Brazil, in the second half, took hold of the game, and Uruguay’s resistance became still more cynical and physical. Repeating their quarter-final ploy, they substituted Maneiro with Esparrago. This time, however, the quick sequel was a goal to Brazil. Tostao, that inspired artificer, was again behind it, serving Jairzinho under full, imposing sail. Mujica had neither the pace nor the force to hold the winger, who raced in to drive the ball past Mazurkiewiecz. Uruguay, to their credit, retaliated, and Felix now came into his own when he saved from Cubilla. Then Pelé cunningly drew the defence before rolling the ball aside to let Rivelino do proper and spectacular execution. By way of a last, bravura flourish, Pelé, fiendishly inventive, confronted Mazurkiewiecz on a through ball, ran to one side, away from the ball, drawing the keeper after him, then shot fractionally wide of the unguarded goal.
Italy v. West Germany
In Mexico City, meanwhile, a thrilling, fluctuating but scarcely classic match was taking place between Italy and West Germany. This time, Germany’s fortune would rebound on them; and so would Schoen’s penchant for substitution.
Playing for the first time in the Azteca, and doubtless weary after their quarter-final, Germany were slow into their stride; it was Italy, through the persistent Boninsegna, who scored the only goal of the first half. Boring his way through in the eighth minute, he twice had lucky rebounds from the German defence, and finally drove the ball past Maier, left-footed, from the edge of the box.
At half-time, Italy duly took off Mazzola to bring on Rivera, but the switch was less relevant than the fact that they fell back cautiously and characteristically to defend their lead. This allowed the Germans, who had generally been making little progress, to occupy the midfield and surge forward. It is always unwise to allow space to such players as Beckenbauer and Overath, and the initiative passed to Germany; indeed, their supremacy steadily turned into a bombardment. Seeler, when the sweeper Cera allowed a ball to run past him, Grabowski, who for once played a full match, and Overath all missed very good chances. Libuda succeeded Loehr early in the second half, and twenty minutes later Schoen gambled doubly by using up his second substitute and making it Held, an attacker, for the full-back, Patzke.
It seemed, at first, another inspired alteration, for the blond Held, a star of the 1966 Final, produced just the running and finishing on the left that Germany needed. He had a tremendous drive kicked off the line, Seeler’s fine header provoked a splendid save from Albertosi, and the match was in its third, breathless minute of injury time when Germany at last equalised. Grabowski crossed from the left, and the blond sweeper, Karl-Heinz Schnellinger, materialised in the goalmouth, to bang the ball home.
Now came extra time. Italy now brought on Poletti for Rosato, but the most significant sight was that of Franz Beckenbauer with his arm strapped to his side. He had been brutally chopped down, not for the first time in the game, while in full, spectacular flight towards the Italian goal, accelerating with that sudden, irresistible power and grace which are so much his own. Technically, it was not a penalty, for the foul took place, by cunning intent, a few yards outside the box. Morally, it was a hundred times a penalty. As it was, Germany did nothing with the free kick, and crime emphatically paid, for the game was won and lost in that moment. Italian critics would later blame Schoen for his tactics and substitutions, but the turning point was unquestionably the foul on Beckenbauer.
Extra time began well enough for Germany. Only five minutes had gone when Poletti clumsily and anxiously ran the ball away from Albertosi and almost over his own goal-line, for Muller to do, inevitably and typically, the rest.
Now the goals came thick and fast; as though it were indeed basketball. Tarcisio Burgnich, switched to centre-half, took a leaf out of Schnellinger’s book by appearing in the goalmouth to score after Rivera’s free kick on the left. Then Riva sharply pivoted to beat Schnellinger and drive home a low, left-footed cross shot from outside the box. So the first period ended with Italy again in the lead against a Germany now without a sweeper, and with Beckenbauer crippled.
Germany, and especially Seeler, were nevertheless far from done for. Once more, and at the same end, Seeler had a header saved by Albertosi. This time, however, when the corner came over, he met it on the far, left-hand post, nodded it across goal, and Muller flung himself to head the equaliser; his tenth goal of a tournament in which he would finish the leading scorer.
Six minutes of the second extra period had gone when Boninsegna got away on the left, went to the line, pulled the ball accurately back and little Rivera thumped it past Maier for the winner.
The Final Brazil v. Italy
So Brazil would play Italy in the Final; a meeting of two countries each of which had won the World Cup twice, even if the azzurri’s last victory lay thirty-two years in the past. Meanwhile there was the empty ceremony of the third-place match, in which West Germany were lucky to beat Uruguay 1–0. Wolfgang Overath, with his phenomenal left foot, was the star of an otherwise indifferent afternoon, and it was appropriate that he, and it, should score the only goal.
Brazil were so strongly favoured to win the Final that it was almost a burden for them. True—despite the indications of that strange semifinal—Italy had a strong, catenaccio defence. True, Burgnich and Facchetti, the Inter full-backs, were veterans of innumerable hard international matches for both club and country, even if the giant Facchetti was hardly the overlapping force he had been, and might find himself in trouble against Jairzinho. (Indeed he did; but not, as we shall see, quite as was expected.)
What was perfectly plain was that the Italians could hope to win only by playing as the Dr Jekyll of the quarter- and semi-finals, rather than as the destructive Mr Hyde of the eliminators. There was talent enough in midfield and up front. Riva had recovered his goal-scoring flair, Boninsegna was in splendidly incisive form, and how many teams in the world could afford the luxury of choosing between two such marvellous inside-forwards as Mazzola and Rivera?
The Brazilian defence was there to be attacked; even if Peru, the only team which had so far done so, had too porous a defence of their own to succeed. Felix’s deficiencies were manifest. Carlos Alberto, the captain and right-back, was a great force when he was coming forward, but very much less impressive when he was against a winger who would take him on. Brito and Piazza could well be troubled by the thrust of Boninsegna and Riva, backed up by the sinuous dribbling of Mazzola or the winged passes of Rivera. As against that, Italy could scarcely expect to have again the advantage of such inept and permissive refereeing as one had seen from Señor Yamasaki, of Mexico and once of Peru, in the semi-final.
No one put the realities of the situation more succinctly than Francis Lee, who observed in Guadalajara: ‘Against the Brazilians, you’ve got to push up and play. If you let them come at you, you’re asking for trouble.’
Italy did let the Brazilians come at them, and trouble was inevitably what they got. For the game at large, however, the World Cup Final was a marvellous affirmation of what could still be done with attacking football, a splendid reassurance that cynicism, caution and negativity had not, after all, gained a stranglehold on football. The Brazilians won by playing beautifully, imaginatively and adventurously.
Pelé, who had sworn, after 1966, that he would never play in a future World Cup, and had changed his mind, would soon announce his retirement from all international football; but in this final he excelled himself. One might also call this match his apotheosis, such was his skill, audacity and sheer effectiveness. He scored a magnificent goal, he created two, evoking and fulfilling, in his second World Cup Final, all the immense promise of his first, twelve years before.
Italy’s tactics were not only drearily negative but also strangely ineffectual; even in defence. They quickly switched Burgnich to centreback, but never began to get to grips with Gerson, or with Carlos Alberto. Gerson, bewilderingly, was allowed infinite space and time in midfield, which he used with grateful and devastating mastery. Jairzinho, drawing Facchetti cunn
ingly into the middle—Italy’s man-to-man marking was inflexible—thus gave Carlos Alberto equal scope and leisure to advance down the empty right wing, for Italy were not playing with a left-winger.
After eighteen minutes Brazil took the lead. Rivelino crossed a long, high, unexceptional centre from the left; Pelé, being an exceptional player, got up above the Italian defence with a spectacular jump, and headed in as powerfully as he had done in Stockholm.
Though Mazzola was running and dribbling superbly, the very soul of Italy’s resistance, and Boninsegna was responding vigorously to his clever passes, Italy’s tactics made it seem most unlikely they could save the game. They needed a gift; and suddenly, seven minutes from half-time, they got it. Clodoaldo, intoxicated, perhaps, by his newfound freedom of expression, stupidly back-heeled the ball deep in his own half, at once putting Boninsegna clear through and the rest of his defence on the wrong foot. As Boninsegna swept in from the right of the goal, Felix dashed out, in futile desperation, was passed in his turn, and Boninsegna put the ball into the unguarded net.
That was the moment at which Italy might well, had they only had the character and courage, have turned the game. Pelé, visiting Rome a couple of years later, expressed his astonishment and relief that they had not pressed home their psychological advantage against a Brazilian team momentarily demoralised. But they did not. In the second half Brazil, despite Mazzola’s continued excellence, steadily regained the advantage, until, after sixty-six minutes, Gerson, the artificer turned bombardier, pivoted to hit a tremendous low, left-footed cross shot from outside the penalty box, to make it 2–1.
The Story of the World Cup Page 21
