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Retro World Cup: George’s A-Z of the World Cup ~ your cut-out-and-keep guide (Part 2)

June 22, 2014

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All right, if you’re of an English persuasion, you may right now feel you’ve had about all you can take of this World Cup. The Three Lions are out and yet the damned thing carries on incessantly; our TV screens filled by seemingly wall-to-wall coverage of three matches a day – and almost every team defending better than us. Yet, trust me, that may well change as the days pass and the terrific tournament (which, despite the English contribution, it’s undoubtedly been) continues. For that’s the magic of the World Cup – it is, as it’s so often been in the past, a dreamily absorbing sporting spectacle on an undeniably globally-engaged scale. One that only that other quadrennial international event can get close to rivalling, the awesome Olympics, of course.

So, bearing all that in mind, and if you’re still not totally au fait with the whole shebang, you might consider giving this part two (check out part one here) of my ultimate guide to previous World Cup history a read. Yup, here it is, folks, letters ‘N’ through to ‘Z’, so let’s get it underway shall we, as we verily kick-off the second-half…

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N is for… Nessun Dorma

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An aria from the Italian opera Turandot by Giacomo Puccini, the tune Nessun Dorma (English translation: ‘None Shall Sleep’) was already one of the most recognised pieces from opera, nay all classical music before it received a Toto Schillachi-like goal-bound thunder-strike in popularity when Luciano Pavarotti’s 1972 recording was adopted by the BBC as the opening- and closing-credits theme for their Italia 90 match coverageNessun Dorma, thanks to a kismet-like combination of its operatic sound over passion-packed football visuals in stylish slo-mo and England’s Gazza-fuelled surprise run to the semis, became an unlikely and unique summer anthem; that ’72 Pavarotti recording even hitting a high of #2 on the UK charts. English football, as I opined at one point in this post’s predecessor, wasn’t transformed by the national team’s performance (and all that went with it) at Italia 90, but it undoubtedly gave it a hell of a PR boost – and, don’t doubt it, Nessun Dorma was at the very heart of that. It made football (international football, so footy at its very best) suddenly look and feel like a bright, beautiful cultural behemoth, suggesting (somewhat daftly, when you think about it) ‘the beautiful game’ had Renaissance-related connotations, leading some – just maybe – to wonder why then it shouldn’t be taken more seriously and owned (not just by the hooligans) but us all in England? Nessun Dorma-itis even stretched beyond these shores; its extraordinary boost in popularity driving Pavarotti’s name (and those of the other two ‘Three Tenors’, Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras) to places where mere opera stardom couldn’t reach. So much so that by the next World Cup (USA 94), the tenor trio had become such global superstars they held a worldwide TV concert on that tournament’s eve and did so four years later for France 98 – the climax of both being them performing together, yes, inevitably, Nessun Dorma.

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O is for… on the telly

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We all think of the World Cup as the pure theatre of 22 men on a pitch in a pretty stadium crammed with passionate fans from two totally different nations. But, really, that’s a tad romantic. For the World Cup – certainly since Mexico ’70 (the first to be beamed live around the world and in colour thanks to satellites) – is a TV event. Without the old gogglebox in the corner of the lounge, on the wall of the boozer or in a communal café in an African village, none of us would get our World Cup fix. Indeed, the stats don’t lie; official figures suggest fewer than a cumulative four million fill out all the stadia during a tournament, while something like a cumulative 25 billion peeps caught some – or all – of the 2006 World Cup in Germany on the box (including 400-700 million watching that year’s final live). They’re staggering figures, but that’s the power of TV. Which is why, to use the UK as an example, every four years the competition between ‘terrestrial’ broadcasters the BBC and ITV is as high as a Germany-Netherlands clash. And why they both spend millions on informed (and/ or glamorous) pundits, eye-catching locations for their ‘in the host nation’ studio (in front of the Eiffel Tower in ’98, the Brandenburg Gate in 2006 and Copacabana Beach this year) and flashy opening title-theme-combos (see entry for ‘N’ above). But things change, of course, and the unquenchable rise of the ’Net has certainly had an impact on our WC-watching habits in recent years – after all, now seconds after a major incident’s occurred in a match, someone rather pointlessly posts footage of it on Twitter or Facebook for ‘the world’ to see. Clearly this is a million miles away from the days of dependable Des Lynam (aka the king of British sport broadcasting) coolly anchoring our way through the thing. And, as if to underline that fact, Des voted UKIP in the recent elections on these shores – now, come on, Des, that’s a real step back to the ’70s and ’80s, isn’t it?

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P is for… penalty shoot-out

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Introduced for the ’78 tournament, but first forced into use at the ’82 edition, the penalty shoot-out is the means by which World Cup knock-out matches are decided if, after 90 minutes of ‘normal time’ and then 30 minutes of extra-time, scores are level (thus ensuring replays aren’t needed). Seeing both sides taking five penalty kicks alternately (the side that scores most wins) and then, if the strikes/ misses are level, ‘sudden death’, in which the first side to miss loses, the penalty shoot-out has always been a controversial tool to decide games, as it can ensure a resolutely defensive team knocks-out a more attacking, ‘more deserving’ team; yet it also offers a theatrically dramatic climax to matches, not least those that have been damp squibs throughout. A fair criticism of penalty shoot-outs is that they may not just be symptomatic of damp-squib games, but may also be increasingly to blame for them; certainly in the last two World Cups (2006 and ’10) too many games involved ‘match-play’ tactics from both teams (i.e. teams playing cagily for 12o minutes, lest they be caught out defensively, in the full knowledge they could effectively draw the match and rely on the ‘lottery’ of penalties to decide the result). The kings of penalty shoot-outs are undoubtedly the Germans, having won all four of the shoot-outs in which they’ve participated (’82, ’86, ’90 and 2006) – and scoring all but one of their 17 spot-kicks. The current holders of the wooden spoon are, yes, the English, whom have lost all three of the shoot-outs in which they’ve been involved (’90, ’98 and 2006). So far, two finals have gone to penalties; those of ’94, which saw unfit Italian star Roberto Baggio blaze over his effort to crown Brazil champions, and 2006, which saw the Italians redeem themselves by scoring all five of their perfect penalties against France – see, that’s how you shake off a penalty hoodoo, England.

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Q is for… queuing up
at the bar at half-time

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The way we watch the World Cup has changed over the decades. While the vast majority of us still primarily take it in the same way, via TV (see entry under ‘O’ above), the exact way we do so now varies. Sure, most still get our WC kicks traditionally: glued to the gogglebox in the lounge. But, if you’re a hardcore or casual fan of your nation (certainly in England), the much more fashionable – and social – way to watch matches is, yes, down the pub. Slowly, as licensing laws have relaxed and most pubs have become more women- and family-friendly (thus not just the preserve of old men and drunks), the pub’s become a cheerier, cleaner and more enjoyable entity. And this has pretty much coincided with the following  of England at a tournament, thanks to its great success at Italia 90 banishing its hooligan-related rejection in the ’70s and too much of of the ’80s, also becoming a socially acceptable practice for millions (and not just men); a genuinely pacifistic celebration of national pride. Hence, in addition to the revolution that’s been pay-per-view satellite TV coverage of top flight UK football, big flat screens have filled pubs up and down the land, ensuring that come every WC, fans in full St. George’s Cross regalia pack their local drinkeries to the rafters, cheering on the Three Lions as if they were actually at the match itself. Indeed, if you find the right venue, it’s never a bad second best. So big an event has this experience-it-all-together World Cup culture become, it’s predicted the nation will have spent £197m on alcohol come England’s exit from Brazil 2014 on Tuesday; while total spending (also including TVs, sports goods, barbecues and souvenirs) will top a staggering £1.3 billion by the same point. Yet, this approach to WC worship isn’t limited just to the UK, of course – in much of the Western world, watching (and spending on) matches in this way has become de rigeur too. Throw in the fact the tech-savvy among us are also viewing the thing on our tablet computers and smartphones now, it’s clearly a brave, new, switched-on world for the World Cup.

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R is for… the Russian linesman

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So did the ball cross the line? Well, the man whose call was crucial was Tofiq Bahramov’s – asked, as he was, by the referee. Yes, we’re talking that third goal in England’s 4-2 win over West Germany in their home World Cup final of ’66, the decisive goal that deep into extra-time pretty much guaranteed them victory and the Jules Rimet trophy. And, yes, we’re talking him, of course, the chap forever after referred to the world over as ‘the Russian linesman’. Only he wasn’t; Russian, that is. He was actually from Azerbaijan. Originally a footballer for the marvellously monikered club Neftchi Baku, Bahramov went on to forge a successful career as a referee, which saw him elected to FIFA’s referee panel in 1964. And so, he not only officiated a match in the ’66 tournament, he far more memorably, of course, served as linesman to the final’s referee, Swiss Gottfried Dienst. The moment that immortalised him occurred when, with just 11 minutes of the match remaining and the score 2-2, England forward Geoff Hurst leathered the ball at goal only for it to crash down off the bar and out and away. Hurst’s strike-partner Roger Hunt (whom, like the hapless German defenders, saw it happen right in front of him) leapt for joy and always maintains it crossed the line before bouncing out; the Germans always claim otherwise. Thus the (nowadays mild and warmly whimsical) controversy: as Dienst wasn’t sure, he deliberated for a few seconds with Bahramov, whom instantly nodded his head to say the goal was legit and… well, we know the rest. Sadly, to this day, few know the actual name of ‘the Russian linesman’ or his actual nationality; assuming that because he was ‘Russian’/ Soviet , even if the goal shouldn’t have stood, he’d instantly decided it should because of WWII. They may be right; rumour has it that on his deathbed in ’93 he claimed of his decision: “that was for the war”. Still, if he’s not as fully celebrated in England as he maybe ought to be, he is in his native Azerbaijan – the national football stadium is named after him. Yes, I kid you not.

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S is for… strikers

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What football fans ultimately want to see in a World Cup are goals – and plenty of ’em. Therefore, strikers are often the most eagerly anticipated and eye-catching players to grace a World Cup, as, yes, it’s them who usually score. In which case too, they more often than not become the stand-out stars of their tournaments. Indeed, who can forget England’s Geoff Hurst of ’66 final glory (still the only man to score a hat-trick in a WC final) and Gary Lineker (whom struck 10 goals across the ’86 and ’90 World Cups)? Plus, Germany’s Jürgen Klinsmann (11 across ’90, ’94 and ’98), Peru’s Teófilo Cubillas (10 across ’70 and ’74), Poland’s Grzegorz Lato (10 across ’74, ’78 and ’82) and Argentina’s Gabriel Batistuta (10 across ’94, ’98 and 2002)? Who, indeed? The highest-scoring players in World Cup history are Brazil’s Ronaldo (15 across 19 matches in ’98, 2002 and ’06) and Germany’s Miroslav Klose (15 across 20 in 2002, ’06, ’10 and ’14). Yet, more impressively the squat German striking genius Gerd Müller scored 14 across just 13 in just two tournaments (’70 and ’74), yet the biscuit’s truly taken by Hungary’s Sandor Kocsis and France’s Just Fontaine, whom respectively scored a sensational 11 goals in five matches (’54) and 13 goals in six matches (’58) – although it’s only fair to point out that far back defences were nowhere near as effective as today’s. But what of the top scorer in a single match? That honour goes to Oleg Salenko, whom smashed five past an inept Cameroon in a ’94 group game for Russia (see image above). And, believe it or not, that match produced another record when, in claiming Cameroon’s consolation goal, 42-year-old striker Roger Milla (who’d become a household name for his hip-shaking goal-celebration in 1990) became the World Cup’s oldest ever goalscorer.

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T is for… ‘total football’

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The brand of football exhibited by the Netherlands at the ’74 World Cup, ‘total football’ (or totaalvoetbal in Dutch) is as much a philosophy as an on-the-pitch tactic, requiring a team of 11 such talented and physically fit players that any one of them is capable of filling another’s position – defender, midfielder or forward – when the initial player is out of formation in a match. A radical conceit, it was mostly devised and first deployed by coach Rinus Michels at Amsterdam giants Ajax between the mid-’60s and early ’70s, resulting in the club winning five trophies in one season (the Dutch first division and cup, the European Cup, the European Super Cup and the Intercontinental Cup). Unsurprisingly, when Michels left Ajax to coach the Netherlands, ‘total football’ was the system enacted by the national team – not least because it was jam-packed full of Ajax talent, including the philosophy’s greatest exponent, wunderkind John Cruyff. Easily one of the grestest players of all-time, Cruyff was ostensibly an attacking midfielder/ forward, but was so immersed in ‘total football’ that it’s clear he (more than any other footballer) played a role in its creation – he’s been quoted as summing the thing up as follows: “simple football is the most beautiful, but playing simple football is the hardest thing”. The Dutch were a revelation at the ’74 World Cup, bemusing opponents (not least the Swedes, thanks to Cruyff’s delightful invention of the ‘Cruyff turn’; see image above) and enchanting viewers as they cruised to the final, where they were unexpectedly defeated by hosts West Germany, not least as they’d taken the lead with a first-minute penalty following 19 Dutch passes and not one German touching the ball. ‘Total football’ has been said to be the inspiration for the even more successful possession-at-all-costs ‘tiki-taka’ brand of football played recently by Barcelona and Spain.

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U is for… underdog upsets

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So far, winning the World Cup has been a pretty limited affair; that elite club consisting only of eight members – Brazil, Italy, (West) Germany, Uruguay, Argentina, England, France and Spain. But occasionally, and pleasingly, the big boys do get roughed up and knocked on their coup de grâce by total minnows – in fact, it’s actually occurred more than you might imagine. For some reason (opening night nerves for WC holders, perhaps?), it’s often happened in a tournament’s opening match; the most memorable when Italia 90’s curtain raiser resulted in a 1-0 win for Cameroon over a Maradona-led Argentina (off the back of that, the former would herald a jubilant new dawn for African football as they reached the ‘last eight’; the latter, whom frankly were crap, somehow reached the final again). However, the Argies had had their warning eight years before, when in Spain ’82’s opener they were beaten by the same score by Belgium (both made it through the group to the second stage but no further). And the whole thing happened all over again 20 years later when, again out of nowhere, another exciting team of African unknowns in the shape of Senegal beat reigning WC and European Champions France 1-0 (the former, like Cameroon in ’90 reached the quarters; the latter finished bottom of the group). Other shocks came in ’74 when East Germany embarrassed their near (but-oh-so politically-far) neighbours West Germany in a group match (see entry under ‘V’ below); when North Korea made it through to the ‘last eight’ in England in ’66 by defeating Italy; when the USA (without a single professional player) dumped England out in ’50 and, maybe most notoriously of all, when Uruguay defeated Brazil in that year’s final – in Brazil. This year’s host nation’s never quite got over that and would love to get their revenge at some stage in the current tournament, which leads us nicely on to…

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V is for… vendettas

Rudi Voller and Frank Rijkaard at the 1990 World Cup

The good (or bad) thing about the World Cup is, in these days of mercifully few major wars, it can be exploited to settle old scores. For the English, the obvious  rivalry that springs to mind – still with WWI and WWII connotations for some, sadly – is that which they enjoy with (West) Germany. Well, I say ‘enjoy’, but since England’s win in the ’66 final (see entry for ‘R’ above), the traffic’s been very one-way; yes, the Germans have K.O.-ed the Anglos every time (in ’70, ’90 and 2010, apart from a group-stage draw in ’82). No surprise then, England have become small fry for the Germans; perhaps their biggest football foes now being the Dutch. Again, for some, the wounds from WWII haven’t entirely healed, and when the two met again in ’90, the fact West Germany had punctured the Netherland’s bubble of ‘total football’ purity in the ’74 final only added to the spice, the later clash seeing one from either side sent-off (German Rudi Völler and Dutchman Frank Rijkaard; infamously, the latter actually spat on the former’s horrendous perm). West Germany also saw an odd, albeit friendly rivalry spill over on to the pitch when they faced their politically diametric neighbours East Germany in the former’s own tourney of ’74 – in a role reversal of the real Cold War, the East beat the West 1-0. Similarly, the USA met oft diplomatic foe Iran in the World Cup of ’98; the Western power again conspiring to lose. Finally, if England’s rivalry with Germany has become too one-sided, their ongoing Falklands-feud-fuelled one with Argentina has been much more balanced; the former beating the latter’s ‘animals’ (according to Alf Ramsey) in ’66, the latter thanks to Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ getting revenge in ’86 and again in ’98 and the English getting their own back in 2002. So what about this year? Well, the odds are short on the Argies meeting the side they really hate, bordering neighbours and fellow football giants Brazil, in the final – that’d be tasty tie to conclude a World Cup, and no mistake.

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W is for… World Cup Willie and co.

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For the Olympics’ legendary Waldi the Dachshund, Misha the Bear and Sam the Eagle, read Naranjito, Pique and Ciao. Yes, this trio are just, well, yes, three of the original seven World Cup mascots that still today hold a fond place in the hearts of football fans across the globe. As with so many things (ahem), the tradition started over here with the iconic World Cup Willie, a cuddly, cartoonish lion whom, despite always choosing to keep his eyes closed was forever successfully kicking footballs (take note, Roy Hodgson). So popular was this creation of Reg Hoye, formerly an illustrator of Enid Blyton books, that not only did soft toys of him sell and his image appear on everything from badges to beer glasses, his featuring in the tournament’s official anthem by Lonnie Donegan also saw it chart in the UK. When Willie hung up his boots come the competition’s end, FIFA realised it was on to a good thing and up popped Juanito in ’70 (a grinning, little Mexican boy), then the admittedly less memorable Tip and Tap in ’74 (er, two German boys) and Gauchito in ’78 (a cowboy-like boy in an Argentina kit). The mascots of the ’80s were more imaginative, though, kicking-off with Naranjito in ’82 (a Spain kit-clothed orange, whom always looked happy despite the host nation’s poor tournament), the utterly awesome Pique in ’86 (a cool football kit-, boots- and sombero-clad, moustachioed jalapeño pepper) and, finally, Italia ’90 gave us Ciao, the red, green and white (of the Italian tricolor flag) stick-figure with a football for a head, whose abstract art-cool nicely reflected the stylish aesthetics of that tournament. Frankly, none of the more recent mascots have matched the fun, innocent appeal of the legendary efforts. Mind you, some point out the World Cup as a merchandising blitz arguably began with Willie – what can I say, it’s a game of two halves…

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X is for… x-rated behaviour

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Unfortunately, maybe because of what’s at stake or just sheer madness, some World Cup matches have spilled over into historic moments – or even long phases – of ill-discipline. In recent years, the most infamous example is playmaker extraordinaire Zinedine Zidane’s head-thrust into the chest of Italian defender Marco Materazzi deep into extra-time of the 2006 final. Although a response to the latter’s vulgar egging-on, Zidane was the French captain and that match the last of a glittering career, let alone his second WC final. His sending-off, trudging forlornly past the trophy he could (/ should?) have lifted eclipsed even the double sending-off Argentina endured in the truly abysmal 1990 final (Pedro Monzón and Gabrielle Dezotti being the villains). But neither of these matches (nor the notorious heavy tackling of Argentina’s ‘animals’ against England in ’66’s quarter-final nor Pelé getting hacked out of that tournament in the group stage thanks to Portugal’s constant kicking) come close to the card-count racked up in the 2006 Netherlands-Portugal second-round clash, which astonishingly saw 16 yellow cards brandished and four red; a ludicrous watch, its fouling became veritably comical. And even this game doesn’t come close to the ’54 quarter-final between Hungary and Brazil (two great sides at the time, lest we forget); so brutal was it Hungary’s coach Gustav Sebes received four stitches due to a facial wound – he later remarked: “everyone was having a go; fans, players and officials”. However, maybe the best recalled, well, literal battle in World Cup history, at least in British consciousness, came in a ’62 group match, the so-called ‘Battle of Santiago’ between Chile and Italy (which had been stupidly inflamed prior to kick-off), pretty much because of supreme broadcaster David Coleman’s introduction to its TV highlights: “this is the most stupid, appalling, disgusting and disgraceful exhibition of football, possibly in the history of the game”. It was refereed by Englishman Ken Aston, whom would go on to invent yellow and red cards – just as well, really.

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Y is for… (wh)y do the
Germans always win?

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The truth is, of course, they don’t; but they have a lot over the decades – and in many of the big World Cup matches. The Teutonic ones weren’t, well, very Teutonic until they became West Germany after the war (East Germany possessed its own team, which in ’74 memorably defeated its neighbours’ at the latter’s tournament). In 1954, they quietly got to the final in Switzerland and, in a match referred to as ‘The Miracle of Bern’ in Germany, upended the apple-cart by beating surely the world’s best side of the era, Hungary; yes, Hungary were once that good. After that, they never looked back. They reached the final again in ’66, to be controversially beaten by England, then the semi-finals in ’70 and the final again in ’74, ’82, ’86 and ’90 (winning the Cup for a second and third time in the former and latter of that finals-appearing quartet; making them, at present, the World Cup’s third most successful nation). Frankly, not liked much outside of their homeland owing to, let’s not pretend otherwise, the two world wars, but admired the globe over for their technically sound, muscular, efficient brand of football and no-nonsense success rate in penalty shoot-outs (in which they’ve mind-blowingly missed just one spot-kick), they went into decline in the ’90s ironically following German reunification, but made the final again in 2002 and the semi-finals at the last two World Cups. Blessed with outstanding players over the decades (Fritz Walter, Uwe Seeler, Franz Beckenbauer, Gerd Müller, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, Lothar Matthäus and Oliver Kahn), they’re – no surprises here – among the favourites once more to win this year’s World Cup. Could they do it again? Well, if it comes down to penalties…?

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And finally…

Z is for… Zaire in ’74

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If you thought England’s performances at the current World Cup have been dreadful, then you ain’t seen nothing yet. For Zaire in West Germany in ’74 were surely the worst team in the entire thing’s history. Indeed, they were so bad were they might just also qualify as one of its very greatest. Clad in a truly awesome only-in-the-’70s kit, Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) were drawn in a first-round group with Brazil, Yugoslavia and Scotland. And, yes, they got off to a bad start, losing their opening match 2-0 against the unimpressive Scots. Next up were the Yugoslavians, whom thumped the Leopards  (the first Sub-Saharan African team to reach the World Cup – and African Cup of Nations winners either side of this WC) an astonishing 9-0. Yes, 9-0; it’s still the largest ever win in any tournament. For many, Zaire in ’74 are the epitome of African football’s tactical frailty and naïvety at international level – a stereotype it’s still fighting to shrug off. But the worst was still to come. In the final game against Brazil (won by the former 3-0 to condemn Zaire to expulsion, having scored no goals and conceding 14), the South Americans won a free-kick not far from the opponent’s penalty area. As Brazil were organising the set-play, the Zaire defender Mwepu Ilunga stepped out of his team’s ‘wall’ and inexplicably booted the ball up the pitch and away to the total incredulity of the Brazilians and millions watching around the globe. A moment of madness? A result of a sod-it-I’ve-had-enough-we’re-rubbish-and-going-home sort of attitude? Or a complete misunderstanding of the rules? It’s a sublimely bizarre, amusing moment, but the truth behind it’s actually far darker. In 1965, the dictator Mobutu Sese Soku was ‘elected’ the country’s leader and decided his vice-like grip on power would be strengthened by a great national football team, only when the team got to the WC they were rubbish, of course – so rubbish apparently that at half-time against Brazil, black-suited Mobutu men walked into their dressing room and warned them not to lose any heavier than 2-0. Or else. Thus, Ilungu has maintained his iconic moment was a deliberate attempt to get sent-off as protest against the tyrant. Sadly for him, or maybe not, he was merely booked – and maybe because of that is still alive to tell the tale.

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