As a near life-long football fan, the world cup always comes round as a sort of speeded-up 7 Up documentary, forcing me to remember where I was in space and time every four years. I turn 50 in the coming weeks and I have memories of each of the last 10 world cups, each one bookmarking my life at regular intervals. All going well I”ll be in a cafe or bar somewhere in Rangoon on my 50th enjoying this year’s version with local football fans. With any luck I’ll find out the Burmese word for offside.
I’ve been alive for 12 world cups but England 1966 and all that passed me by as a two-year-old. And as much I desperately want to remember Pele and 1970, I have no recollection of what I might have been doing the day Brazil beat Italy playing football from the gods. My first memory of any football match is at my grandmother’s house in 1971 watching TV in black and white as Liverpool lost to Arsenal in the 1971 Cup Final. This defeat somehow turned a young Irish lad with no Scouse connections into a lifelong Liverpool fan. It probably didn’t hurt that Liverpool were successful in the years that followed.
In 1974 I was ten years old and looking forward to watching my first world cup in Germany. I was still in Waterford, Ireland but our new colour television seemed to put me touch with the action. My abiding memory is of a rainy German summer and Der Bomber Gerd Muller. I wanted West Germany to beat the Dutch despite the brilliance of Johan Cruyff. The day of the final was a Sunday and it was a beautiful Irish summer’s day. All my family headed to the beach at Woodstown but I was dropped off at my aunt and uncle’s house where we watched the final together (well, I can’t swear my aunt did.) English ref Jack Taylor awarded Cruyff a penalty in the first minute. It was an electrifying start to an electrifying game. The Germans came back and Der Bomber scored the winner. I probably went to the beach the following Sunday, rain or shine. I was happy enough for four years.
In 1978, I was 14 and old enough to be allowed stay up late for the games from South America. Der Bomber had retired and C
ruyff refused to play in Argentina for political reasons I did not yet understand. The Dutch still made it to the final without him but Mario Kempes imprinted his name in my consciousness with two goals in the final. Argentina had their first ever win and it was there I understood they were a proper football nation, whatever their politics.
Much had changed for me in 1982. Aged 18 I’d left Waterford and was earning money in Dublin. Free to my own barely adult devices I discovered booze and drugs (women were harder to come by) and Dublin’s dual night-life. I would spend the first half at some pub till they kicked you out before midnight and the second half was finding a party to kick on. Despite having no TV in the house I lived in, I watched almost all of this Spanish world cup. I left work early to sit in the pub next door and catch the late afternoon games over a pint of Carlsberg (I didn’t touch Guinness until after I left Dublin). I was particularly taken with England’s 3-1 over France. It was the first time I saw England playing in the world cup finals and I was a rare Irishman who favoured them because they were packed with Liverpool players. France was their high water mark and they went out without losing, outsmarted by the Germans, not for the first or last time, the Germans beating Spain when England couldn’t. A workmanlike Northern Ireland had qualified which annoyed me as a southerner while great players like Giles and Brady missed out again. I was further annoyed when Billy Bingham’s men did well also beating Spain as England couldn’t. 1982 produced two all-time classic games. Just saying the words Zico, Falcao and Socrates brings a smile to my face but Brazil somehow lost to Italy in the game of Paolo Rossi’s career. The French midfield was just as pleasing as Brazil’s but they were hunted down by the remorseless Germans in that most memorable of semi-finals. I watched from a Dublin pub, as Rossi had enough brilliance left in the tank to beat the Germans in a tense decider. The game cured my Saturday hangover and I went in search of a party.
In June 1986 I was 22 and had moved again, this time to London. Unlike the pubs in Ireland which were mainly just full of Irish, London’s pubs had the world inside them. I met many people from many nations that month. Because it was in Mexico, there were plenty of late night games and London, even more so than Dublin, liked to shut up shop before midnight. I was coming to the end of a nine month stint in Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire so I had long tiring days commuting to my home near Tottenham. There was a buzz about England again until it ran into Diego Maradona. Whether he was scoring goals with the hands or feet of god, he was an irrestible presence and the best player on the field by some distance (at least until John Barnes came on to almost rescue the game). The French beat Brazil but capitulated feebly to the West Germans again who seemed just makeweights to Maradona in the final. But on a warm summer’s day in London I watched the best world cup final of my life (so far). The Germans came back from 2-0 down with Lothar Mattheus marking Maradona out of the game. Well almost, one breathtaking shimmy, a pass and it’s 3-2 to Argentina. The little maestro didn’t score in the final but no one was in any doubt who owned the trophy. Around the same time, I got a horrible job in Swindon, the only time in my life where I’ve been sacked, but that’s not a world cup story.
Four years later my life was turned upside down in more ways than one. I was 26 and engaged to be married in Melbourne, Australia. But as part of the deal, I had a three month leave pass to travel back to Ireland and also see the 1990 world cup in Italy. It was Ireland’s first world cup and my blessed mother had scored me tickets for all of Ireland’s group games. It remains the only world cup I’ve attended in person. Ireland were drawn to play in Sardinia and Sicily and first up was England. It was the same match-up two years earlier in Euro 88 which I also attended. That 1988 game which Ireland somehow won 1-0 remains the most draining experiences of my life as a football fan. But Stuttgart, Germany was easy to get to compared to the south coast of Sardinia. It took three boats and several trains to get from Waterford to Cagliari. I stayed a lovely day in Olbia in the north and remember travelling down the spine of Sardinia with another Irish ex-pat who lived in Sydney. We talked of Sydney and Melbourne on the way down. To my horror I found my ticket was for the English end of the stadium (Liverpool support didn’t seem to matter much now) and I somehow conned a happy-looking English fan at the Irish end to swap after some persuading. This time they played out a draw, which was deserved and left us crowing “You’ll never beat the Irish”. As the tournament developed that proved true, but we couldn’t beat you either. Draws in hot Palermo (and dry, with few bars open any match day) against Egypt and Netherlands put us through. The Dutch paid for this by losing the coin toss and sending them to a death match with Germany while Ireland got the easier draw in Genoa versus Romania. The Romanians still had Hagi but had lost Caucescu – I remember their fans tore the hated symbol of his regime from the flag, but they few fans there. 30,000 Paddies made it feel like a home game and for once we made sure we found some bar open to celebrate after Ireland hung on to win on penalties. The quarter-final against Italy in Rome is the most intense game I ever witnessed and it felt like relief to lose. The Germans beat the English as usual and then won the tournament. I watched the dull decider against Argentina in a hostel in Garmisch-Partenkirchen in southern Germany where locals clapped their team politely to victory. I went home to Melbourne, Australia to marry.
In 1994 I was a married father of a two-year-old daughter and I watched USA94 from my Melbourne home. I snuck out of bed early one Saturday and had the tv on low to watch Ireland play Italy again to open their second world cup. My Australian wife didn’t really understand European football but there was no disguising the joy on my face as I told her Ireland had won, their first ever win over the Italians. The loss was Italy’s lowest ebb, they would reach the final while it was Ireland’s high point. They squeezed through the second round before being easily beaten by the Dutch. They in turn lost to Brazil who started the tournament brilliantly and slowly got worse. They were still just good enough to beat Italy in possibly the poorest final I remember, as at least 1990 produced a goal. I went back to sleep after keeping difficult hours watching my first world cup in Australia.
It was all change again for me in 1998. I was divorced but followed my ex-wife and two young daughters to Brisbane. This was my first winter in Brisbane and I was finding a very hospitable climate. The time difference for European football was 9 hours and in these pre-Internet days I would get up for the late game at 5 or 6am and watch it with the sound off, while fast-forwarding through the earlier game I’d taped. I had usually caught up before the end of the second game so could watch the last bit with the sound on. Ireland were missing this time but 1998 was all about Michael Owen before England imploded again. Hosts France with 10 brilliant midfield-defenders were slowly catching fire. Brazil were like Argentina in 1990, poor but still respected enough as holders to make the final. I got up at 4.30am to see them be taken apart by two Zinedine Zidane headers (not the last time his head would feature prominently in a final) and Arsenal’s midfield. Didier Deschamps lifted the trophy and I probably went back to bed for an hour.
I was getting used to this world cup in Brisbane thing by 2002 though it helped this one was in Japan/South Korea. Japorea was only two hours behind Brisbane so I could watch matches at drinking time for the first time since 1982. Ireland were back and doing dramatic draws again. Their comebacks against Cameroon and Germany both launched long boozy evenings. Again it was a case of you’ll never beat the Irish, they went out on penalties to Spain, undefeated. With the adrenalin rush of Ireland gone, it was time to enjoy the tournament. England’s Michael Owen was world class again and so was Beckham who got revenge against Argentina. But neither couldn’t beat Brazil. Ronaldo had the silliest haircut on the planet but there was none better at football and teammates Ronaldinho and Rivaldo were number two and three. I watched the final at the end of a big weekend at friends’ house in the Sunshine Coast hinterland at Kin Kin. None of my friends followed football but I enjoyed the game in what remains the only time Brazil have played Germany in the world cup. Brazil dismantled the Germans as Ronaldo put his 1998 demons behind him, if not his stupid hairstyle. I went to bed and got up four hours later on Monday morning to listen to the dawn chorus of Australian birdlife for the two-hour drive back to Brisbane and work.
2006 in Germany threw in a new variable. I was still in Brisbane watching matches in the middle of the night. But there was a good reason to do this publicly rather than in front of my own TV. Ireland were missing again (and they have yet to return) but their place ever since has been taken by Australia. As much as I hate the nickname “Socceroos”, Australia’s football team has scarred me forever. I was at the MCG in 1997 when Australia were 2-0 up against Iran and heading to France. Then that idiot broke the crossbar – I still haven’t forgiven the stupid bastard. That Aloisi penalty against Uruguay to secure qualification in 2005 was an outpouring of Aussie football emotion pent up over many variations of failure. The pub was packed for Australia’s opener against Japan and it was doom and gloom with 8 minutes to go with Japan 1-0 up. Then Tim Cahill took over and Aloisi chipped in again. I was covered in beer and dancing with strangers as the pub descended into mayhem. Brazil was the inevitable defeat but Kewell did his bit against Croatia to put Guus Hiddink’s well drilled side through to play Italy. The Aussies were good but Fabio Grosso was brilliant to draw the foul from Lucas Neill for the penalty. Italy did not look back. Zidane was past his best but somehow dragged France past Spain and Brazil. I went to a mate’s house for a 4.30am early start for the Italy v France decider. They couldn’t be separated but Zidane eliminated himself from the shoot-out with the most public head butt in history. Italy deserved the penalty win. I was grumpy, the extra time and penalties deprived me of a sleep-in before work.
Four years on in 2010, the tournament was heading to a new continent and I was in a new town too. While footballers dealt with a mild South African winter, I was in Roma on the western Queensland plain where overnight temperatures in June regularly went below zero. I was now an ambitious journalist of the newspaper there, having quit an adult life-time of IT a year earlier. With long hours to put in my paper and very cold nights I saw hardly any games. It didn’t help SBS had lost the rights to most matches and I had no access to Pay TV. I did have the Internet and I caught up with most matches, or at least the goals in the morning after. Australia were there but were poor compared to 2006 and made an early exit. I watched England lose to Germany yet again, or rather the important part. Germany cruised to a 2 goal lead before England scored. Then Lampard hit the underside of the crossbar and was ruled incorrectly no goal. At 2-2 it was anyone’s game, but at 2-1 and this injustice, England were psychologically gone. I went to bed and was unsurprised to wake up to a 4-1 result. For once Germany looked like the most exciting team in the tournament but they were worn down by Spain’s tiki taka. Their final versus the Netherlands seemed promising but I wasn’t up for it – literally. On a cold Monday morning after a late night working to deadline on Sunday, I slept it out and missed it all. I caught up with Spain’s dour 1-0 win on the Internet. I wondered if my love affair with the world cup was over.
Yet a few days out from another tournament in 2014 and here I am again excited. Partially it’s because I’ll spend the first couple of weeks of it watching games in Thailand, Cambodia and Burma. Then I’m back in Brisbane but still on holidays so will head north to warmer climes and Indigenous issues. Will they be watching the world cup in Palm Island or Yarrabah? I’m sure like Rangoon I’ll find somewhere. Despite the worst efforts of corrupt FIFA, the world cup remains a primal cultural experience, and one that is wonderfully global. Bring on Brazil, and likely, their sixth title.