Bulgaria climbed from the canvas, beating Greece in Chicago: remarkably enough, this was the first time Bulgaria had ever won a match in the World Cup finals. The Greek manager, Panagulias, dropped six of his team, but this made little improvement. It was a wretched game, though two of Bulgaria’s future heroes were scorers: two penalties for Hristo Stoichkov and a goal for the big, blond, balding midfielder, Letchkov.
In Pasadena, the improbable happened: the USA beat Colombia 2–1 in a game which still awaits a full explanation. That the Colombians lay down and died now seems beyond all possible doubt. Why they did it is another matter. Out of fear? Out of gambling greed? What we do know is that they were unrecognisable, even if the Americans needed an own goal from Andres Escobar, after 35 minutes, to go ahead. Seven minutes after half-time Ernie Stewart made it 2–0, served by Tab Ramos. Valencia put in a rebound in the final minute. Escobar had little time left to live.
Maradona, astonishing in his stamina during the 95 minutes of the Argentina–Nigeria game, was, alas for him, obliged to take a dope test. On the last day of June it was officially announced that his urine contained no fewer than five different variants of the stimulant ephedrine. The Argentine Football Association withdrew him instantly from the tournament, before FIFA could suspend him. But the little man, inevitably swearing innocence, was allowed to stay on as a television commentator.
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has passed away.
Except that an embittered, 34-year-old Maradona had seemed so much more than the shade of the sublime player of previous World Cups. Now, alas, we knew why: ephedrine.
Meanwhile, the extent of Argentina’s demoralisation was shown in their last group game in Dallas, against Bulgaria, who beat them 2–0 with goals by Stoichkov and, in the last minute from a corner, Siriakov (despite Bulgaria having Tzvetanov sent off after 67 minutes). ‘I saw the match,’ said Maradona, ‘but I don’t think it was Argentina playing out there.’
That, and the loss of Caniggia, with a toe injured in a training game before the tournament began, effectively knocked the stuffing out of Argentina. In the next round, they’d be easily eliminated by a Romanian team inspired by Hagi, with Dumitrescu, moving up front to replace Raducoiou, in wondrous opportunist form.
In Group F, strange things happened. Belgium, surprisingly, beat Holland; and, amazingly, lost to Saudi Arabia, even though there may have been some faint consolation in losing to one of the best individual goals ever scored in a World Cup. In Washington, the little Saudi, Owairan, received the ball in his own half, and set off on a sustained and extraordinary run, beating one man, two, three four … FIVE! before shooting wide of Belgium’s keeper, Preud’homme. Paul Himst, Belgium’s manager and once their star, blamed the heat for what went wrong.
Against Holland, in Orlando, Philippe Albert, the Belgian centre-back, came in from the right when Grun flicked on a corner, to shoot between De Goey and his near post. Dick Advocaat said gloomily and somewhat unconvincingly that the trouble had been his team used only three defenders against two strikers, ‘and couldn’t control them’. Ronald Koeman said darkly, ‘Things went wrong which weren’t supposed to go wrong.’ As they so often do.
The Germans were making progress, but not without difficulty. Things hadn’t, after all, begun too well, with Thomas Berthold, the defender, openly criticising Berti Vogts’s tactics. Par for the course, really, for a German World Cup team. Vogts swallowed his pride and said such discussion might be good for the team. But not when the often dissident blond midfielder, Stefan Effenberg, put a finger up to a barracking crowd after Germany, fading badly in the intense heat of Dallas, had only just scraped through against South Korea. He was sent home.
Germany’s somewhat fortunate 1–1 draw with Spain in Chicago was notable for the return, as a substitute, of Rudi Völler. Right away, his partnership with Jürgen Klinsmann looked smooth and menacing. It would reach its apogee in the ensuing second round, when the two combined superbly, swiftly and lethally against a Belgian defence which—in Chicago again—gave three goals away to the pair. The Germans, though, were immensely fortunate not to concede a penalty, late in the game, when Weber was plainly brought down by Helmer in the box. Legalities aside—and the crass decision led to Roethlisberger, the Swiss referee, being packed off home—the Germans certainly didn’t deserve to lose or draw. Exceptional goalkeeping by Preud’homme had kept Belgium in the game, and the late goal Philippe Albert scored, though well taken, was something of a surprise.
As for Spain, they’d scored a strange goal against the Germans: Illgner, the German keeper, allowing Goicoechea’s cross from the right to float over his head and in off the far post. Klinsmann’s bouncing header equalised. Had Julio Salinas only kept his head, when through all alone against Italy in the quarter finals at Foxboro, who knows how far the Spaniards could have gone?
In Group E, Italy drew with Mexico, Ireland with Norway. Daniele Massaro, the lithe, incisive Milan striker brought on as substitute, scored Italy’s goal and popped up in defence two minutes later. The Italians could have had a penalty when Dino Baggio was shoved by Perales. Right down to the other end went Mexico to equalise through their lively right-winger, Bernal. At which point Italy fell apart, survived rather than competed, and scraped into the next round only as one of the third-placed teams.
Watching Ireland draw with Norway at Giants Stadium was a penance. The Norwegians made no serious attempt to win the game till far too late. The Irish, Jack Charlton admitted, were obliged to work as hard as they did because they lacked explosive players. So Ireland went through, and dull, disappointing Norway went out. Coach Egil Olsen’s loyalty to the long-ball game was an incubus in an America summer.
The Dutch, in Group F, made their way uneasily to the next round. Playing Morocco in torrid Orlando was no holiday. That risky, three centre-back defence still looked fallible, and was badly caught out when the Moroccans equalised Bergkamp’s enterprising goal. Almost at once it was known that, in Washington, the Saudis were beating Belgium. But with 11 minutes left, Bergkamp made the winner for the substitute, the gifted Brian Roy.
The Colombians, coming to life too late, beat Switzerland 2–0 in Palo Alto, with Carlos Valderrama, he of the blond dreadlocks, inspiring their attacks. This surely was the real Colombia, a team which had the potential to reach at least the semis.
Over the rest of the tournament would hang the deep shadow of Andres Escobar’s cruel assassination. It took place a few days after the Colombian team had arrived home in virtual disgrace. As Escobar and a woman friend were leaving a restaurant in Las Palmas, a suburb of Medellin, they were accosted by an aggressive group of men. There was an altercation, at the end of which Escobar was shot 12 times, the accomplices yelling, obscenely, ‘Goal!’ each time the murderer pulled the trigger. Arrests were made, but the mystery remained: not merely why Escobar had been shot but why Colombia had lost so abjectly to the United States; and whether the two incidents were connected. Before that game, Pato Maturana—who announced his resignation before going home, and into hiding—had withdrawn another player, Gabriel Gomez, who, like himself, had been sent death threats.
Two days before Cameroon were due to meet Brazil, their players arrived 90 minutes late for training in California. Joseph-Antoine Bell announced that if they weren’t paid, they wouldn’t play. It was rumoured that a suitcase packed with $450,000 in cash had arrived—illegally—from Yaounde. Whatever, the players did get paid, did play Brazil, and lost, 3–0. Dunga, strong, competitive but hardly creative, was the pillar of Brazil’s midfield. No wingers—attacking down the flanks was left to the swift full-backs, Jorginho and Leonardo. In central defence, the two Ricardos, both injured, had been replaced by Marcio Santos and Roma’s Aldair. A typical burst from Romario gave Brazil their first goal, a header by Santos the second, a narrow-angled shot by Bebeto the third.
Poor Cameroon. The Lions would go home with their tails between thei
r legs, annihilated 6–1 in Palo Alto by a Russian team which had nothing to play for. Five of the goals were scored by just one man: the centre-forward, Oleg Salenko, who would probably have been left out had Yuran not squabbled, again, with Sadyrin. Salenko, who’d scored 16 goals for Logrones in the Spanish season, wouldn’t even keep his place for Russia after the World Cup. ‘Please don’t call me Superman,’ he said. Roger Milla, who had been called a Superman in 1990, did at least go out, aged 42, with a goal.
At Foxboro, the Nigerians qualified to play Italy by beating hapless Greece, goals going to Finidi George and, six minutes into injury time, Daniel Amokachi. Clemens Westerhof, the coach, had sent him a message that Bulgaria were winning 2–0 so goals were vital. ‘He told me to just get the ball and go through the Greek defence.’ Which Amokachi did.
Going into the second round, the cat was put among the pigeons by the President of the Nigerian football federation, Samson Emeka Omeruah. He wasn’t scared of Italy, he told Italian journalists: ‘We’re the champions of Africa; what are you? Italy is world famous for the Mafia and Fiat, not for football.’ An Italian TV team who tried to film the Nigerians in training, near Boston, were slapped, shoved and threatened. ‘They jumped on us,’ said a shaken Italian TV man. ‘The police pretended not to see anything. We’re delirious, we’re hysterical. These people are crazy.’
How close the Italians came to defeat at Foxboro. How much they owed to Roberto Baggio. And how inept was the refereeing of the Mexican, Arturo Brizio. Italian critics savaged him, accusing him of denying Italy two clear penalties and of sending the unlucky Gianfranco Zola off for little or nothing. The gifted little Sardinian attacker, who’d grown up at Naples in the lee of Diego Maradona, should surely have had his World Cup chance much earlier. As it was, he came on as substitute after 18 minutes of the second half, to be expelled just 12 minutes later. The same critics admitted that the hapless Brizio Carter blundered again when he didn’t send off Paolo Maldini, who’d replaced the injured Franco Baresi in the centre of defence. Maldini, on 80 minutes, was clearly guilty of a ‘last man’ foul, which demanded an automatic red card, when he hauled back Yekini.
But, above all, it was the day when Roberto Baggio, that brilliant enigma, took wing—and Italy with him. Neither started too well. Indeed, Nigeria went into the lead after 26 minutes. Finidi George’s corner bounced off Maldini’s knee, Emmanuel Amunike banging the ball home. Not till Nicola Berti, ill at ease on the flank, was replaced by the muscular Dino Baggio, at half-time, did Italy really begin to click. He quickly hit the post from a pass by Signori. Just two minutes from the end of normal time, Mussi, unexpectedly brought in at right-back, gave Roberto Baggio the chance to slip the ball by keeper Rufai.
So it meant extra time in that exhausting heat. Yekini should have scored, but didn’t. After 102 minutes, Roberto Baggio sent the other full-back, Benarrivo into the box. Eguavoen fouled him and Roberto Baggio’s spot kick sneaked in, off the post.
At Palo Alto, before a crowd of 84,147, Brazil knocked out the USA by only 1–0. But some American critics ripped into Bora Milutinovic for what they regarded as his inexcusably craven tactics, failing to go out to try to win, even when Brazil were reduced to ten men with the sending off of their left-back, Leonardo, after 43 minutes. He’d crashed his elbow into the skull of Tab Ramos, the only really creative player the Americans had, and who, as a result of the incident, was obliged to go off with a nasty head injury. The Americans brought on Eric Wynalda, but he was a striker rather than a schemer, unable to produce the kind of pass whereby Ramos so nearly made an early goal for Thomas Dooley. As it was, the Brazilians always looked too sophisticated for the unadventurous Americans, and won the game in the way you might have expected, 16 minutes from time: Romario’s run and killing through pass, Bebeto’s calmly taken goal.
Holland knocked out Ireland, in Orlando, and here another manager had his critics for being too defensive. Jack Charlton was rebuked for cleaving to a one-man attack in sapping conditions. And when, only 17 minutes from the end, the tall striker Tony Cascarino did come on, the long-suffering, self-sacrificing Coyne came off. But in Charlton’s defence, it must be said that two horrible defensive errors gave them a mountain to climb in those 90 degrees of heat and increasing humidity.
After only ten minutes the Irish left-back, Terry Phelan, whom Charlton had preferred to Dennis Irwin, headed a feeble back-pass to his keeper, Packie Bonner. Marc Overmars, the Dutch right-winger, raced on to the ball, and crossed for Dennis Bergkamp to score. To compound that, the usually resilient Bonner allowed a long shot from Wim Jonk to squirm nightmarishly through his hands, and Holland were two ahead. They stayed there.
Atrocious refereeing by the Syrian, Al Sharif, ruined a potentially marvellous game at Giants Stadium between Bulgaria and Mexico. Time and again, his crass decisions made you curse FIFA for their ‘affirmative action’, choosing referees on the basis of provenance, rather than prowess.
Both teams showed high potential. Emil Kostadinov and Hristo Stoichkov were a lethal pair of strikers for Bulgaria. The Mexicans, though somewhat old fashioned in their use of sweeper, dazzled with their passing, impressed with their imagination and ball control. They went one down when Yordanov put Stoichkov through and could have been two down when Kostadinov hit the post. But Emil Kremenliev, a Bulgarian defender, conceded a penalty, and Mexico were back in the game. Kremenliev had already been cautioned and should automatically have been sent off. Instead he stayed on, only to be expelled for quite a trivial foul, Al Sharif perhaps endeavouring to make amends. Was he doing that again when he expelled Luis Garcia, Mexico’s incisive striker, for the second of two negligible fouls? It was ten men each now, and the game fell away. Even the penalty shoot out was a fiasco of misses, till Bulgaria put Mexico out of their misery.
Spain’s 3–0 win against the Swiss, in Washington, perhaps flattered them but there was no doubt about their morale, their penetration, even if big Julio Salinas—snubbed by his team, Barcelona, resurrected by Clemente—played up-front on his own. It was a game in which the Swiss badly missed the left-wing pace and guile of Alain Sutter.
The deciding moment surely came on the quarter hour. Nadal, back from suspension in the Spanish defence, blocked a run by Stephane Chapuisat, the Swiss centre-forward. Was it or wasn’t it a foul? Van der Ende, the referee, let play go on—for Fernando Hierro to score an extraordinary goal on the break.
So to the quarter-finals. Teams, inevitably, were tiring, and had not been helped by some insensitive scheduling. To make matters worse for the survivors, the semi-finals were scheduled for the same day. This gave a great advantage to the winners in Pasadena, who could stay put for the Final, while the New Jersey winners would have to fly 3,000 miles.
Spain should have beaten Italy, but three things thwarted them: a bad miss, a bad refereeing decision and Roberto Baggio’s brilliance. Dino Baggio, that workhorse midfielder who’d been so surprising a marksman, gave Italy another priceless goal, after 26 minutes. This time it was a shot, not a header, a fulminating drive from some 25 yards after Benarrivo, overlapping down the left, had crossed the ball. Perhaps Zubizarreta should have got to it, but the shot was still spectacular and rich consolation for the fact that Abelardo, Spain’s defender, saw only a yellow rather than a red card for a shocking early foul at the expense of Roberto Baggio’s shin.
Conte, another workhorse, could have given Italy a second goal, but put a good chance wide. So José Caminero, a revelation in Spain’s midfield, began to train his sights on the Italian goal. Thirteen minutes into the second half, he prevailed at last. Sergi got in a cross from the left. Otero was unmarked, but missed it, Caminero struck the ball, which hit the hapless Benarrivo and was deflected wide of Pagliuca. Spain got on top, but Salinas threw away their crucial chance. The Italian defence seemed curiously confused, waiting perhaps for an offside flag and whistle, allowing Salinas through alone, with just Pagliuca in his way. The keeper’s extended left leg kept Italy in the World
Cup.
Now Spain went forward in excessive numbers, forgetting Italy are the masters of the breakaway. Lazio striker Signori, a half-time substitute used by Sacchi wide on the left, sweetly lobbed Roberto Baggio through. Cool and adroit, Baggio went by Zubizarreta, and found the net from a difficult angle. 2–1, though there was still time for Tassotti, prone throughout to be drawn into the middle, to elbow Luis Enrique. ‘I meant no harm,’ Tassotti protested. ‘I’ll send him a telegram.’ It wouldn’t have pacified Luis Enrique. ‘Tassotti acted like a killer,’ he said. ‘He looked around, and when he saw the referee and the linesman were distracted, he struck. He has ruined my World Cup, and Spain’s.’ Watching the incident on television, FIFA hit Tassotti with an eight-match suspension. Even Luis Enrique thought it was too much: ‘A lifetime.’
Germany had seemed Italy’s likely opponents in the semi-final, as they had been in Mexico, in 1970. But in the heat of Giants Stadium, before 72,416 astonished fans, Bulgaria defeated them. ‘It was,’ said Dimitar Penev, the Bulgarian manager, without exaggeration, ‘the finest day in the history of Bulgarian football.’ And a black day indeed for Germany.
Looking back on that game, which I watched, two factors seem to me to be salient. First, that the use of Lothar Mattaus as sweeper was as mistaken as it seemed to be in prospect. Second, that a large question mark was placed over man to man marking.
It had been a roller-coaster game, but it wasn’t until very early in the second half that Germany went ahead. And it was Letchkov, the eventual hero, who tripped Klinsmann. Matthaus duly scored. The die seemed cast. Seventeen minutes from the end Moeller hit the post and Rudi Völler put in the rebound, but Bulgaria breathed again: he was offside. So it was that, just a couple of minutes later, Bulgaria levelled the scores. Hristo Stoichkov, who’d been largely subdued by the German defence, was brought down by Buchwald. He took the free kick himself: a magnificent shot which sailed over the wall and into the right-hand corner.
The Story of the World Cup Page 42
