HEROES AND VILLAINS
Peter Holmes

Thankfully, it's nearly upon us again, so it's time to stock the fridge with your favourite ale, renew the batteries of the remote and tune the TV to the only channel that will be worth watching. The one showing every single game of the World Cup Finals.

Anticipation is at crescendo level and hope springs eternal for every single competing nation and their one-eyed supporters. That massively hyped celebration to the wonderful World Game and, thanksgiving to the worship of the beautiful round ball is here, finally, this weekend. The neutrals pick a team to follow and still watch every moment, even though their own national players are watching with them. Equality, World super-stars turned into mere voyeurs with the proletariat.

The aura and galvanising effect of this truly World competition never diminishes, it just grows exponentially like inflation on concentrated jungle juice. Fans in every home, lounge, bar, club and pub are ready to change their lives for a whole month of engorgement on the drug of World-class Association Football.

The stranglehold this sporting phenomenon has wrought over the years on the collective minions of the earth's populace is unprecedented, unlike anything else political or evangelical. A sport elevated to worship. Praise be to FIFA!

Every four years the mega-juggernaut that is the Football World Cup takes over the planet and effectively changes the daily habits of every Male and virtually every Female in some form or other. The function of life is interrupted then transformed as every facet of the operation of planet earth is affected by the fever of football. By the war in which weapons are feet and the missiles are balls.

Sleep patterns, eating habits, work hours, hygiene habits, mood variations from euphoric elation to windless deflation. Obsessive compulsive disorders abound, as grown men revert to simian simplicity to support their nation through the medium of terrestrial TV. For once in a bloke's red blooded existence his thoughts are primarily on one thing, and, it's not the wild thing.

Reality, with a dispassionate, pragmatic attitude, armed with the facts and figures would tell you that only one of half-a-dozen teams have a fair shout at winning the golden statue that is the World Cup. But hey, this is football!

And. When did that stop everybody dreaming about their Beloved being there at the death to collect the most important sporting trophy on the planet?

Every single team is media analysed to the nth degree, as is every player in each competing squad, but still the pundits and fans can be surprised at who eventually becomes a saint and a sinner in equal proportion. Yet, history and experience, illuminatingly tell us surprises invariably occur and every competition throws up heroes and villains.

Who could forget a fresh, boyish, diminutive Michael Owen emerge like an exocet missile in the 1998 finals in France, announcing himself emphatically with that fabulous wonder goal against England's arch nemesis Argentina. Then in that same game, which turned into one of the very best battles of France'98, the villain was ordained in the form of the hapless and unlucky David Beckham who was blamed for retaliation and then unceremoniously sent off.

Given the scarlet curse for something that would be considered marginally bookable in a normal game at worst but, wily Simeone with his canny play acting aided by a verbal barrage from the rest in blue ensured a red card for the errant showing of red mist by Becks.

It's history consigned now, but it was a moment which made sure that poor Beckham not only had to endure the instant wrath of Hoddle and his assistant Mrs. Eileen Drewery, but for the next season the continued hate and pillory of the whole of the fan base of the Premier league and the members of the press pack hounds. It's to be admired and speaks legions for his fortitude as he remarkably survived and prospered to become brand Beckham, the most marketable footballer on the planet.

Even worse was the fate that befell poor Andres Escobar of Columbia at USA '94, for simply scoring an own goal against the tournament hosts USA. This errant mistake, which prematurely put his much vaunted team out of the World Cup, resulted in his death. He was shot twelve times as he left a seedy nightclub in Medellin, by an angry idiot gunman who reputedly shouted 'Goal' as every shot hit it's unlucky target.

Then we have God and the Devil incarnate in one human creation, the great and the galling, Diego Armando Maradona. The street urchin from Lanus, Buenos Aires who possessed the skills bestowed from another world but whose soul was corrupted by the very gutters he'd risen from.

He bemused and beguiled in equal proportion. Who could forget his fist goal, dubbed the 'Hand of God', against England in Mexico of 86, one which he followed with arguably the greatest goal in WC final history as he appeared to take on and beat the whole England team.

Onwards he rose, as he dragged the pampas nation to the golden trophy and writ his name immortal in the annals of the history of the game. Then, at Italia '90, an unfit wounded Diego cameo'd, strutted and cajoled his team to the final, only to fail in the ignominy of red cards and spiteful petulance against the Germans in Rome.

Then we have the public downfall of a failed drugs test at USA '94 after a game against Nigeria, and sadly, the man who held the collective votes of the planet's people as greatest footballer on earth, then went on to do a very passable human impression of that very globe. Self destructing, as his weight and fragile disposition spiralled out of control, fuelled by cocaine and binge eating. How the mighty are fallen.

Italia '90 threw up three total surprise heroes in the form of 38 year-old Cameroonian super-sub Roger Milla, Italy's wild-eyed Salvatore 'Toto' Schillachi and Argentinean goalkeeper Sergio Goycoechea.

Milla had virtually retired prior to Italia '90, languidly playing for Saint Pierroise in the French Reunion Islands and was talked out of retirement more as a make-weight and experienced talisman for the young squad.

He came off the bench to score four goals, followed by the swivel hipped dance of Milla, those goals gained his side a quarter final berth, the first African nation to reach that stage, eventually losing out to England in a titanic battle. Milla is still the oldest player to score at the WC finals when he bulged the net against Russia in the '94 series at the ripe old age of 42.

Toto Schilachi scored six goals for Italy in their home tournament, topscorer, golden boot and golden ball winner no less. Yet, he went into the tournament as a surprise one cap wonder in the squad. The Juventus striker was expected to sit patiently on the bench, watching Biaggi, Vialli and Carnevale, but he took his opportunity like a man possessed scoring as a sub. against Austria and blazed from obscurity to national hero.

Bizarrely, he never took a penalty against Argentina in the losing semi-final shoot-out even after he'd scored in normal time. His star faded very quickly after the tournament and he was sadly blighted by injury, in 1994 he became the first Italian to play in the J-league in Japan.

Then we have young Sergio Goycoechea, who only got this chance to shine because Nery Pumpido unluckily broke his leg during the group game against the Soviet Union thus thrusting the second stringer into the spotlight. And, didn't he shine, saving Argentina's bacon in two consecutive penalty shoot-outs against Yugoslavia and then in the semi-final against Italy, turning away efforts from Donadoni and Serena cruelly sending Italy tumbling out, mugged by Maradona and Cannigia.

That tournament though, the whole Argentine team were villains, amassing a record 22 yellow and 3 red cards. Pedro Monzon became the first man ever to be sent off in a World cup final swiftly followed by the second guy ever, his team-mate Gustavo Dezotti. The petulant histrionics that followed marred the grand occasion and made the 1990 final the worst ever, unless of course you were a German.

The heroes we could discuss for ever and the list would be endless but would be embellished with such luminaries as Pele, Charlton, Eusebio, Beckenbauer, Socrates, Kempes, Cruyff, Neeskens, Muller, Platini, Rivellino, Rumenigge, Rossi, Jairzinho, and Puskas to name a few.

But, we'll finish with a villain, a German goalkeeper no less, Harald Schumacher who played for West Germany against France in the semi-final of the 1982 finals in Spain before 63,000 folk in Seville. Galloping out of his box, he pole-axed the unfortunate Patrick Battiston who had just shot wide, rendering him totally unconscious and off on a stretcher to hospital.

It was a foul that referee Charles Corver of the Netherlands didn't even blow his whistle for never mind brandish a red card, giving a goal kick instad. It was the kind of foul play, which, would be soundly condemned on a rugby park, never mind on a football field. But, as is the case in these situations, villain turned to hero in the first ever World cup final penalty shoot-out, saving two, which of course meant that the French lost 5-4 on penalties after a titanic extra-time battle that finished 3-3.

It truly was one of the greatest games ever, punctured by the worst World Cup foul ever. Such are the emotional margins in our game.

I wonder who will provide those hero and villain moments at Germany 2006?

Whatever, whoever, whenever, I'll be watching intently with all of you!

Enough Said,

ErimusRed.

BACK TO WORLD CUP INDEX PAGE