The Story of the World Cup

by Brian Glanville

  The Argentines, under the contentious managership of their old World Cup captain Daniel Passarella, had eventually come through the debatably enlarged South American qualifying group after an uneasy start. Passarella had not been a popular manager, and some of his decisions, such as the exclusion of the country’s most effective goal scorer, the Fiorentina striker Gabriel Batistuta, seemed hard to explain in terms of anything but personal antipathy. Once Batistuta did return, Argentina flourished. Ariel Ortega, the bright attacker who’d done so well in the 1994 World Cup yet had failed to hold a regular place in Spain all season in Valencia’s attack, would support him skilfully, while another young star had emerged in the shape of the effervescent Marcelo Gallardo who, however, would be the object of Passarella’s stony displeasure after a bright but inconsistent showing against Croatia.

  The Croatians in the event surpassed themselves. When, just before the tournament, one of their two fine strikers, Alen Boksic, had to undergo a knee operation, thus breaking up his partnership with Davor Suker, Croatia’s hopes seemed doomed. But in their distinctive red and white chequered tablecloth jerseys they would go all the way to third place. Especially satisfying for Suker, whose goals made up for the frustrating season he had passed sitting, for the most part, on Real Madrid’s subs’ bench.

  The Africans, of whom so much was expected, would prove a disappointment; especially the Nigerians, who flattered so brightly to deceive under the managership of the ubiquitous Bora Milutinovic, sacked by Mexico after he’d got them most of the way to the Finals. Nigeria would surprise the Spaniards, outclass the Bulgarians, only and ultimately to take their foot off the accelerator with fatal results. Their victory in Paris over Bulgaria seemed almost a metaphor for sub-Saharan Africa; so much sheer talent, so little ultimately to show for it. Jay-Jay Okocha in midfield with his dyed hair, his refined technique, his passing and his penetration was a joy to watch. Yet only one goal—however beautifully worked—with the danger at the end that Emile Kostadinov (executioner of France in 1993’s qualifier in this very city) might unjustly have equalised. A tiny Nigerian journalist afterwards was fuming at the lost opportunities. He proved prescient.

  Scotland opened the ball in Paris against Brazil. Under the tutelage of the estimable and amiable Craig Brown, a former schoolmaster who’d been a promising Glasgow Rangers wing-half till the astonishing Jim Baxter arrived, had gallantly got them to the Finals: a triumph of persistence over lack of penetration. No one knew better than Brown that with the withdrawal of Duncan Ferguson, that lofty centre-forward, deadly in the air, but nicknamed Duncan Disorderly for his many peccadilloes, scoring power was at a premium. Even so, Coventry’s Kevin Gallacher would surpass himself in this game, giving Roberto Carlos, the attacking left-back with the fulminating free kick and the defensive vulnerability, an awkward afternoon. There was lively support from Gordon Durie, whose error, alas, would eventually let Cafu in from the right to provoke the winning goal. John Collins was the hub of the midfield, a more sophisticated player since his time with Monaco.

  This game was played in Group A, one of eight four-team qualifying pools from which the top two teams proceeded to the next eliminating round. Some were moved by the elaborate opening ceremony, but Scotland’s defender Colin Calderwood complained afterwards of being obliged to stand around so long before the game.

  The Scots had come a meritorious second in European-qualifying group 4, with home wins against Austria, the group winners, and Sweden, who came third two points behind them. They were perhaps unlucky to go behind only four minutes into the game when the midfielder Cesar Sampaio (a decade earlier an under-21 Toulon tournament player like Paul Gascoigne, David Ginola and his goalkeeping colleague, Claudio Taffarel, virtually exhumed for the tournament) scored with his shoulder at the near post from Bebeto’s left-wing corner.

  John Collins coolly equalised from a penalty when Sampaio, enjoying mixed fortunes, restrained Gallacher, but after 76 minutes Durie let in Cafu, and though the 39-year-old revenant goalkeeper Jim Leighton parried the shot, it bounced back past him off Tommy Boyd. Brazil had not convinced. Their attacking full-backs left gaps, and only when the young Denilson came on—football’s most expensive player since his recent transfer to Real Betis—did the wheels truly turn.

  There was no place in the 4-4-2 line up for the notoriously violent but highly gifted Edmundo, not yet rehabilitated by Zagallo after his Bolivian antics.

  Scotland favoured a bold 4-3-3 formation, whilst England under Hoddle preferred 3-5-2 with wing-backs, though Tony Adams, arguably the key defender, would much have preferred a flat back four. Whatever England’s hooligan followers were to do in the streets, England in Group G made a reasonable enough start against the Tunisians, with Manchester United’s red-headed terrier Paul Scholes repeating the form he had shown in the previous year’s Tournoi de France. Newcastle’s Alan Shearer, who had missed much of the season with a severe injury suffered in a meaningless pre-season game at Everton, with nobody near him, powerfully headed the first goal. Scholes, though he’d seemed to be tiring, revived to score the second with a cleverly curled shot.

  In Bordeaux against Chile, Italy set a pattern of unfulfilled promise. Roberto Baggio, in fluent form, set up an early goal for a new hero in Christian Vieri. A large, muscular centre-forward, dangerous both in the air and on the ground, Vieri had been a relatively late developer, growing up and learning the game in Australia where his father ‘Bob’ Vieri, a gifted maverick of Italian football in his own day, had gone to coach. Returning with the family to Italy, Christian knocked around a series of clubs, including Torino, before establishing himself with Atalanta, who sold him profitably to Juventus.

  He flourished there, though perhaps sealed his own fate by vigorously complaining to the manager, Marcello Lippi, when left out of the team. His goals brought them success but, in their established fashion, they sold him at the end of season 1996/7 to Atletico Madrid after swearing he would stay.

  There, though he took time to adjust to the new tenor of life, Vieri became top goal scorer of the Primera Liga and continued scoring when he got to France. Roberto Baggio seemed his perfect foil, but perversely Cesare Maldini favoured Alessandro Del Piero, and spurned the chance to line up all three together.

  For the Germans, it was Jürgen Klinsmann’s last hurrah. On the brink of retirement, after a short second spell with Tottenham Hotspur—whose Chairman Alan Sugar had excoriated him on his previous departure—he showed exquisite technique in the opening Group F game against the USA in Paris. The Americans probably came to France expecting too much—not least after a gallant draw in Mexico City when reduced to ten men—and were proportionately disappointed. Yet they by no means disgraced themselves, even though their coach Steve Sampson was the object of criticism by several players, not least those who were included. He would pay the price on returning to the States, but at least he didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of Carlos Alberto Parreira. Winning World Cup coach in 1994, he was dismissed by the Saudi Arabians early in the 1998 tournament itself, a fate later to be suffered by Tsha Bum Kun, ex-player of renown, manager of a South Korean team which failed once again to win a World Cup Finals match after 44 years of trying.

  Klinsmann headed the ball to Andy Moeller for the first German goal and sublimely scored the second, in virtually the same movement both controlling Oliver Bierhoff ’s right-wing cross, beating the close challenge of Thomas Dooley, then sweeping his shot past Kasey Keller, the agile Leicester City goalkeeper. It must be said, however, that the insertion of the fast, adventurous right-winger Frankie Hejduk brought the Americans strongly into the game, giving them an impressive period of sustained pressure.

  Bierhoff, whose two goals had won Germany the Euro 96 Final at Wembley, and who had triumphantly led the Italian Serie A goal scorers of the season with modest Udinese, had emerged after years in the shadows; not least with Ascoli, with whom he’d even sunk into Serie B. Now, however, he looked a formidable threat with foot or, part
icularly, head. But Klinsmann would fade as the tournament wore on, Moeller was no longer the force of yore and the newer, younger players would disappoint.

  Germany’s next game was against Yugoslavia in Lens. The Yugoslavs had made surprisingly heavy weather of a 1–0 win at Saint-Etienne against an increasingly lively Iran, who missed an excellent chance to take the lead. In the end the game was decided only by a late goal from Sinesa Mihailovic (operating at centre-back rather than in midfield)—a devastating free kick with his famous left foot.

  In Lens, Bierhoff had scant service. Yugoslavia were dominant for most of the game, taking the lead with a freakish goal when a low centre by Predrag Mijatovic—scorer of Real Madrid’s winning goal in the recent European Cup Final—went in via the leg of the goalkeeper Kopke and the far post. A second goal arrived when Kovacevic’s cross squirted beneath Kopke for the veteran Dragan Stojkovic, in lively vein, to score.

  In his desperation Vogts sent on Lothar Matthaus, and gradually the Germans, famous for their deathbed recoveries, got back into the game. An own goal by Mihailovic, a header by Bierhoff, and they had breathlessly escaped.

  Much was expected of Holland, despite the Dutch habit of falling at the last, or the penultimate, fence. Their manager, Guus Hiddink, had made his peace with ‘Pit Bull’ Edgar Davids, the midfielder who had been sent home as a dissident during Euro 96 and had inspired Juventus in the season just finished when transferred from Milan. He guaranteed bite and drive in the midfield. Patrick Kluivert, who had also left Ajax for Milan, was picked in the hope that he would put his recent troubles—notably a rape charge which was eventually set aside—behind him and find the form he’d scarcely shown all season. In the event the gamble would be justified, though in the opening game against Belgium Kluivert allowed himself to be provoked by an opponent (Staelens) calling him a rapist and was sent off. No goals were scored; Belgium hardly sought them. Playing 4-4-2 rather than the old Ajax-style three at the back, happy to have the dynamic little winger Marc Overmars fit and back again after his long absence through injury, Holland proceeded to thrash the hapless South Koreans 5–0 in Marseille. But their third game, against Mexico in Saint-Etienne, seriously impugned their defence, not least the centre-back Jaap Stam, for whom Manchester United had just paid a vertiginous £7.5 million. Stam’s lack of pace on the turn led to at least three costly errors. Indeed, he came to the tournament after a thoroughly unhappy Dutch Cup Final for PSV against Ajax, who scored five goals. Against Mexico, at the last gasp, Stam let Luis Hernandez roar past him to score a dramatic equaliser. Against Yugoslavia he clumsily gave away a penalty when he couldn’t catch Vladimir Jugovic, hardly the fleetest of adversaries. Against Croatia, in the third-place match in the Parc des Princes, he was outpaced up the flank by Roberto Jarni, who pulled the ball across for what turned into Croatia’s opening goal. To be fair, Stam did have an honourable game against Brazil.

  Dennis Bergkamp was his gifted, enigmatic self. Against Argentina he would score a goal of sensational aplomb and skill, a small miracle of virtuosity. Against Yugoslavia in the second round, late in the game, he committed a bloodcurdling foul on Mihailovic, compounding his initial offense by stamping on the Yugoslav’s abdomen. The linesman was right on the spot, but no action was taken. A Dutch journalist once explained to me that Bergkamp had modelled himself on his hero, Marco van Basten, always well capable of looking after himself. The difference was that, whereas van Basten could wreak havoc by stealth, Bergkamp hadn’t the same subtlety.

  For the blond Hernandez, his untidy straggling locks secured by a white headband, the tournament would prove a vindication. Boca Juniors of Buenos Aires had sent him back to Mexico with his tail between his legs, but he and his team flourished in France. Indeed, had Hernandez taken his chance when Germany’s keeper Andreas Kopke could only block a shot, it’s doubtful that the Germans would have got even as far as they did, to succumbing to a spectacular Croatian goal by Roberto Jarni and to the deadly opportunism of Davor Suker. Hernandez’s shot in Montpellier was on target, but close enough to Kopke for him to save, again.

  The French were hard to figure out. Like the Danes, who were under the genial management of Swede Bo Johansson, they were continually changing their personnel, now using wingers, eventually disposing of them in favour of attacking wing-backs who, in the shape of Lilian Thuram, eventually supplied their various failing strikers. As for the multi-talented Zinedine Zidane, who would decide the Final, he, like Bergkamp, combined high technique with a combustible temper, though he would be suspended for his excesses after expulsion against Saudi Arabia, whereas Bergkamp would survive unscathed.

  France, in Group C, comfortably won 3–0 in Marseille against a disappointing South Africa, playing in their first World Cup, despite the incubus of a 70 miles per hour mistral. Thierry Henry, the quick, promising Monaco right-winger, scored in that game and did still better with a brace in the next match against the Saudis but he would not, in the event, last the pace.

  When France met Denmark in their third group game they dropped three players who were on a yellow card, knowing that these would be set aside after the first phase. A chance was given to 20-year-old David Trezeguet of Monaco, son of an Argentine player, who’d learned the game in his father’s country, to solve the centre-forward problem, but neither he, Christian Dugarry (injured) nor the hapless Guivarc’h would provide the answer. France won 2–1 against a Danish side which did little of consequence, though it would greatly improve; especially when Michael Laudrup, absent against France, lined up beside his younger brother Brian.

  England, rejuvenated by Owen’s devastating pace, his superb eye for an opening, duly accounted for Colombia in Lens. A powerful shot into the near top corner by the hitherto disappointing Darren Anderton—so often out injured that his nickname at Tottenham was Sick Note—gave England the lead. On the half hour, David Beckham’s typically clever right-footed free kick produced a second goal. Beckham himself had had to wait before starting in the England team. He could operate effectively on the right flank, but preferred to fill a more central, influential position, as he did on this occasion. But a tendency to childish petulance would let him and his team down badly.

  As for the Scots, they should really have beaten Norway in Bordeaux. Against a team packed with English Premiership players and using only Tore Andre Flo up front, they eventually went behind to a goal scored by Riseth just after the second-half kick-off. But Craig Burley, exploiting a long high ball from Weir, the substitute centre-back, equalised. Later, Scots and Norwegian fans fraternised happily.

  Alas, the Scots were doomed to repeat their World Cup disappointments, going down with a crash in Saint-Etienne to, of all teams, Morocco. Shocking errors by the usually rock-like blond centre-back Colin Hendry and the ever-unpredictable veteran keeper Jim Leighton presented the Moroccans with two of their three goals.

  Brazil, who had brushed Morocco aside 3–0 in Nantes, surprisingly came to grief against the Norwegians in Marseille. Rekdal scoring the winner from a bitterly disputed penalty after 88 minutes. Cruel criticism was poured on the hapless American referee, who was eventually vindicated by an amateur video which conclusively proved Tore Andre Flo had indeed been fouled.

  Bebeto—earlier in the tournament furiously rebuked by his veteran skipper Dunga—put Brazil ahead after Denilson, now starting the game in midfield, had somewhat luckily kept control to serve him. Norway had largely looked dull and defensive, but suddenly Tore Andre Flo came to life. He equalised after leaving Junior Baiano for dead and almost scored another with a powerful header; then came that penalty to prove emphatically that this Brazilian team was mortal.

  The Japanese, playing in their first ever World Cup Finals, began honourably against Argentina in Group H, losing only 1–0 to a freakish goal by the prolific Gabriel Bati-Gol Batistuta, who later headed against a post. Argentina made heavy work of a Japanese team in which the lively midfielder Hidetoshi Nakata, with his luridly dyed hair, made a fine impression. He
’d soon be back in Europe to play for Italy’s Perugia.

  The Japanese also played gallantly against Croatia, again going down by but a single goal, only to lose, bathetically, to little Jamaica. The so-called Reggae Boyz, shrewdly managed by the Brazilian Rene Simões, had surpassed themselves in the eliminators, materially helped, it is true, by a stiffening of Anglo-Jamaicans from the English game. No fewer than seven of them figured on the Jamaican roster for France. They had been cut to pieces in Paris by Argentina, when Darryl Powell got himself sent off at the end of the first half for a second caution. In Lyon, however, the Reggae Boyz substantially consoled themselves. In heavy rain, they went two ahead through enterprising dreadlocked midfielder Theodore Whitmore, a much-capped native Jamaican. Japan, poor finishers, could reply but once.

  Spain, despite thrashing an inept, flaccid Bulgarian side in Lens 6–1 in what proved to be their last game at the tournament, never truly recovered from the fiasco of their defeat by Nigeria. That wily magician Bora Milutinovic, who had no easy job in reconciling the various factions in Nigeria’s squad, sprang a benign surprise on them in the dressing room just before that game, showing them, on a screen the exhortations of their families. That may have helped. The ineptitude of poor Zubizarreta helped even more. Foolish in putting his trust in his aging keeper, too slow to bring in his younger talent, Javier Clemente gained nothing from the win over the Bulgarians, whose manager, the old inside-right Hristo Bonev, resigned instantly in disgust only to be reinstated for a while, months afterwards.

  The Nigerians, freewheeling against Paraguay in the knowledge they’d already qualified, went down 3–1, so out went Spain. Alas, for Bora and Nigeria that freewheel turned into free fall and a resuscitated Denmark took them apart 4–1 in Paris in the second round, the Laudrups irresistible.

  The Mother of all Matches, that between Iran and the USA, alias The Great Satan, played in Lyon, was in fact pleasingly free of violence on or off the field. This despite what L’Équipe described as ‘Iranian paranoia’ five days before the game when three Iranian players excoriated the showing of a film on French television which dealt with the misadventures of an Iranian doctor who returned to his country after the ‘clerical’ revolution. The intention, proclaimed Mohammad Khakpour, was to destabilise his team.