World Cup Memories

In September 1981 I went on holiday to Mallorca, to stay in the resort of Can Pastilla, with my parents and fiance. Can Pastilla was reasonably quiet, a good base for trips to Palma, Soller and Puerto Andratx, there was a good bar opposite our hotel, owned as it turned out by a man who had spent most of his working life less than a quarter of a mile away from where my Dad had a business.

What struck me about that part of Spain even then, more than nine months before the competition kicked off, was the level of enthusiasm the Spanish people had for the competition. It was a tournament that was played out against a background of problems, most caused by poor local organisation, poor refereeing, cynical play by some teams and the appearance on the world stage by a player who four years later in Mexico would give a new generation its own true 'great'.

When the competition started on 13th June in Barcelona my personal circumstances had been turned on their head. I wasn't engaged anymore and we didn't have a family home, the first of two repossessions saw us relocate twelve miles to a camp site and home became a caravan for the summer of 1982. It was in that caravan that I would argue with my parents about the Falklands War, debate with my future wife and my Dad whether or not the lead singer with the Culture Club was a bloke or bird and experience the highs and lows of being an England fan. Thirty years on the events inter mingle and collide, the time frame of each event is difficult to separate from the whole film.

My first clear memory is of the England V France match, it took place apparently on 16th June, and I know it took place in Bilbao. We had been allowed to leave the office early by my Arsenal mad boss, that was fine for the locals but I had at best a half an hour journey 'home' across Bournemouth and Poole and it was touch and go as to whether or not I would make it in time for the kick-off. As it turned out I was about a mile short when Bryan Robson scored in the first minute of the match, one that England would eventually win 3-1.

From then until the final match the tournament was dominated by three or four events: the Austria v West Germany (as it still was) game which brought gamesmanship and Austro-German collaborating to new depths, Diego Maradona being kicked out of the match against Brazil before finally losing the plot, Italy beating Brazil in one of the true all time great games and the infamous Harald Schumacher assault on Patrick Battiston which didn't even warrant a yellow card for the German keeper.

The final was played on what was, in the south of England anyway, a gloriously sunny evening, 11th July at the Estadio Santiago Bernabeu in Madrid, then as now a ground full of atmosphere with its vertiginous stands. Everybody who wasn't a German wanted Italy to win.

Italy had begun the tournament like one of the fabled tanks, stuck in reverse, they had been dull against Poland (0-0), dreadful against Peru (1-1) and only qualified for the second phase because of a poor refereeing decision against Cameroon when defeat would have seen them eliminated. In the Second Round (which consisted of four groups of three) Italy were drawn in the group of certain death with Argentina and Brazil. With just over an hour played in Barcelona against Brazil and the score at 2-2 Italy were clinging on, and then Paolo Rossi scored the third of his hat-trick goals and the second best team never to have won a World Cup were on their way home. Rossi scored two more goals in the semi-final victory over Poland at the Nou Camp whilst Germany were beating France on penalties in Sevilla and it was all over to Madrid for the final.

The lasting image of the 1982 World Cup is the Marco Tardelli 'scream', the release of raw emotion after the Juventus player had put his side 2-0 up on their way to a 3-1 win. I have chosen the clip above because it is the longer than usual one and it shows the move that lead up to the goal. As the Italians passed the ball on the edge of the German box I turned to my Dad and said, "They're just taking the piss."

As well as memories I have three mementoes from the 1982 World Cup courtesy of a shop in Can Pastilla, a wind-up pair of football boots in Spanish colours on top of which is a football, that sits on my desk to this day, a drinks canteen in the shape of a football which is actually the same size as a Premiership ball and one of those traditional Spanish drinking jugs which is encased in leather and has the words "Recuerdo de Espana," in relief on the leather.