When
I was a kid in the early 1970s, you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of
televised games shown live each year. There was the FA Cup final, on both BBC
and ITV, the European Cup final on ITV and the England against Scotland home
international, which generally marked the end of the domestic season in the
middle of May, on Grandstand. Edited
highlights of lesser competitions, such as the Cup Winners’ Cup final and the
UEFA Cup would be shown on Sportsnight
with Coleman, while the League Cup final, played on a Saturday afternoon at
the same time as a normal league programme, wouldn’t be seen until The Big Match on the Sunday. As regards
international tournaments, I’m not sure what the deal was, as I’m too young to
remember the 1970 World Cup and the 1972 European Championships fell off the
BBC’s radar after England lost 3-1 at home to West Germany in the quarter final
first leg; it had a very different structure in those days.
However,
the 1974 World Cup was televised in its entirety and, as a football obsessed
9-year-old, I think I watched at least part of every game. In preparation, I’d
also been able to see the emerging talents of Poland, who would finish third,
in a couple of their qualifying games. On June 6th, 1973, 53 weeks
before the finals began with a stultifying 0-0 between Brazil and Yugoslavia,
England’s attempts to book their passage began to go awry with a 2-0 loss in
Katowice. BBC1 proudly announced they’d secured the rights to show the game
live and in its entirety; consequently, a supine capitulation, aided by the
dismissal of Alan Ball, shone out across the nation on a Wednesday tea time.
Even worse, the return fixture at Wembley in October of that year, when Jan Tomaszewski
made a fool of Brian Clough and his dismissive analysis that the Polish keeper
was “a clown,” while Peter Shilton allowed the only shot the Poles had to slip
under his body, was not only live on ITV, but conclusive proof that Poland were
going to West Germany and England were not. Alan Clarke’s equaliser from the
penalty spot on the night was really no consolation. This failure was not just
a national disgrace, it was the beginning of the end for Alf Ramsey, who was
replaced temporarily by the avuncular Joe Mercer until the ominous figure of
Don Revie, fresh from overseeing Leeds United kick their way to the title,
assumed control. Meanwhile, the rest of the world had a tournament to watch.
Unlike
the garish hues and robotic, synthesised, satellite garbled commentary of
Mexico 1970 and the uneasy and unspoken combination of photogenic ticker tape
displays and brutal, military repression that came to represent Argentina 1978,
the 1974 tournament is strangely lacking in iconic images. Neither is it lauded
in the annals of the game’s history, partly because the 97 goals scored marked
the lowest average per game in any final series, but mainly because, the same
as in 1954 when the magnificent Magyars lost the final, the wrong team won. It
isn’t the case that rose-tinted spectacles and a warm glow of nostalgia refined
over 44 long, passing years have affected my objectivity, the most compelling
truth about the 1974 World Cup is that Holland were an amazing side to watch
and that Johann Cruyff was the best player on the planet. To this day, I regret
that the prosaic, pragmatic and predatory West Germans were able to squeeze the
life out of Het Oranje with a game
plan of resolute defending and high tempo harrying. Although I do recognise
that Helmut Schön coached his side to win by fair means, not foul. The contrast
between the clean as a whistle tackling by the likes of Vogts, Hoeness and Beckenbauer
with the serial thigh-high assaults of the psychotic Uruguayans and Chileans
could not have been more pronounced. Even Brazil, only 4 years on from their
spectacular triumph in the Azteca, had embraced the concept of the studs-up
lunge as their default defensive tactic.
The
world was a very different place in 1974; football was a much smaller deal for
a start. Only 16 nations competed in the tournament and 9 of those were
European. Zaire were Africa’s sole representatives, while Asia had none at all.
Haiti were the CONCACAF participants and Oceania sent Australia to complete the
line-up. The 16 sides were split into 4 groups, with the top 2 going through
from each to play in 2 subsequent second stage groups. This was the first time
such an approach was used; it was maintained for Argentina 1978 but
subsequently abandoned after the tournament was expanded to 24 teams. By total
coincidence, the fixtures fell in such a way that the final second stage group
games were actually semi-finals, between Holland and Brazil, and Poland and
West Germany.
As
regards popular attitudes to these far-off countries of which we knew little,
South Americans, other than Brazil, were cynical, Eastern Europeans
well-drilled and Mediterraneans excitable, but prone to diving. The Cold War
and the end of Empire combined to produce a world view that was equal parts paranoia
and paternalism, meaning every game was viewed through a prism of political
opposition or diplomatic tolerance. Obviously, Scotland were supported by the
two television networks and, or so it seemed, by everyone I knew. At Falla Park
Junior School, black and white tartan scarves were all the rage among the lads,
while the lasses were all Bay City Rollers fans, so it was a no-brainer to
follow Willie Ormond’s side. This seemed a good decision when Peter Lorimer and
Joe Jordan scored the opening goals of the tournament as Scotland beat Zaire
2-0 in the second game. I remember celebrating wildly in our living room;
perhaps it was out of a sense of relief, as I’d been bored to stupefaction by
the Brazil Yugoslavia game and gone outside to kick a ball around with Mickey
Bell and Marky Hodgson who lived around the corner.
This
hints at a basic problem for young kids back then; we simply weren’t used to
concentrating on football for the full 90 minutes. I’d only seen about 5 live
games in the flesh by this point; at least in a ground there are many other
things than the action on the pitch to distract you. This wasn’t the case with
a televised game and quite a few of them were really rather boring. During the
opening phase, Group 1’s only stand out game was Jurgen Sparwasser’s finest
moment, when his goal enabled the socialists from East Germany to beat their
capitalist neighbours 1-0. I still recall the hysterical celebrations by the
small band of approved travellers from the far end of Checkpoint Charlie going
wild on the terraces when the winning goal went in. A truly seismic Saturday
evening in Hamburg.
Group
2 was Scotland’s, where the heroic draws with Brazil and then Yugoslavia
counted for nothing when Valdomiro’s innocuous shot squirmed beneath the Zaire
substitute keeper; eliminated by 1 goal and with the record of being the
tournament’s only unbeaten team, Scotland went home with their heads held high.
This was not to be the case 4 years later, but we’ll not go into that just now.
Group 3 was lit up by Holland’s excellence, while Uruguay were dirty and the
Bulgarians and Swedes desperately dull. Group 4 was dominated by Poland, which
made England’s elimination by them a more respectable failure than previously
assumed. Argentina, notably represented by the arse-length hair of Ruben Ayala,
squeezed out Italy to qualify, while Haiti lost all their games, including a
7-0 thumping by Poland.
In
the second stage, Argentina and East Germany ran out of steam, as the brilliant
Dutch waltzed through to the final with 3 successive victories. West Germany
were similarly imperious in the other group; their 1-0 win over Poland to reach
the final was really the icing on the cake as a draw would have done them.
So,
just as England completed a 3-0 home series triumph over India by bowling them
out for 216 to win by an innings at Edgbaston, the World Cup reached its
climax. Over recent years it has become the custom for television not to show
the third and fourth place play-off. I really wish they hadn’t shown this one
as Poland, with Gregor Lato getting his 7th goal of the tournament,
ground their way past Brazil in a truly terrible game. I remember turning over
to Test Match Special on BBC2 where
David Lloyd made 214 not out and skipper Mike Denness exactly 100 as England
racked up 459/2.
The
final was played on Sunday 7th July and it was the first time I’ve
known frustration so huge and impotent, with defeat rendering me as bereft as
the FA Cup final of two months previous. Everything began so well with Neeskens
scoring a second minute penalty. For 20 minutes Germany were all over the
place; Rep, Krol, Haan, Resenbrink, van Hanegem, Cruyff and the rest controlled
the game. And then Holzenbein fell in the area; Breitner, the dashing,
left-wing firebrand who could have passed for a Baader Meinhoff operative,
slotted the equaliser, before that damned Gerd Muller made in 2-1 to the hosts
on half time. The sight of the hapless, flat footed Jan Jongbloed helplessly
watching the ball roll past him could be the iconic image of the 74 World Cup.
The second period was worse; Holland were shot. They had no answers and Germany
ought to have had 2 more goals, one was wrongly disallowed for offside and
another penalty wasn’t given. Sadly, the fairy-tale had no happy ending. West
Germany won, and Der Kaiser proudly held
the trophy aloft.
I
switched off the telly, picked up my Woolies size 5, then knocked for Mickey
and Mark to play 3 pots and in on the grass at the far end of Brettanby Road.
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