Week 45: Losing My Divinity in 1986
Some weeks, I get almost to the middle of it without a clear or obvious topic for this column.
You begin to hope that something jumps out; a headline that leaves you with no other option. And it seemed that exactly had happened last Wednesday when I heard the breaking news on the radio about the death of one Diego Armando Maradona.
I could immediately sense the words forming. Exactly fifteen years to the day since the world lost another footballing genius (and probably the one with most in common with Maradona) in George Best, the man who had won a World Cup single-handed – pun absolutely intended – passed away at the much-too-young age of 60.
But I held back, writing about the proposed return of fans to stadiums instead. It was, for me, too soon.
I knew that anything I said would be lost in a sea of platitudes about the Argentine number 10. Every ex-player, current player, pundit and er, Chancellor of the Exchequer, was weighing in with things to say about him and just how good he was. He is undeniably one of the best footballers to ever play the game. He’s possibly even the GOAT; wrestling with compatriot Lionel Messi and Pele, as well as the aforementioned Best in my opinion.
But it was still too soon for me because, if I’m absolutely honest, I didn’t really like Maradona. You see, I’d been unable to ever properly forgive him for what he did to me as a teenager.
I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I can’t also pretend he was ever on my Christmas card list. I’m not alone. Gary Lineker might have gotten over it quickly, but Peter Shilton never forgave nor forgot and Terry Butcher refused to as much as shake his hand thereafter. The episode we couldn’t let go? No one will need reminding it was the infamous Hand of God goal in Mexico, 1986.
Yet, as unforgettable as the incident itself was, it still almost ends up as being my ‘forgotten World Cup’ for many reasons; not least this one.
Sandwiched in-between two iconic tournaments for me, how could it not? I was too young to remember anything about 1978 other than faintly recalling ticker-tape falling from the skies and the black bases of the goalposts of a World Cup in Maradona’s homeland. Some Argentines were eager to see him in the squad – as a mere boy – back then but he missed out as his country went on to triumph on home soil.
In the first World Cup I can remember, Maradona blotted his copybook as his team relinquished their crown before the knock-out stages of Espana ’82 . Losing the opening game to Belgium at the Camp Nou (a stadium that was to be his home club ground) didn’t help – there is an amazing image of him facing what seems like the whole Belgian team – as it put Argentina on a collision course with favourites, Brazil, and eventual winners, Italy, in the second round. This was a mini-group played in Barcelona’s other stadium (home to Espanyol) and Argentina first lost to Italy, then Maradona was red-carded for a kung-fu tackle as they were eliminated by Brazil (1-3) leaving them and Italy to play for top spot and a place in the semi-finals.
It was a World Cup that was played under the cloud of the Falklands War, an undeclared 10-week saga waged over British territories in the South Atlantic in which Britain was victorious. This shadow would also loom large over Maradona and his country (more later) and, indeed, the end of the conflict was not confirmed until a day after that opening game in Barcelona.
Eight years later, as holders, a poor Argentina side were dragged to the final of Italia ’90 by Maradona again. This was despite losing the opening match to a Cameroon team who finished with nine men, then sneaking through after another example of ‘God’s hand’ intervening against the Soviet Union and a draw with Romania that saw them as one of the best third place finishers.
A revenge win against Brazil and a penalty shoot-out victory against Yugoslavia took them to the semi-final with Italy in Naples (the city in, by which time, Maradona had become enshrined) and another penalty-kick triumph took them to the Rome final and almost to a rematch with England, who lost the other semi-final to West Germany, also after penalties. In a poor-spectacle of a final, two-red cards and some awful tackles later, they were beaten 1-0 by an Andreas Brehme penalty.
The World Cup in the middle of those had been one I’d tried to blot out. Held in the stifling heat of Mexico, just sixteen years after the last one there (they replaced Colombia at the eleventh hour), I went into it with such high hopes. England had a squad that, on paper, looked like possible winners and Lineker was scoring goals for fun at Everton. I was also that perfect age to absorb myself fully in the whole four-week shebang – I’d even got the special perforated ‘t-bag’ replica shirt that the players wore to keep cool – and my excitement was at fever pitch.
The downside was the kick-off times. With later starts to accommodate the 100 degree temperatures in Monterrey, they started at 11pm UK time. With school the next day, I had already splashed cold water, from a bowl next to me, on my face to get to the end of the opening game v Portugal that ended in a defeat, then the even less absorbing 0-0 draw with Morocco that followed it. Several changes ensued against Poland in the final game and a Lineker hat-trick in the first-half saw England through as runner-up and onto Mexico City and an easy win against Paraguay in the round of 16.
The opponents in the quarter-final would be Maradona’s Argentina. They’d won Group A with comfortable victories over South Korea and Bulgaria sandwiching a draw with the holders, Italy.
Maradona himself had shown only glimpses of his incredible talent, scoring against the Italians, but he was just warming up. He was far more influential in the second round when Uruguay were beaten 1-0 and England had good reason to fear him as the nations clashed in the Azteca on Sunday 22 June.
In light of his death, the BBC replayed the game last Friday. I thought, nearly 35 years on, I’d be able to watch it again but lost my nerve at half time. Before that, it was a typical English performance of it’s time; lots of needless losses of possession, a great deal of last ditch clearances and tackles and Peter Shilton, imperious as ever, between the sticks.
As a teenage viewer, I’d ignored the increasing pressure that Argentina were building and went along with Jimmy Hill’s assertion that England had a chance as their opponent’s defence was fragile. But the second half – still unwatchable – left me in inconsolable and my sister regretting her ‘it’s only a game’ comment afterwards.
Maradona undid England with two of the most replayed goals in World Cup history. The first, with his fist, left Shilton incandescent and other England players chasing the Tunisian referee all the way back to the centre circle and that large looming shadow made by an overhead camera. Steve Hodge’s miscued intervention looped into the air and DM scored with what he described afterwards as ‘a bit with the head of Maradona and another bit with the hand of God.’
Which was almost true, except for that there was no bit of Maradona’s head that touched the ball and I’m unconvinced that God would want to claim he played any part in it either. It was cheating, plain and simple, and to a fourteen-year-old it felt like the end of the world.
It was quickly becoming the end of his World Cup dream, and England’s. The second goal, a few minutes later, was voted the best FIFA ‘Goal of the Century’ in a poll on their website in 2002 and to be fair, this one was all Maradona. Pirouetting on the half-way line, he got away from the crowded midfield, made Peter Reid look like he was running backwards, then evaded feeble attempts to stop him from Butcher and Fenwick before dummying Shilton and slotting home under pressure from Butcher a second time. Commentator, Barry Davies, said ‘you have to say that’s magnificent.’
The fourteen year old me struggled with that, I’ll freely admit.
Despite a late rally and a Lineker goal that earned him the Golden Boot and a move to Barcelona (a place where Maradona shone only in patches after some terrible injuries from even-worse tackles), England were unable to stop Argentina reaching the semi-final where their inspirational captain was even better, scoring both goals – including another worldy – as they overcame Belgium and then beat West Germany 3-2 in the final, where Maradona was more subdued although his exquisite pass did set up the winning goal. At the end, he picked up the trophy without a team-mate in sight; symbolic of how he had won the prize almost by himself.
Yet it was the game against England – the one I’m still so bitter about – that defined him and his life.
The symbolism was much deeper for his countrymen because much had been made of the Falklands War in the build-up to the Mexico tournament and he had done what many in his nation dreamed of. His goals were seen as showing that the Argentines were both smarter and better than their enemy; the war might have been lost but that only made Maradona even more of a deity. In many ways, they put him on a pedestal that was mighty hard to come down from.
Much has been made of his club career, and doesn’t need resaying although my favourite line was that his signing for Napoli and winning two Italian Scudettos was the equivalent of him coming to the Midlands and winning two Premier League titles, not with Aston Villa, but with Birmingham City!
Such is his legacy in Naples that the club’s owner, Aurelio de Laurentiis wants to rename their Stadio San Paolo after him. The mayor of the city is also in favour. Amongst the tributes, de Laurentiis wrote “Your weaknesses, your imperfections, your mistakes are tantamount to your immense greatness.”
Of course, some of those weaknesses and imperfections rose to the surface as Maradona was booted out of USA ’94 after his wide-eyed goal celebration made the drug testers eagle-eyed. George Best, no stranger to controversy, once said ‘I was born with a great gift, and sometimes with that comes a destructive streak.’
That probably sums up Maradona too, although his ultra-competitiveness and wanting to beat his opponent by any means might have upset me but didn’t dim his light to millions of others. His unquestionable ball skills, low centre of gravity, speed – especially with the ball – strength, technique and finishing, almost all with his left foot, were quite something and when you add two factors to the mix, are, for me, what sets him apart from Messi as certainly the GAOAT.
He did it on pitches that would be deemed unplayable today (even the grass on the Azteca in 1986 needed a good inch off the top) and when defenders had carte blanche to do whatever they needed to stop him. Rather than point to numerous examples, I’ll say only that Andoni Goikoetxea, nickname: The Butcher of Bilbao, got his reputation for a foul in 1983 on the great man, breaking his ankle, that was described as ‘the most brutal in the history of Spanish football’ and earned him a 10-game ban.
The defender kept the boot he used to do it in a glass cabinet at his home.
It’s likely that Maradona would, if not condone the tackle, at least appreciate his opponents ‘whatever it takes’ attitude. It was also this harsh treatment that he received that paved the way for the banning on tackles from behind and, these days, almost any tackling at all, so that the likes of Messi could thrive.
He can look down and know that he has that as his legacy too. He could even have discussed the hand of God with God. Who knows, the two of them might even be having a kickabout in heaven right now.
And Diego, God, I hope God wins.
words Darren Young, D3D4 columnist