For Irish football fans of a certain age, our obsession with the game is almost always linked to one long month in June 1990 when our country got to the World Cup Quarter Final; when the nation came to a complete stop for a few glorious unforgettable weeks; then held its breath for one glorious unforgettable penalty kick. In the year that Jack Charlton died, so many memories of pure joy came flooding back. Emotions not felt before for this great man came out. The manner in which we cloaked him in our affections rushed back. And we learned a bit more about how we fell head over heels in love with this game. How could any Irish man or woman of my generation not.
Then in November, Diego Maradona died. The most phenomenal talent of his generation and a player who, for two sets of fans in particular, does not rival deities, but sits among them. His explosive impact in Mexico 86 and for Napoli in the late 80’s did not merely endear him to his country and adopted city and did not bring just legendary status to him in Argentina and Naples – he became the embodiment of everything about that country and that city. We all looked on at this man smash a World Cup to pieces and drag a desperate club to glory in the best league in the world at the time.
In looking back at his career and life, something struck me. Perhaps it was not the long summer of 1990 itself that defined my obsession with the game. It may in fact have been the 8 months prior to it. From the early afternoon of the 15th November 1989, when Ireland cemented qualification in Malta, through Christmas and the receipt of the Orbis World Cup 90 epic stickerbook / album (completed. Last sticker – Uruguay flag) all the way to Day 1 when Cameroon stunned Diego himself, the build-up seemed endless.
In the days before Sky TV, it was left up to Screensport to create that hype. They showed what now seem like dozens of half-hour specials on various teams, including a memorable take on hot young Romanian prospect Daniel Timofte – whatever happened him! But above all else, it was the broadcast and my repeated viewings of “Hero – The Official Film of the 1986 World Cup” that found a permanent place in my consciousness and subconsciousness.
The film focuses on several playmakers across the tournament – very much in keeping with Jack Charlton’s analysis of the tactics on display that month. Every game was played through a number of these players and they were the ones who made each team tick. They were all attackers or creative midfielders – no.10s or no.9s. Platini, Elkjaer, Laudrup, Butragueno, Sanchez, Francescoli and of course, Diego Maradona.
I watched quite a bit of it after Maradona’s death and it just hit me. There could not have been many kids aged 11 or 12 or thereabouts who watched this film at this time, in the build-up to Italia 90, who are not massive football fans to this day. Just look at the spectacle. It opens with a piece on the devastation of the 1985 earthquake, before going to the Azteca for Mexico’s opening game. Even with all the great stadiums around today, this arena looks out of this world. It’s a cathedral. 110,000 souls, almost all Mexican, watched on as they beat Belgium 2-1. It shows a country emerging from a national trauma and the release of all those emotions as their hero Hugo Sanchez scores the goal that would ultimately win the game.
The film looks and sounds amazing with the soundtrack from Rick Wakeman, very 80’s, all brooding synth and epic prog rock. And it’s narrated by Michael Caine, which seems odd but it works. The colours are striking; the entire tournament bathed in Mexican sunshine; every kit immaculate; the Adidas Azteca ball being caressed along the greenest grass in all it’s glory (yes I owned one myself and I remember filling in the markings on it with permanent marker after they had worn off!); and for really the first time, the colour in the stands, as the fans from all over the world created what may have been the earliest true football festival. In particular the Danish fans seem to have helped create this atmosphere, cemented in place in no small part by ourselves 4 and 8 years later. Perhaps Spain in 82 had an element of this but in the past, these tournaments were relatively subdued affairs where all of the action was on the pitch. Compare the news reports from England in 1966 to Euro 96. As flights got cheaper and the international travel industry boomed, the notion of the football tournament being an entirely on-field event was cast aside in those years and it is evidenced even in Mexico, despite the distances needed to travel for Europeans.
But the enduring colours are the sky blue and white stripes of Argentina. And the enduring image is of Diego Maradona wheeling away in triumph after scoring against Italy, England and Belgium, the latter two twice. Of the 5 goals, 1 was cheating; 2 were excellent finishes (Italy and the 1st against Belgium); 1 was pure World Class (the 2nd against Belgium) and the other was simply out of this world. Indescribable magic. Images embedded in my mind as a child that will never be erased as long as I have a memory. The film is available free on youtube. If you are a football fan of any age and you haven’t seen this, please, please do yourself a favour during this lockdown and watch it.
So as we say goodbye to that poxy year of 2020 and hope for better times ahead, we will all come together in Lansdowne at some stage and chant Jack Charlton’s name I’m sure. His passing was one of the most emotional times in recent years in Irish sport, and Irish society generally. I couldn’t add anything more to the tributes paid to him, but I would like to share this incredible piece from Second Captains, as it sums him up so well and introduced a few of his ideas that had never really been talked about or expanded upon before. Every word he says here is vital and inspiring; tinged with sadness it may be, and when set to “The Lucid” by Conor Walsh, ( a musician from Mayo who died suddenly very young) it’s a challenge to avoid welling up.
2020 took a lot from us all, some much more than others. In terms of football, it took away the rituals we all adore so much – the pre and post-match scoops in Dublins 2 and 4; following the floodlights to Tallaght, Phibsboro, Turner’s Cross et al; away trips; hastily arranged Sunday afternoon pints; stopping with your kids in your local park to pass judgment on the Lourdes Celtic or Cherry Orchard under 14’s match; the sound of training nearby; 5-a-sides in UCD or Greenhills Road. Covid did not steal the game completely but it stole a lot and continues to do so.
But 2020 also took two building blocks of our love of the game here in Ireland, particularly for my age group and those thereabouts. Big Jack and Diego may, on the surface, come from very very different places football-wise. A combative no nonsense Northern Englishman and a diminutive dancer who could do magic with his feet. But they had a lot in common. Apart from their obvious success in winning World Cups, they both managed to lift entire nations; their names became bywords for how football can bring light into dark corners; and their legacies will never diminish.
A Yard of Grass 