The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  Uruguay, who had looked impressive on a damp night in Wrexham, were wildly undisciplined when they played Mexico in Los Angeles. They had players of high skill, such as Enzo Francescoli, the attacker voted South American player of the year, the right-winger, Alzamendi, and the striker, Da Silva. Would they play or would they kick? Their manager, Omar Borras, was a kind, pleasant, intelligent man who’d been landed with the job after previously teaching physical education at the University of Montevideo and looking after the team’s training. In the event, he’d find his inflammable players too hot to handle.

  Mexico, the hosts, had lost badly to England in Los Angeles just before the tournament. But they weren’t at full strength and could call on one of the most prolific strikers in European football: Hugo Sanchez of Real Madrid. A qualified dentist, little Sanchez was a marvel of swift opportunism, superb reflexes, uncanny anticipation. The somersault with which he greeted each goal had become famous in Spain, and beyond.

  Under the managership of Alex Ferguson, once an aggressive centre-forward with Glasgow Rangers, subsequently to be manager of Aberdeen and Manchester United, Scotland did not look a very happy ship. Surprisingly, Ferguson had left out the elegant Liverpool centre-back, Alan Hansen. This reportedly enraged his club colleague, Kenny Dalglish, then at the height of his playing powers, and expected to play a major part in what would be his fourth World Cup, even if his previous three had been strangely disappointing. But Dalglish withdrew, with an injury, which meant the Scots, always so resilient when it came to qualification, so disappointing when it came to the Finals, lacked two of their most accomplished players.

  England, in qualifying, owed a substantial debt to Northern Ireland, who’d shown amazing resilience in beating the gifted Romanians both at home and away. Their astonishing 1–0 victory in Bucharest was largely brought about by a marvellous goalkeeping display by the 40-year-old Pat Jennings, but in both games, the whole was immensely greater than the parts. Sammy McIlroy was an inventive midfielder, Norman Whiteside was confirming the promise he had shown as a tough 17-year-old in the Spanish World Cup. Once more, Billy Bingham, right-winger in the legendary 1958 team, was proving himself a true guerrilla general.

  Not exactly what you could say of Bobby Robson, England’s manager, strangely given to morose or indecisive moments. His team had thrashed Turkey home and away, but only managed to draw with Romania in both matches. The Romanians and their able young manager, Mircea Lucescu, World Cup skipper in Mexico in 1970, protested bitterly when England could only draw at home in their decisive match against Northern Ireland, who thus qualified at the expense of the Romanians. There were accusations of a fix.

  These, I am sure, had no objective basis, though talking with certain of the England players it was plain they’d prefer the Ulstermen to get through, rather than the ‘Communist’ Romanians. Such feelings, at what might be called a pre-conscious level, could have their effect on how a team played, without any actual desire to take its foot off the accelerator. At all events, the Irish got their draw and went to Mexico. Since they’d twice beaten the Romanians fair and square, one could scarcely grudge them their success.

  England had played in Mexico City the previous summer, very soon after the shocking disaster of Heysel Stadium, when Liverpool’s fans ran riot before a European Cup Final, and 39 Juventus fans were killed. By an irony, Italy were one of England’s opponents, but the Italian players behaved with impressive generosity and understanding.

  Now the England team had various problems to solve. There was the question of Bryan Robson, and there was the question of Glenn Hoddle—the first very dear to Bobby Robson’s heart, the second tolerated rather than welcomed. That Bobby Robson, in an outburst of over-compensation when England were in pre-tournament training camp in Colorado, should extol Hoddle convinced very few. A year earlier, Robson had grudgingly picked Hoddle to play—absurdly and wastefully—wide on the right flank.

  In the 1985 Mexican tournament, a tacit conspiracy among the other England players had enabled Hoddle to move into the middle, where he could exploit his fine technique and his superb passing ability. Now Robson was proclaiming that while he’d never thought anyone could equal Johnny Haynes, the inside-left with whom he’d played for Fulham and England, now he had to confess that Hoddle had done so. It was interesting to see that the Road to Damascus passed through Colorado Springs.

  Bryan Robson had dislocated his shoulder, and plainly needed an operation before he would be fit to play again. Bobby Robson, talking manifest nonsense about a shoulder which could easily come out going easily back in again, insisted against all logic on continuing to use him.

  In Los Angeles, Bryan Robson collapsed and was taken off the field. The shoulder had gone again—for the third time. Bobby Robson denied it. It was an inept cover-up and Robson, most embarrassingly, had to admit in his turgid and ingenuous World Cup diary that he had lied to the Press. When the shoulder went for the fourth time, in the match against Morocco, Bryan Robson was at last, and belatedly, out of the World Cup. Irreplaceable as he doubtless was, to keep him so long in the team in such circumstances was inexplicable in any rational terms.

  Hoddle’s case was a classical one, in the history of English football: the brilliant, unorthodox footballer—Charlie Buchan, Len Shackleton, Stanley Matthews—who worries the mediocrities. Such distinguished talents as Michel Platini and Sandro Mazzola eulogised Hoddle, dismissing any criticism of him on the grounds that he didn’t tackle, ‘close down’, defend. But he would have his hour.

  The French themselves still had Platini, Tigana and Giresse. Even if their manager, Michel Hidalgo, had lamented earlier in the year that most of his players couldn’t successfully operate two against one, though he excepted Giresse and Platini. The French had recalled the swift little centre-forward Jean-Pierre Papin from Belgium, where he’d been scoring goals for Bruges. In this World Cup, he would perhaps miss more than he got, but his future would be a coruscating one.

  Was there not some way of abolishing opening matches, one wondered, as yet another ground its mediocre way to the final whistle? This time, the Italians played Bulgaria and had enough chances to win with ease. But after the Mexican crowd had loudly whistled Cañedo and their President, the Italians threw away what should have been a comfortable win. ‘Spillone’ Big Pin Altobelli scored just before half-time, but with six minutes left, the clever Bulgarian attacker Sirakov headed a centre by the right-back Zradvkov past the uneasy Galli.

  Strange things then began to happen. In Leon, in Group C, France could squeeze through only 1–0 against a very modest Canadian team managed by the former Blackpool and England goalkeeper Tony Waiters. Papin scored the only goal after Paul Dolan, the Canadian goalkeeper, missed a cross; there were just 12 minutes left. Platini was strangely subdued.

  Mexico began by beating, at the Azteca, a Belgian team which had very unhappy memories of their last World Cup encounter there in 1970, when they justly felt cheated. This time, with the tall, strong Mexican skipper Tomas Boy ruling the midfield, Mexico won fair and square, 2–1. Belgium, who gave away both goals on defensive errors, played so feebly that their later successes came as a vast surprise. Sanchez, from a couple of yards out, headed Mexico’s second goal.

  The real shock was the Soviet Union’s 6–0 thrashing of Hungary at Irapuato in Group C. The Soviets had looked a dull team in the spring, when they lost a friendly at home to England in Tblissi. But they sacked Malafaev, replacing him as manager with the inspiration of Dynamo Kiev, Valeri Lobanovski, who filled the team up with his Kiev players; and a fancied Hungarian side was crushed.

  Over the years, Hungary have manifested a strange inferiority complex vis-à-vis the Soviets. Now, Yakovenko was feebly allowed through to score after just a couple of minutes. The versatile midfielder Aleinikov scored a second with a shot from outside the box barely two minutes later; and the Hungarians collapsed. As the unfortunate Lobanovski would himself, later in the tournament, with intestinal troubles.
<
br />   In Guadalajara, in Group D, Brazil were lucky to squeeze through against Spain, their attack led by the precocious young Emilio Butragueño, nicknamed El Buitre, the Vulture. His father, an impassioned Real Madrid fan, had put his son’s name down as a member of the club almost as soon as he was born. He could scarcely have dreamed the boy would turn into such a skilled, talented, intelligent player, technically exceptional, able to glide past defenders and make goals out of nothing.

  This time, he didn’t score, and Brazil’s goal, scored by Socrates eight minutes from the end, was blemished by what seemed his offside position, after the clever centre-forward, Careca, had shot against the bar. Brazil, it’s true, could have had a couple of penalties, but against that a shot by Michel which hit the underside of the Brazilian bar seemed plainly to have crossed the line. Brazil brought in two effective new midfielders, Elzo and the blond Alemao, while Junior, moved up from full-back, was a driving force. The Spaniards lacked two key midfielders, Gordillo and Caldere, who were ill.

  England made an inept beginning. Much had been hoped for from Mark Hateley and Ray Wilkins, the two players signed by Milan, but their form had badly deteriorated since the autumn. Wilkins now sat in front of his defence, playing square balls and seldom getting forward. Hateley, who, it’s true, had undergone a knee operation, was, against Portugal, a blunt instrument.

  The Portuguese, in hot and humid Monterrey, had been in a state of virtual rebellion, accusing their officials of failing to treat them ‘like people with a head and heart’, of grabbing all the sponsorship money, of being too mean to arrange proper international fixtures as preparation. By contrast, the Poles, also in England’s group, had seemed relaxed and happy.

  The long grass of the Monterrey stadium scarcely helped good football, but this was scant excuse for England’s poverty; least of all for the deciding goal they gave away. It was a true chapter of blunders. First, on the left, almost on the goal line, Kenny Sansom, England’s leftback, somehow allowed Diamantino to squeeze past him. Terry Butcher, the centre-back, perhaps because he couldn’t visualise such a thing happening, failed to cover. The cross came in, and Gary Stevens, the right-back, failed to materialise on the far post. An easy goal for Carlos Manuel. Paolo Futre, coming on late for Portugal, twice ridiculed Fenwick, and should have had a penalty when the defender brought him down.

  So England’s long unbeaten run, owed largely to the magnificent goalkeeping of Peter Shilton, came to an end. They should have gone out in their next game, three days later, against Morocco, but Bobby Robson’s famous luck held; even if, in his ensuing Press conferences, he might have been well advised not to dress it up as just reward.

  That luck was proof against the departure of Bryan Robson, with his shoulder dislocation, and Ray Wilkins, who, quite uncharacteristically, threw the ball at the referee in frustration, five minutes from half-time, and was ordered off.

  The Moroccans, who had a dazzling midfielder in the left-footed Timoumi, and an elegant striker in Aziz Bouderbala, should have taken the game over and won it. But like many a team before them, they paid England exaggerated respect. They cravenly went into their shell, content with a draw; and England survived.

  Not, however, before a veritable rebellion in the dressing-room at halftime, when players demanded of the coach, Don Howe, that he should tell them what to do. In most emphatic terms.

  Back at their hotel in Santillo, the players expressed their bitter dissatisfaction with their tactics. Bryan Robson, wearing a harness to play, wanted to go on. Wilkins, insisting he’d never meant the ball to hit the referee, thought Robson should continue. No one else seemed to—including, at last, Bobby Robson. The predominant view among the players was that Trevor Steven, the accomplished deep right-winger, Peter Reid, the tough little Everton midfielder, and Steve Hodge, who’d come on against Morocco as substitute, should form the midfield against Poland with Hoddle, in a match which would make or break.

  In the event, it made. With these three playing, England looked a rejuvenated team, dominating the midfield, with Gary Lineker emerging, at last, as so much more than an accomplished rabbit-killer.

  The son of market traders in Leicester, a fine all-round sportsman, adept at both cricket and snooker, Lineker had long shown anticipation and speed, but was curiously wasteful of so many chances, tending to lack composure and control. Of his temperament, there was no doubt at all. He gloriously gave the lie to the myth that a successful sportsman must be aggressive. He never got booked. He never retaliated. He was a shining example to any young footballer taught to ‘get his retaliation in first’ and to despise the rules.

  Scoring all three goals against Poland, Lineker suddenly became a hero. He would end as top scorer of the World Cup, ahead, even, of Maradona, and a £3 million transfer to Barcelona awaited him.

  Against Poland, the England team were simply transformed. The Poles had drawn with Morocco and beaten Portugal, with a breakaway goal by the powerful left-winger, Smolarek. Another dire game. Lineker, who had missed two good chances against Portugal, was off the mark in only eight minutes, revelling in the support he got from little Peter Beardsley, another player belatedly called into the team.

  Glenn Hoddle, in his own half of the field, began a move carried on by four other players, concluded when Trevor Steven set up his Everton colleague Gary Stevens, the right-back, whose cross Lineker duly despatched. England, in fact, could already have been a goal down, but when Fenwick culpably let the red-haired Zibi Boniek through, Shilton yet again came to the rescue.

  Lineker would score twice more. After another six minutes, Beardsley released Hodge, and again Lineker did the final execution. The third goal came when the big Polish goalkeeper, Mlynarczyk, fumbled Trevor Steven’s corner, and Lineker accepted the gift.

  Beardsley, mysteriously left out of the first two games after excellent performances before the World Cup, had been a revelation—mobile, incisive, intelligent, quick in thought and movement, modestly insisting, ‘If we win the World Cup, it won’t matter which eleven play. The eleven that don’t play will be as happy as the eleven who do.’ In the event, England wouldn’t win the World Cup, but there was no doubt that Lineker has never had a more unselfish, space-creating partner than Beardsley, happy to take opponents away from him.

  Scotland lost their first, Group E, match in Neza, to Denmark, appearing in their first World Cup finals. This, though they had been the first of all foreign teams to master the game, presenting English football with something of a challenge, reaching two Olympic Cup Finals before the Great War. After the Second World War they again had a notable team, packed with such skilful players as Carl Praest and John Hansen, but the depredations of foreign clubs and their own insistence on amateur status sabotaged the national side for years.

  Now, there was a galaxy of stars; not least Michael Laudrup, son of a well-known former player, Finn Laudrup, an attacker of tremendous, fluent gifts but slightly suspect temperament, a Juventus player like Hansen and Praest before him.

  Frank Arnesen and Soren Lerby, clever, versatile midfield players, had gone, very young, to Ajax Amsterdam, then moved about Europe. Morten Olsen was a sweeper of shrewd versatility, Preben Elkjaer a fast, strong, left-footed centre-forward, who would score the only goal of the game against the Scots. But he was lucky when the ball rebounded to him from Willie Miller’s legs as he went through on Arnesen’s pass; and even then his shot clipped the post.

  With such accomplished players as Graeme Souness, who’d been a star in Spain, and Gordon Strachan in their midfield, Scotland never gave up the ghost, but the loss of Dalglish had drawn the teeth from their attack.

  Strachan did score in the ensuing game against West Germany, in Queretaro, but again, a defeat by the margin of a single goal was Scotland’s fate. The Germans, who’d snatched a draw against Uruguay with Klaus Allofs’s goal six short minutes from the end, used Karl-Heinz Rummenigge as a late substitute for the second time. By then, however, all the goals had been scored. Str
achan spun to beat Schumacher with an inspired shot inside the near post after 17 minutes, and Scottish hopes rose. Only, alas, to be dashed.

  Perhaps all would have been well had the clever little Rangers winger, Davie Cooper, only been brought on earlier, for the Germans could do little with him. In the event, he had just over a quarter of an hour, by which time Völler and Allofs had surprised the Scots twice, the huge, blond Briegel constantly thundering down the left. For Scotland, Strachan never stopped running and prompting.

  That same day, the Danes obtained a victory over Uruguay almost as resounding as would be their subsequent defeat by Spain: 6–1. True, the violent Uruguayans had Bossio sent off after 19 minutes, when Denmark were only one goal up; but in their next game, they’d hold out against Scotland, though Batista was sent off in less than a minute.

  In Neza, Uruguay simply wilted, while Denmark took wing. Laudrup, who’d fashioned Elkjaer’s opening goal, dummied and dribbled his way perpetually through Uruguay’s defence, generously setting up Elkjaer and the rest. Elkjaer ended with a hat trick; Laudrup himself scored only once, but it was a marvellous goal, scored after he’d danced past two defenders.

  In the last game of their pool, Denmark confirmed their dazzling streak, beating West Germany 2–0 in Queretaro. Not that this was quite the real thing. Both teams fielded several reserves, the Germans leaving out four first-choice players. It was a Danish victory which presaged their remarkable success in the European Championship Final in Gothenburg in 1992. Little Jesper Olsen, from a penalty, and Eriksen scored the goals.

  Scotland’s goalless draw against Uruguay, in Neza, condemned them to go home; and left them in a state of fury. While Omar Borras protested that his players had been victimised by FIFA, Ferguson retorted, ‘Uruguay are a disgrace. They have no respect for other people’s dignity.’ Perhaps; but the fact remained that a dubiously reconstructed Scottish team looked clumsy and naive against Uruguay’s ten men. The omission of Souness from midfield did nothing to improve a team which looked technically maladroit and tactically inept by comparison with Uruguay, who’d now go on to face Argentina in Puebla—a knock-out game of potential chaos.