Key events
“My first World Cup memory is watching England lose to Portugal on penalties in 2006 at a pub in New Jersey at 6 years old, says Arran Robertson. “My dad (Kyle Robertson of the 19.31 post) and his friend frequently talk about looking at my face of despair and hopelessness and feeling immense guilt for what they had subjected me to. Not much has changed. They also reckon no one paid and just left once England had lost.”
I think this father/son situation may be an MBM first; lovely stuff.
Anthem time!
Righto, our teams are tunnelled and … here they come! Out into the Azteca, the most storied stadium in World Cup history; I can’t begin to fathom how they and their families are feeling, but I’m feeling a way even thinking about it, so I’ve not a clue how they cope.
Of course, our teams for this one met in the 2010 opener too, perhaps Peter Drury’s finest hour.
“My first World Cup was 1966 when I spent the afternoon working in a petrol station in Solihull with only a small transistor radio for company,” says Derek Bishton. “I volunteered for the afternoon shift because the owner was offering double time and as I was a struggling 17-year-old student, I needed the money. Actually, it was the easiest money I ever earnt because not one single car pulled in for petrol during the whole of the game, which of course included extra time. And when the cars finally turned up, most of the drivers were so happy I made a mint out of the tips. I didn’t see the final until some time later when a wonderful colour movie of the tournament was released.”
Brilliant – and for those unacquainted, the World Cup films are terrific historical pieces.
We’ve been taken back to the Azteca to see the competing countries introduced. I hope there’s time to get all 94,635 in before kick-off, 15 minutes from now.
“The first World Cup I remember was 1966, in hindsight one for the ages!” reckons David C Hunter. “I was at Winchester Cathedral participating as a chorister in the Chichester Cathedral Choir. We had a rehearsal the afternoon of the final. Several of the men in the choirs had transistor radios and those bulky earpieces with twisted pink wire. Whenever a team scored they’d use fingers to relay the score. Tied at full time, we were all on edge. The director was the Master of the Winchester choir who was, shall we say, a little overdue for retirement. He was not interested in the game. Trouble was we not as interested in the music as we had been the previous year, when we gave the premiere of the Chichester Psalms and Bernstein had been present. I recall Winchester being bright and airy and everyone cheering once the final whistle blew.
I don’t have any idea how the concert that evening went, but the win was stupendous!”
I’m sad this email didn’t come with a sound recording.
Anyway, time to focus on our game this evening. Mexico have left Mora on the bench, but I’m still looking forward to seeing how Lira and Fidalgo do in midfield. SA, though, have Mokoena and Adams up against them, both of whom my research tells me can properly play. I’m expecting a tight encounter, with Mexico nicking it.
I still can’t wrap my swede around this. Madrid are now the seventh club to hope they’ll restore magic which departed over a decade ago.
“Not my first to watch but the only one I ever attended in person – Scotland v Brazil in the 1998 tournament opener in Paris,” says Colin Livingstone. “My chance to see legends of the game in person, Taffarel, Dunga, Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Cafu – just phenomenal. And my all time favourite, Roberto Carlos.
A very fine day in the bars of Paris with all the Brazilian fans, rounded off by bumping into a very merry Ewan McGregor in a nearby seat, who had evidently enjoyed his day too. Happy memories.”
We got Sky in 96-97, the year Ronaldo was at Barca, and he was maybe the first player that had me saying to my dad “You’ve gotta see this bloke play”, rather than him regaling me with players he’d seen. He’s not the best I’ve seen – though he’s top three – but no one has made my jaw hang open like he did because the speed of him felt and still feels impossible.
“I was eight during Italia 90,” recalls Joe Minihane. “Despite having a Mexico 86 red England top, I can’t remember that tournament but was in full campaign mode for the full works in 1990. My dad had let me try it all on in Scott Sports (RIP) in Harlow town centre, but then said we’d have to come another time. A week or so later, he said we’d go and try it on again. We wandered ‘up the town’ and I donned the white top, navy shorts and white socks in the changing room. When I began to take it off, my old man said there was no need, he’d just paid. Core memory right there! My lad is right and is buzzing (but has asked for Curacao away instead).”
It’s a beauty, is that – consider your job as a father complete, he’s good to go from here.
And the award for understatement goes to … Kyle Robertson. “My first memory is of the 1970 World Cup. As a seven-year old Chelsea fan fresh off their FA Cup win, I was excited to see Peter Bonetti fill in for Gordon Banks but also aware that there was some disappointment around his performance.”
Some disappointment!
You may have missed it, but on the SA bench is Kamogelo Sebelebele; oh man, what a name that is, musical, poetic and beautiful.
Back on telly, they’re talking about Scott McTominay, Gary Neville saying he’s a different player at Napoli to Man United. He’ll be devastated to know I’m not having that – his problem was that at United, Bruno Fernandes played his position, so he was forced deeper, but his box-crashing and finishing were excellent even then. What a life he’s made for himself in Naples, though – not just on the pitch but off it, living like a local and enjoying the love of the people as much for that as for his frankly ludicrous on-pitch deeds.
“Can I just say how much I liked Kev Dwyer’s memory of 1970?” wonders Mason Sato. “I’ve strived for a while to find someone who followed England to that World Cup. I was there in 1986 and it wasn’t easy to get visas and the cost as a 20-year-old to get there was exorbitant. I also saved weekly and only managed to get out for the second phase onwards, though the tickets and accommodation were really cheap compared to today. I’ve always wondered how it was for fans 16 years before I could do it.
My first memory of a football match at a WC was either Chile v Australia in the rain or Haiti going 1-0 up v Italy in 1974. Not sure which was first but I clearly remember the first minute of the final.”
Teams!
Mexico (4-1-2-3): Rangel; Montes, Vasquez, Reyes, Gallardo; Lira; Gutierrez, Fidalgo; Reyes, Jimenez, Quinones. Subs: Acevedo, Ochoa, Sanchez, Alvarez, Chavez M, Romo, Pineda, Vargas, Mora, Chavez L, Vega, Gimenez, Gonzalez, Huerta, Martinez.
South Africa (5-3-2): Williams; Modiba Mbokazi, Sibisi, Mudau, Okon; Mokoena, Sithole, Adams; Rayners, Foster. Subs: Chaine, Goss, Matuldi, Ndamane, Kabini, Makhanya, Corss, Mbatha, Zwane, Appollis, Moremi, Mofokeng, Maseko, Makgopa, Sebelebele.
Referee: William Sampaio (Brazil)
Our teams are in, so while I get them up for you, something to dig into: here’s my playlist of South African bangers. If you’ve a Mexican equivalent, holler.
Oh man, this stuff gets me every time – we’re watching Bafana Bafana singing their way into the ground. It’s not the below, but it’s similar – and similarly affirming.
“I’m at the Gare du Nord waiting to board for Blighty,” says Harry McDonald. “My first World Cup was on radio in 1958, I was 10 years old. Danny Blanchflower and Harry Gregg were my main interest.
I’ve watched every one since except the last. I watched not one second and I felt no sense of loss. It was an appalling decision to go there. I’m definitely considering not watching any of this one either: similar reasons.”
Blanchflower and Gregg, two absolute heroes. Harry, of course, saved lives at Munich like it was nothing, while Danny is responsible for one of the great football quotations:
“The great fallacy is that the game is first and last about winning. It is nothing of the kind. The game is about glory, it is about doing things in style and with a flourish, about going out and beating the lot, not waiting for them to die of boredom.”
Shakira and Burna time! The official tune isn’t as good as the 2010 classic, but it’s a decent effort. Burna’s voice reminds me of the groove, depth and texture you get from records relative to CDs.
“My dad went out and bought a colour telly for the first World Cup I can remember, which was 1974,” writes Matt Emerson. “That West German summer was relentlessly overcast and grey in my memory, so we needn’t have bothered, but I was hooked. This will be my f14th and it’s just as good, despite the ongoing attempts to screw things up generally. You measure your life out by World Cups and I reckon I’ve got seven more left after this one, so I’m going to enjoy it.”
The tech bros will have us living beyond 300 by the time of your seventh, so we’re all good.
It’d be nice if they told us who everyone is, but so far, it’s just action, no captions or comms. There’s a lad singing in a leather tracky, underneath which things must be extremely ripe, then it’s time for some mariachi.
“I’m old,” confesses Kev Dwyer. “Watched the 1966 World Cup on TV and then as one of a group of four apprentices we all decided to save £2 per week from our wages and go and watch us retain the Jules Rimet in Mexico in 1970. Time went by, weddings happened and then there were two who headed off, the week after my 21st birthday, travelling on a trip organised by the England Football Supporters Association. Tickets to all the matches plus tickets to the final. I got to watch living football legends, and was sitting directly behind the goal when Banksy saved Pele’s shot. The Azteca was a disappointment in that our seats were so far up in the Gods that you couldn’t really make out the intricacies of the game. Great memories, hope that there’s some more made for the supporters over there.”
Brilliant!
“We are a nation of diversity, heritage and pride,” says the lead voice – words I wish were less poignant and pertinent.
“The home stadium advantage for Mexico has been duly noted but until you experience it you can’t fully appreciate it,” says Mary Waltz. “Yes, the heat and altitude is oppressive. But it is the fans that make it so intimidating. Knowledgable, vicious, non-stop support and refs often swayed by the crowd.”
I hope the fans who create that can afford to get in. On which point, we’re ready to get going, drums beating, vocals soaring, dancers in formation.
The opening ceremony begins
Aha, the opening ceremony is upon us. We’re in the Azteca, mates!
I talked earlier about first World Cups, so please do send in memories of yours. Mine was Mexico 86 – and how mad is it there’ll have been three there since England last hosted – and my main takeaway now, as an apparent adult, is how Diego Maradona gave me and my cohort an entirely false representation of what football is. For years afterwards, I thought it was possible for someone to run around everyone between them and goal, but it turns out that’s just him.
“That ITV studio is spectacular,” reckons Kev the Poet. “Almost as spectacular as the nark-off between Roy Keane and anyone else. The BBC is going to have The Ghost Of Barry Davies coming out of the Manchester Ship Canal to compete.”
It is – it’s outdoors on the East River, with a sensational view of Manhattan. But I’d take Barry Davies coming out of anywhere.
And the correct answer is!
I almost got away with playing this at my wedding.
“Here in the States, the pre-game crew includes, as ever, Alexi Lalas, but also has a new addition of Zlatan for this tournament,” advises Mac Scarles. “If the approximately 10 seconds of interaction I just saw is any indication, the odds are high that Zlatan just might kill Lalas with his bare hands before the tournament is over. A chemistry void for the ages. It’s going to be a fun six weeks.”
Goodness, I’m not sure it’s possible to understand football culture, spirit and soul less than Lalas does. Godspeed, Zlats old mate.
Aaaaand the first email of the competition goes too … Justin Kavanagh. “Football used to be seen as the opiate of the masses, with many stories from previous World Cups of ceasefires declared to watch games, birthrates soaring 9 months after victories … etc. However, this one feels more like a methadone clinic, with thin rations stretched out over a longer time frame, and with the dealer going uptown where he’ll find wealthier marks. Sure we’ll all watch on TV because we love the game. But more and more people who actually once participated in the game at any level are coming to the realisation that Fifa’s product is poisoned by politics and by greed, and Infantino and co have shut the gates on us.”
It takes a lot to make Sepp Blatter look like the arch liberator, doesn’t it? I wish I had something pithily amusing and reassuring to say here, but I don’t; we just have to do our best to oppose wrongness in our immediate spheres of influence.
Almost straight off the bat, ITV go to the politics – “Things that always litter a pre-tournament buildup,” says Neville. Er, do they? He goes on to say the football will take over, but Ian Wright, Roy Keane and Mark Pougatch make sure to stipulate we mustn’t let it obscure the continuing issues.
Gosh, the first montage of the tournament, of tournaments past, has me quite emotional – there’s a lot to take in, and that’s before I get going on Gary Neville’s shirt, straight off the peg from River Island c.1995.
Watching from the UK, it’s time for ITV’s credits and, if you’ve not seen them, they’re beautiful, shot on film and lush as you like.
Yes!
Quiz time: name that tune!
Ahhhh! Ding! Ding ding ding ding! Neow! Ding ding ding ding! Ta bam bam bam bam bam bam!
De ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne. De ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne. De ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne, ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne ne!
Preamble
What a feeling! Thirty-nine days, 104 matches, and the greatest joy known to humankind, an affirming, inspiring, immersive, absorbing, challenging, compelling, enriching, educational orgy of glorious, wondrous, beauteous football. Drink it in, people!
Just be careful you don’t choke. Because though we thought that, after Russia and Qatar, World Cups – or should that be Worlds Cup, we deal with all the important issues here – couldn’t get any more problematic, here we are.
The awfulness is too extensive to enumerate in this preamble but, before football happens and narcotises us into compliance, we must pay our debt to pleasure – ideally not simply by grousing, but perhaps by doing something small to combat the forces that co-opt us and our incomparable game. Being kind and tolerant, perhaps, or donating to a charity that supports migrants or refugees – our options are numerous.
Quite how we segue from here back to the sport isn’t totally clear, but such are the complexities of life, the game a victim of its own genius, simply too amazing and uniting not to be exploited by bad actors, corporate voids and invertebrate suits. So let’s dig into that; seamless, eh?
We’ll begin of course, with the spectacle and snark of our first opening ceremony – USA is also staging one – with those of us old enough to remember 1970 and 1986 forgiven for convulsing into tears at the mere sight of Estadio Azteca. In which connection, it’s worth remembering that for millions of children around the world, this is their debut tournament; the first time they’ve experienced the joy of a football onslaught. And, while those of us who are well beyond that will never recapture our personal moment, staying up late and sneaking snide watches, the sense of wonder is something we understand better now, as adults, than in the moment as kids.
A lot’s happened to us since then, the weight of the years narrowing eyes and dulling senses. But if we take a moment with ourselves, we’re there, the sense of wonder perpetually part of us and perennially there for us. These are the days of our lives, and this is the vibe we can bring to it – and everything else – if we allow ourselves to.
On to our opening match and it’s a belter, two teams looking to attack but in different ways: Mexico by controlling the centre of the pitch and South Africa with thrust down the flanks. Look out for Gilberto Mora, the hosts’ 17-year-old midfielder – he’s the youngest player in the tournament and a serious talent – but really, look out for absolutely everything. It’s here!
Opening ceremony: 11.30am local, 1,30pm EDT, 6.30pm BST, 3.30am (Fri) AEST
Kick-off: 1pm local, 3pm EDT, 8pm BST, 5am (Fri) AEST
