Paul Doyle, Richard Williams, Scott Murray, Brian Oliver, Barney Ronay and Kevin McCarra share their fondest World Cup reminiscences:
Northern Ireland beating Spain in 1982
I was 10 when I watched the 1982 World Cup and I suspect it changed my life. Here was a month of vital parables in a form far more enchanting that Aesop's Fables. Three morals abide. Firstly, from the gloomiest circumstance joy can be wrung — El Salvador's Luis Ramírez Zapata taught me that, by going crazy with delight when he scored against Hungary even though his side were 5-0 down and on their way to a record 10-1 defeat.
Secondly came confirmation, on the global stage, of what school had already suggested: authorities must be questioned because they're probably incompetent or worse. Cameroon were eliminated after having a goal wrongly disallowed; rich kids Kuwait got one against them chalked off after the intervention of their dad or whoever; and Algeria, whose adventure had been so uplifting, were foiled by a conspiracy between Austria and West Germany, whose bully goalkeeper would later escape without so much as the concession of a free-kick despite knocking out Patrick Battiston in the epic semifinal victory over France.
Lesson three came courtesy of Billy Bingham's band of brothers. The team they beat may not have been the finest in Spanish history but they were decent and, more significantly, benefited from some extraordinary decisions by a referee who sent-off the Northern Ireland captain, Mal Donaghy, for a non-existent offence while allowing the hosts to chop and foul. But through guts, guile and a famous goal by Gerry Armstrong, the Irish prevailed, proving that injustice can be thwarted and realpolitik resisted. Yay! — Paul Doyle
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The great Ronaldo riddle
Ronaldo's appearance in the 1998 final in Paris – he was absent from the first version of Brazil's official team sheet, replaced by Edmundo, only to be reinstated minutes before the kick-off – is one of the great World Cup mysteries, never quite satisfactorily resolved.
The 21-year-old's pallid performance in the defeat by France, later said to be the result of some sort of panic attack, saddened those who admired his gifts. Having been left on the sidelines in the USA four years earlier, it seemed that he was doomed to endure humiliation in a tournament that should have provided him with the perfect stage.
So it was a relief as well as a pleasure to see him score both his side's goals in the 2002 final in Yokohama, redeeming himself with a characteristic display of power, technique and lethal finishing as Brazil beat Germany to capture their fifth title. — Richard Williams
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The release of Don't Come Home Too Soon (1998)
Scotland have, of course, never been any good at the World Cup. This is hardly news. But at least the useless buggers once knew how to cock things up in a pleasingly elaborate fashion. In 1950, they didn't turn up, refusing to take the place generously donated to them by FIFA in a fit of buttoned-down Presbyterian pique because they hadn't won the Home Internationals.
In 1954, they shed their manager after one match, Andy Beattie resigning in the wake of a 1-0 defeat by Austria. Which was probably just as well; what grand wrist-based gesture he'd have made after Obdulio Varela's Uruguay tonked them 7-0 in the next game doesn't bear thinking about. In 1958, they couldn't even be bothered to name Dave Mackay in the side until it was too late. The state of it.
Scotland were, however, the best team in the world in 1974, technically, sort of, perhaps, ending the tournament undefeated, something the finalists, Holland and the winners West Germany, could manage. And still they went home in the first round. Then in 1978, well, everyone knows about 1978: Willie Johnston, Iran, Archie Gemmill, Ally McLeod's insane refusal to select Graeme Souness until it was too late etc and so on.
But again, at least the failure was glorious, the self-inflicted misery rendered in living Technicolor, the screams of pain and anguish captured in Dolby surround sound. It's often referenced as Scotland's nadir, but I'd kill to have lived every moment of it. Claiming Scotland are going to win the World Cup? Fantastic. It might have been akin to stubbing fags out on your own arms, but if nothing else at least that sort of behaviour makes you feel alive.
Sadly, Scotland's post-MacLeod contributions suffer from dramatic diminishing returns (and these, sure enough, are the ones I lived through). David Narey's famous skelp to put Scotland one up against Brazil in 1982 was the exact point at which the rot set in. The bear baited, Brazil lashed in four goals by way of reply; four days later Alan Hansen and Willie Miller bumped into each other against the USSR and Scotland were reversing home in their backfiring jalopy. Wee Gordon Strachan's cheeky lifter against West Germany in 1986 — their only goal in that tournament — proved to be the last time Scotland tweaked the giant's nipple.
And after months of build-up, Italia 90 was four days young when Costa Rica effectively ended Scotland's involvement. (Incidentally, though the Scots did stumble on for another 10 days, it would have been simply embarrassing if they'd finally scraped past the first round for the first time as a result of Uruguay failing to beat South Korea; Daniel Fonseca's injury-time winner thankfully spared everyone's blushes, even if that wasn't quite how I saw it at the time.)
By the time 1998 came round, the official record told me the jig was up before it had even begun. A misguided attempt to ape England's bittersweet Three Lions, Del Amitri's beige ditty simply announced to the world that Scotland's spirit was broken, they now officially knew their place, and that like 1950, only in a different kind of way, they weren't going to bother turning up. Which is exactly what happened. And 1978 is considered Scotland's nadir? I don't think so. — Scott Murray
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Indifference makes the heart grow fonder
After the disappointment of a goalless draw between Paraguay and Bulgaria in Montpellier in the afternoon, it was off to Marseilles to complete the second leg of a World Cup double-header. France were up against South Africa, who had reached the Nations Cup final earlier in the year thanks to the scoring exploits of their new superstar, Benni McCarthy of Ajax. Given that France won a fairly uneventful game 3-0, and McCarthy was made to look like a clueless novice by the imperious Marcel Desailly, why should such a match be memorable?
It was because of what happened before the game. We were a small group of friends, and some of us needed tickets. Would we be able to afford it, or would we be priced out of the hosts' first game? Amazingly, tickets were available for as little as £7.50 — less than face value. I paid a tenner; none of us paid more than £15. The level of indifference to their national team (at least at the start of the tournament) by the host nation was staggering.
Back at Italia 90 the whole country stopped for Italy's games: people cried and screamed and couldn't bear to watch the tense moments. And France, who would go on to win the World Cup and turn out to have the best national team of my memory two years later, couldn't really care less. Imagine what you'd pay now.
For committed English football fans, it was very, very strange . — Brian Oliver
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Paul Gascoigne's Cruyff turn against Holland
In many ways an obvious choice for any Englishman who was at his most impressionable just as England's greatest footballer of the last 40 years reached his illusory early peak. Paul Gascoigne's never looked as potent, as carefree or as physically irresistible as he did at Italia 90, a rolling jump-start from which his career steadily ticked down. By recent standards Gascoigne was an over-age youthful sensation. He was 23 by the time Italia 1990 came around and had just six caps before the start of the year.
In his autobiography Bobby Robson recalled that taking Gascoigne was still seen as a punt, a hunch pick that many assumed would come to nothing. This is, of course, a symptom of English aversion to troublingly expressive footballing talent, rather than a comment on Gascoigne's readiness. A brilliantly creative display against Czechoslovakia in April had forced the issue and Gascoigne then started England's first World Cup match alongside Bryan Robson in a 4-4-2, a disappointingly frantic and fitful 1-1 draw with Ireland.
At that stage it seemed possible England would follow the same path of early group exit they had at Euro 88: their next match was against Holland, the European champions. But this time something different happened. It is customary to allude to a dressing-room revolt that led to England switching to three centre halves (something Robson always dismissed). Either way England were transformed against the Dutch, outplaying them for 70 minutes and having two semi-legitimate goals chalked off.
The real catalyst for this was Gascoigne. He was majestic: keeping possession, taking the ball in tight corners, dribbling and passing short and long. Until now Robson, who lasted an hour in midfield before disappearing injured for the rest of the tournament, had provided the template for English midfielder: fearlessly competitive and a great goalscorer when the play was broken.
Gascoigne was different. It wasn't just his control of the ball and his unusually restless, dainty dancer's feet. He was physically imposing too. One of the most striking things about the picture of Gazza crying in the semi-final defeat to Germany is that, as he lifts his shirt to wipe his eyes, you glimpse his muscle definition, the slabbed abdominals that would later wizen and then coalesce. His thighs, pre-injuries and botched re-hab, were huge, and he had a certain nastiness to go with his vision and grace. He looked, briefly, like the perfect midfielder.
This all came together in a single moment against Holland. Midway through the second half with England giddily, incredulously dominant, Gascoigne made a run out towards the right-hand corner flag. Ronald Koeman followed him as Mark Wright played a long pass that spun away towards the touchline.
As Gascoigne controlled it facing the corner flag, Richard Witschge sprinted back to help his defender, arriving just as Gascoigne pirouetted, flicked the ball between them and turned away to take possession up, selling the Cruyff turn back to the Dutch like the Beatles peddling rock and roll to America (or some such). The best bit was the expression on Witschge's face as Gazza eased away: huffy, sulky, cheated, with almost a hurling of the arms in the air.
The point is, England players just didn't do that kind of thing. It was a piece of hair-raising, playground-talk football, a moment of expectation-shift and gear-change.
Gascoigne even managed to put in a teasing low cross that the lunging Gary Lineker failed to reach. It came to nothing, beyond a stand-out moment in an encouraging 0-0. And ultimately it all came to nothing: England in 1990, and Gascoigne for England, a career that meandered into a series of post-injury reinventions, each one a scaling down of expectation and possibility. But for one brief moment in 1990 England had a player at a rare peak: unmatchably brimful with promise and potential energy. — Barney Ronay
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Scotland hold champions Brazil in 1978
Waiting hones the appetite and Scotland was ravenous by the time the 1974 World Cup came around. The national team had not been to the finals since 1958, despite the swaths of stars on both sides of the border. New names were still being made on the road to the tournament in West Germany.
Attending a match at Hampden then was more an emotional experience than a visual one. A reasonably tall teenager like me had to survive on glimpses from within the boisterous, drink-soaked North Enclosure on 26 September 1973. The 2-1 win that sent Scotland to the finals came from the substitute who had taken over from Kenny Dalglish. We couldn't make out who he was. Nor did we care. It turned out to be a 21-year-old Joe Jordan, who was still making his name at Leeds United. He may not have been a velvety footballer, but he fitted perfectly into Willie Ormond's capable team that had Billy Bremner marshalling the midfield. The World Cup was sheer excitement for Scots then.
Four years later, there was a giddy arrogance. “What will you do when we win the World Cup?” the then manager Ally MacLeod was asked. “Retain it,” he barked. There may have been a note of self parody there, but it was well concealed. The 1974 tournament had been more innocent and a far greater credit to the national team.
The images I hold are of the match with the then holders Brazil. It ended goalless but there was a moment when Bremner stuck out a leg instinctively and saw the ball run wide just inside the goalmouth. Perhaps the side could have had more of a cutting edge but that great individualist winger Jimmy Johnstone never got on to the pitch at the finals.
Shortly before, he had taken a rowing boat out in the Firth of Clyde late at night after a game with Wales. Ormond still picked him for the England match and Johnstone played beautifully in a 2-0 win, yet the manager disconcertingly declined to give him even a minute at the World Cup finals.
There were several other fine players such as the full-backs Sandy Jardine and Danny McGrain, with a 34-year-old Denis Law reaching the tournament only when it came a little too late. The sense of pride was still immense. It helped carry Scotland to the next four World Cup finals, but I cherish 1974 most of all. — Kevin McCarra
© Guardian News and Media 2010
