As the minutes fled by, Ireland went into all-out attack, seeking the equaliser, exposing themselves to Holland’s breaks. But boldness paid off after 71 minutes, when Pat Bonner cleared far upfield, Van Aerle’s back-pass slipped out of Van Breukelen’s grasp, and there was the giant centre-forward, Niall Quinn, to snap up the chance. The Irish fairy-tale continued; now they must meet Romania in Genoa.
In Group E, played up in the north-east at Verona and Udine, Jan Ceulemans, brought on only at half-time to revitalise the Belgian attack against South Korea, stayed in, as powerful a presence as ever. The still older Eric Gerets had survived at right-back.
Belgium beat the dull Koreans 2–0, won 3–1 against a Uruguayan side which had cleaned up its act but, to vary the metaphor, seemed to have thrown out the baby with the bathwater. Gerets was sent off in that game just before half-time, for a second yellow card, but now the boot was on the other foot. By contrast with 1986, it was the Uruguayans who couldn’t prevail against 10 men. The splendid Ceulemans scored a fine breakaway goal just after half-time, putting his team three up. Bengoechea alone replied.
Spain, talented but enigmatic, had a kind of revenge over Belgium for their unlucky defeat in 1986, beating them 2–1 in Verona in their last group game, which put them top. Previously, they’d drawn 0–0 with Uruguay and beaten South Korea 3–1, all their three goals going to the refulgent Michel: a right-footed volley, a searing free kick, a dashing solo. He scored the opening goal against Belgium, from a penalty.
West Germany, in Group D, got another five against the United Arab Emirates, but were surprisingly held to a draw by Colombia. No goals till the last two minutes, when Pierre Littbarski gave the Germans the lead, only for Rincon to shoot through Illgnerlegs to equalise. Yugoslavia, beating Colombia 1–0, the UAE 4–1, with two for Darko Pancev, joined these two teams in the next round.
Italy had gone wild about Schillaci, crazy about Baggio: Baggiomania, indeed. Schillaci, not exempt from that vittimismo, self-pity, which famously affected the Italian south, observed, ‘I don’t ask anything from life’, when the French referee, Quiniou, refused him a plain penalty when he was brought down in the box against Czechoslovakia. Among the rich, sleek young men of the Italian team, he was a maverick, with his cropped hair, his prematurely aged face. ‘I’ve had a lot of insults I don’t deserve,’ he complained. ‘Now I hope people will realise I’m a lad who shouldn’t be treated like that.’ For the moment at least, he was being treated royally, though his fears would be realised in the years to come.
Schillaci scored yet again, against Uruguay in Rome. Vialli was fit, but he sat on the bench. A deeply defensive Uruguay held out in the first half. Seven minutes into the second, Vicini gave the big centre-forward, Aldo Serena, a thirtieth birthday present, unexpectedly sending him on in place of the young midfielder Nicola Berti. It worked. Italy began to pull Uruguay’s defence about, and after 65 minutes, Serena tapped a pass to Schillaci, who shot over the head of Alvez, Uruguay’s keeper, and into the net. Joy and surprise showed in Schillaci’s ever-expressive face as he rushed, arm aloft, to receive his teammates’ congratulations. Eight minutes from the end, Serena headed a second in his familiar style.
In Genoa, Ireland drew yet again, and got through. The suspension of Marius Lacatus was badly felt by a Romanian side which found Paul McGrath a great stumbling block in midfield and Mick McCarthy a bulwark in the middle. Pat Bonner, in agile form, saved with one hand from George Hagi 20 minutes from the end of normal time. With no goals in extra time either, Bonner saved Romania’s fifth penalty from Timofte, and it was all down to Arsenal’s veteran centre-half, David O’Leary, not always Jackie Charlton’s favourite player, and now brought on only in the ninety-third minute.
Penalties were hardly O’Leary’s speciality, but he trotted straight at the ball, perplexed Lung in goal, and drove his shot home. Victory.
There was victory for England too, though they actually won their game against Belgium in Bologna. The goal, superbly taken, was scored by David Platt, who’d come on as substitute after 71 minutes, and struck after 119.
If Gascoigne was the hare, then Platt was the tortoise. Both would find Italian clubs. Rejected by Manchester United as a youngster, Platt fought his way through from the shallows, at Crewe Alexandra, when he moved to Aston Villa. Not blessed with Gascoigne’s innumerable gifts, he had something which served him as well: an enviable temperament. He worked hard on his game and made himself into a player as valuable in midfield as in defence—fast, intelligent, industrious, an exceptional finisher with foot or head.
Now he would justify what had seemed Bobby Robson’s excessive belief in him.
Playing with Wright as a sweeper again was a doubtful tactic, since the Belgians played most of the game with only one striker. With Bryan Robson indisposed, Lineker and Walker carrying injuries, it was remarkable that England should last through the extra time. By the end, Walker, who’d played outstandingly well, was reduced to a hobble, potentially easy prey for Nico Claesen, who came on as substitute.
Breaking through a weak tackle by Wright, Ceulemans hit the post in the first half, Scifo with a swerving shot in the second. As against that, John Barnes, who, like Lineker, missed one easy chance, had a good goal disallowed for a phantom offside. A pity, since a splendid move—Parker, Lineker, McMahon, Waddle, Lineker—deserved a goal.
So it was Platt who eventually and dramatically scored it. Needless to say, the irrepressible Gascoigne was behind it, battling to the end, though his legs were weary. Gaining a free kick on the left, he curled the ball to the far post, where Platt, in mid-air, volleyed a superb goal.
In Turin, Argentina managed somehow to beat Brazil, that ‘somehow’ best translated as the name Maradona. Futile, here, to put the blame on Lazaroni and his sweeper. In the first 20 minutes, Brazil had abundant chances to win the game. Goycoechea saved from Careca, a bitter critic of Lazaroni, in the very first minute. Dunga headed against a post; Goycoechea pushed Careca’s angled drive against another in the second half, then made a glorious save from Alemao.
But teams who press and don’t score risk condign punishment, especially when they have a Maradona against them. Even a Maradona reduced by his ill-used, swollen left ankle and other injuries to a trot. Used up front, he still found the will and the energy, eight minutes from the end, to thread his way irresistibly through the centre of Brazil’s sweeper defence, ending with a glorious right-footed pass which Caniggia took across Taffarel, Brazil’s blond keeper, with his right foot, turning to score with his left.
Maradona gave Caniggia great credit for the goal, saying it had been hard to score. Brazil, he said, had had 80 per cent of the play. Argentina needed to get things together.
Accusations flew. Branco, Brazil’s left-back, accused the Argentine bench of handing him a bottle of drugged Gatorade! The trouble was, insisted Lazaroni, that Brazil no longer had great attackers. Some felt his tactics had deprived his strikers of the support they’d expected from their midfield. Branco would be proved right.
In Naples, where Argentina would now meet Italy, Cameroon despatched Colombia, with two more goals for Milla in extra time, one the product of a grotesque error by the eccentric Higuita.
Colombia could have won, in the first half, a game which only awoke in extra time. A slovenly back pass let Fajardo through, but he shot right at N’Kono. Tataw hacked Estrada down in the box, but got away with it. Rincon crashed a shot against the bar.
Milla, who came on after 54 minutes, and himself was one shoved down in the area, scored a dazzling first goal after 106 minutes. Taking a nicely angled pass from Oman Biyik, he sprinted past Perea, hurdled Escobar, and struck the ball wide of Higuita with his left foot.
Two minutes later, fiasco. Some 40 yards out of his goal, Higuita was mad enough to try to pass Milla. Instead, he lost the ball, and away went Milla, to find an empty net. The clever Valderrama, of the dyed blond dreadlocks, made a goal for Redin, but it was inconsequential.
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sp; Since Omam Biyik had so skilfully sent Milla away for the opening goal, it was sad when, on his return to France, green eyes rather than Cameroon’s green shirts seemed to be in evidence. Omam Biyik declared that Milla’s substitutions had harmed the side, impairing its teamwork. If Milla had scored goals, it was because he’d always come on when the opposing team were tiring. Sour grapes indeed.
In perhaps the best World Cup game of all, one which would have made a far better Final than what was inflicted on us, West Germany beat Holland in Milan. Even the expulsion of Rudi Völler and Frank Rijkaard after only 21 minutes, when Rijkaard spat at Völler for allegedly insulting him, could not spoil things. It was surely the finest game the blond German striker, Jürgen Klinsmann, ever played for his country.
He gave them the lead after 50 minutes of a game played in a San Siro stadium which was home for Germany’s three Inter players and Milan’s three Dutchmen alike. Buchwald moved out of West Germany’s sweeper defence to cross from the left, Klinsmann met the ball with his head, and guided it across Van Breukelen into the opposite corner. A little hard on the keeper, who’d only just made a notable save from Matthaus’s header, itself set up by Klinsmann. Better still had been Van Breukelen’s save from the adventurous Buchwald.
Klinsmann was rampant. Fourteen minutes from time, he dashed after a long cross-field ball from his club colleague, Brehme, and struck the ball against a post. Two minutes later, he was substituted, and applauded off the field. Brehme, six minutes from the end, neatly lobbed Van Breukelen to make the match safe; a disputed penalty two minutes from time by Ronald Koeman made no difference.
Costa Rica’s brave saga came to an end in Bari, under a hail of Czech goals. Alas, Gabelo Conejo, who’d kept goal so bravely and well, who’d knelt to pray to the Madonna of the Angels before each game, couldn’t recover from a kick on the ankle. Injections and laser treatment were in vain. He had to give way to Barrantes; and Barrantes was no Conejo. Especially when it came to crosses. The Czechs won 4–1, but Costa Rica had excelled themselves.
In Verona, Dragan Stojkovic had a remarkable game, scored two goals, and enabled Yugoslavia to beat Spain 2–1. The Spanish team, never much enamoured of its manager, Luis Suarez, nevertheless could well have won. Martin Vazquez, in midfield, was the outstanding player of the first half, and hit the post early in the second. Emilio Butragueño headed against a post, but it was Stojkovic who scored first, after 77 minutes. It was a coolly taken goal. Katanec turned back Vujovic’s cross, Stojkovic killed the ball, dodged past a man, and beat Zubizarreta. Six minutes later, big Julio Salinas edged Martin Vazquez’s cross-shot into the Yugoslav goal, which meant extra time.
Of this, just a couple of minutes had been played when Stojkovic curled his free kick round the Spanish wall, and inside the right-hand post. A goal good enough to win any game.
Neither Yugoslavia nor Argentina could score in their quarter-final in Florence. This, though Yugoslavia were down to 10 men soon after the half-hour, when Sabanadzovic committed his second bookable offence. This time, Maradona was a nullity. In suffocating heat, Stojkovic found his best ally in his heir apparent at Red Star Belgrade, the young blond Robert Prosinecki, splendidly creative in midfield.
But when the game went to extra time and penalties, it was finally too much for Yugoslavia’s 10. True, even Maradona missed one of the penalties. So did Troglio, but Stojkovic hit the bar, and the resilient Goycoechea saved the kicks by Brnovic and Hadzibegic. Argentina scraped through.
In Rome, Italy won only 1–0 against the gallant Irish. Vicini’s tactics were strange. He moved Bergomi out of the middle to mark Kevin Sheedy, and used Paolo Maldini, his attacking left-back, as a central defender! But the return to the right wing of Roberto Donadoni, now fit again, was important.
Ireland had their best moment after 26 minutes. The protean McGrath moved forward from his role in front of the back four, reached Quinn with a long, measured cross from the right, and Zenga flew through the air to catch Quinn’s header.
Schillaci yet again was Italy’s scorer—of a fine goal too. Giannini found Baggio, who gave it to Schillaci. Back to Giannini, left to Donadoni, whose strong shot Bonner could only block. Schillaci pounced to tap the ball just inside the right-hand post. In the second half, he’d hit the underside of the bar. When big Serena replaced little Baggio, Franco Baresi, Italy’s elegant sweeper, put him through, but Bonner saved superbly with his legs.
Azeglio Vicini, nerves a-jangle, jumped off the bench to rebuke a linesman who’d annulled a goal by Schillaci for offside, protested to the fourth official, the Brazilian Wright, and then snapped, in the Press Conference, that ‘certain decisions were inadmissible’.
In Naples, England started David Platt for the first time; unlucky Bryan Robson was now back in England. Once more there’d be a sweeper, in Wright, but this time things came badly unstuck. Cameroon, with four men suspended, had to rearrange their defence, but the alarming Massing was there, among others. Gary Lineker would state afterwards, rather than complain, that he’d been punched and kicked, several times.
England were favoured, but Cameroon nearly scored first, though Milla would not appear till after half-time. Makanaky crossed, Omam Biyik was there, but Shilton punched out his shot.
Four minutes later, Platt’s opportunism gave England a somewhat illusory lead, rising to head in a left-wing cross by the powerful, adventurous full-back, Stuart Pearce. This at a time when England’s defence was clearly uneasy.
Whatever Omam Biyik, who’d be thwarted time and again by an inspired Peter Shilton, felt, it was the arrival of a now shaven-pated Milla which galvanised Cameroon. On the hour, Platt was brought down by N’Kono. Mexico’s Codesal, an inadequate referee, inexplicably praised afterwards by Bobby Robson, gave no penalty; but he would give two later to England, one almost immediately to Cameroon.
It was Gascoigne, showing fitful inspiration, who gave the kick away, Milla whom he brought down. Kunde, the big, resolute centre-back, beat Shilton from the spot though only just. With England’s three centre-backs merely confusing one another, and Wright especially uncertain, Cameroon were ahead three minutes later. Ekeke, the substitute, had been on only a couple of minutes when Milla put him through, and he scored.
Bobby Robson took Butcher off, discarded his sweeper system, and at long last gave a chance to Trevor Steven, mysteriously out of favour till now, but due to respond with a fine performance up and down the right flank.
Eight minutes were left, and Parker was now competently looking after Milla when England equalised. Brought down in the box by Ebwelle, Gary Lineker himself calmly put away the penalty. Clashing with Milla, Mark Wright poured blood from a cut over his right eye, moved out of defence, and England faced extra time with ten sound men. Less compact than resilient, they still prevailed.
After 105 minutes, one of Gascoigne’s jewelled passes put Lineker through. Again he was brought down, this time by N’Kono, and again he converted the penalty.
Next day, on a sunny hotel terrace above the waters of Salerno, Bobby Robson said, ‘A flat back four saved us.’ So it had; but it would be a sweeper defence again in the semi-final against West Germany. ‘We’ve got here,’ said Bobby Robson. ‘I don’t know how.’
The Germans themselves won on a penalty, the only goal of the match, in Milan again, against Czechoslovakia. All those tough games in blazing afternoon sunshine, not to mention the bloated, otiose first-round programmes, were taking their toll. Klinsmann was once more involved in a German goal. Straka brought him down as he dashed into the box, and Matthaus put away the penalty. Twice in the first half Hasek cleared from the Czech goal line.
Twenty minutes from time, Czech chances disappeared when Moravcik received his second yellow card: for kicking his boot off and into the air, when displeased with a decision! Kohl, an unimpressive referee, expelled him. The game died.
Before Argentina played Italy in the semi-final in Naples, Diego Maradona made an ill-judged appeal to his Napoli fans, t
rying to play on southern vittimismo. Support us, not Italy, he said. Look how badly you’re treated in the north! An appeal which would rebound on him, especially after Argentina had won.
It was a defeat from which Azeglio Vicini would never recover, even though it was only on penalties. From that moment, he was doomed. His preference for Vialli over Baggio was illogical. His substitution of Baggio for the creative Giannini made little sense. Yet were it not for a goalkeeping blunder by Walter Zenga, he could still have got away with it.
Playing in Naples seemed, for Maradona, the equivalent of Doctor Theatre; curing him at least temporarily of his many physical afflictions. Burruchaga, his faithful lieutenant, worked steadfastly beside him. After eight minutes, Zenga had to dive to his shot.
Yet even without Baggio beside him, Schillaci would score the first goal. After 17 minutes, he started a move carried on by De Napoli, Vialli and Giannini, who chipped into the box, followed up, and got his head to the ball. Vialli shot, Goycoechea blocked, Schillaci followed up to score.
But as time went by, fear ate the Italian soul. The arrival of Troglio after half-time gave Argentina more drive, but even they could hardly have expected the kind of equaliser they scored.
Fifty minutes after Italy’s goal, Maradona cleverly sent Olarticoechea down the left. Over came a cross which seemed plainly a goalkeeper’s ball, but Zenga never reached it. Instead, fallibly, he allowed the blond head of Caniggia to get there first. In went the ball, and Argentina were level.
So it went to extra time; and to the abominated penalties. When Donadoni took Italy’s third kick, Goycoechea dived gallantly to his left and got both hands to the ball. Maradona this time put his penalty away, and when Serena took Italy’s fourth kick, Goycoechea repeated his feat; a dive to the left, two hands to the ball, and Italy were beaten.
The Story of the World Cup Page 39
