Soccer

Brendan Crossan: Memories of Italia 90 - the good, the bad and that wonderful night in Palermo

Diego Maradona was a pale shadow of his former self at Italia 90
Diego Maradona was a pale shadow of his former self at Italia 90 Diego Maradona was a pale shadow of his former self at Italia 90

DURING the hot summer of 1990 I was working as an office assistant in Peden & Reid solicitors in Belfast’s city centre.

Perched above what used to be Bradford & Bingley Building society – now a well-known coffee shop – I earned £50 per week, mainly for delivering Affidavits around the town, making bank lodgements and bringing papers to the courts.

I also made tea and coffee for the entire two floors of workers twice a day: solicitors, trainee solicitors, partners, typists and telephone operators.

Probably on the back of my tea and coffee-making prowess, I received a £16 per week pay rise after a few months.

I had more disposable income than I ever had.

I remember Friday June 8 1990 like it was yesterday. It was the first day of the World Cup. Holders Argentina versus Cameroon at a sun-splashed San Siro.

The great Diego Maradona would grace our television screens again, just as he had done four years earlier at Mexico ’86.

Well, at least, every kid that watched him back then hoped – prayed – that he could somehow reproduce the same magic at Italia ’90.

Kick-off for the opening game was 5pm. It was a race against time to get home for the start of the game.

No way did you want to run the risk of missing one of Maradona’s slalom runs or deft back heels.

I’d usually leave the solicitors office at 4.45pm and bring the following days' mail to the post office, situated at the back of the city hall, now Ten Square Hotel & Restaurant.

I remember the queue in the post office was lighter than usual. So I’d a chance of catching the early bus.

I sprinted along the side of city hall like Jorge Burruchaga racing onto one of Maradona’s through passes and caught the number 35 and no more.

Somehow, I was in our front room watching Maradona and Cameroon captain Stephen Tataw exchange national pennants in the middle of the pitch and Maradona patting his adversary on the chest with a warm smile.

It was to be the last friendly act between the two teams as the Cameroon players seemed to take it in turns to kick Claudio Cannigia out of the game.

Between Mexico 86 and Italia 90 there was clear slippage in Maradona.

He was still the greatest player in the world but there were more passes and flicks than slalom dribbles that were his devastating trademark when he lifted gold in the Azteca Stadium.

Napoli, Italian football’s unloved underdogs, were still upsetting the blue-bloods of the north by claiming a couple of hard-earned Scudettos.

When Napoli won the UEFA Cup in 89, Maradona was fighting the flab, but he could still provide killer passes for the likes of the great Brazilian striker Careca and Italy’s Andrea Carnevale to win games.

Entering Italia ’90, Maradona had successful whipped his body into shape while also guiding Napoli to another league title.

But within minutes of watching their opening game against Cameroon, Maradona’s gait had changed considerably. He was physically tight looking, the devastating turn of pace gone.

He was a pale shadow of the player of four years earlier.

Watching Maradona wince and limp through Italia ‘90 was like a grieving process for those of us who were utterly mesmerised by what he did in Mexico.

And yet, in Daniel Arcucci’s excellent book: ‘Touched by God: How we won the Mexico ’86 World Cup’, the great man insisted he was in better shape for the 1990 World Cup than in ’86.

It was a hardly believable claim.

“I was in better shape in ’90. Soccer-wise too,” he told Arcucci. “I was 29. I had won the last 10 games for Napoli single-handedly. Now, when I arrived in Mexico, I had some great games with Napoli under my belt, but by the time I got to Italy four years later I had two championships as well… I could fly even higher than I had four years before…”

But, as Italia ’90 progressed, Maradona's performances dipped because of an in-grown toenail, a swollen ankle and having to play, he insists, the ill-fated final against West Germany with a torn muscle.

While the Argentines somehow grinded their way to back-to-back World Cup finals, the Germans had Lothar Matthaus, who man-marked Maradona in the ’86 final but was transformed into this dynamic, lung-bursting central midfielder in Italy, as well as the incomparable Andreas Brehme, Rudi Voller and Jurgen Klinsmann.

They turned out to be worthy winners.

Brazil, meanwhile, gave up on their traditional footballing values by trying to play the European way, under the bureaucratic Sebastiao Lazaroni, and failed miserably despite having the talent to go all the way.

And while Frank Rijkaard was gobbing into Rudi Voller’s famous curls at the San Siro, at least Roger Milla’s football and dancing skills lifted a few dark clouds that became synonymous with Italia ‘90 – a tournament that promised so much but delivered so little, and probably wasn’t helped by the outstanding entertainment in Mexico four years earlier.

I loved the Italians - Baresi, Maldini: proper footballers - and Roberto Baggio whose individual flair was as good as it got at that World Cup.

For many in these parts, Genoa was the highlight and David O’Leary’s penalty that saw the Irish go to Rome to play the hosts.

For me, though, Palermo was the mother of all highlights – the night when Dutch goalkeeper Hans van Breukelen spilled the ball and Niall Quinn pounced to grab the equaliser and send Ireland through to the knock-out stages.

I remember I had the house to myself that evening. I’ve never jumped as high in my life since.

And Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma filled my heart that summer in a way I didn’t imagine Opera could.

For me, World Cups are the weirdest and most wonderful things.

It’s the only part of me that has remained 12-years-old.