The First Cut

The first World Cup I saw is still the one I remember most vividly. And that was before a single match was telecast live in India. All thanks to the magical technology of VHS. I had grown up at very close quarters to the inspiring spectacle of cinema in its golden age, the shock and awe of films from Sholay to Star Wars 70mm with six track stereophonic sound very much my generation’s drug of choice.

It turned out to be as fascinating to have that at your command. In your home. So in addition to the great films of the time, my parents managed to procure some tapes of Brazil’s 1982 World Cup campaign in Spain.(A world so unrecognisable— it had a Spain known as chronic underachievers, and known most to me for the phonetic pleasure that their goalkeeper Zubizaretta provided.) In an era where the only other access to any information about my favourite sport of football was subscription to the weekly magazines like Sportsweek or Sportsworld (newspapers consigned it the few scraps that cricket and hockey barely allowed—live telecasts on Doordarshan began only with the 1982 Seminfinals), this was liquid gold. So over the next several months (if not years), I wore down those tapes, living out what Liverpool fans now sing about Luis Suarez—'I Just Can’t Get Enough'. 

For starters, there was the momentary aberration when Brazil fell behind to Scotland, before strolling to a 4-1 win. Having won their group, they went to a second group round, an unbelievable 3 way fight with Argentina & Italy.

Goalscoring defenders like Leandro & Junior who were the prototype of attacking fullbacks today, combined with a virtuoso midfield with Falcao in the middle, and Eder and the dazzling Zico on the flanks. Their ‘keeper Peres was functional, which was more acceptable than having a just about serviceable Serginho as their centre forward.

1982. Sócrates and Zico celebrate Zico's opening goal against Italy. File/AP

But the player who caught my imagination, and sums up the Brazilian spirit more than any other, was Socrates. (I’m sure he is the reason I chose to study Philosophy as well!) As the commentators unfailingly drilled into my pre- teen brain, here was a man who smoked 60 cigarettes a day and wasn’t averse to the odd pint of beer either, not only at the heart of the best midfield of its generation, but its Captain! He was languidness personified, instinctively marrying minimal effort with maximum reward, none better than when he latched on to a through ball to equalise in their final group game with Italy.

Before that, they put together a masterclass in demolishing reigning champions Argentina, the punctuation being a red card for one D. Maradona for a kick that doubled the number of orbs normally targeted, most agonisingly for Joao Batista… Four years later, with the matches now making it live to DD, his god-like limbs would enthral us, but that was later. In 1982, Brazil v Italy was a classic for the ages. Agonizingly for me, it was the birth of the legend of Paolo Rossi. He had been shamed and banned in a betting scandal in Italy, but began his renaissance here. He scored, Brazil equalised. He scored again, and Brazil fought back. But then he scored his third, and just like that, the best team of the tournament, my team, was out.

July 5, 1982: Italy's Paolo Rossi, left, celebrates, after scoring the second goal for his team during their World Cup match second round soccer match against Brazil, in Barcelona, Spain. AP Photo/File

Rossi went on to have the week of his life, scoring three more, as he added the Golden Boot and Golden Ball to the Jules Rimet trophy. I was disconsolate. But in addition to the flair on the pitch, the sheer tribal energy of painted faces and passionate fans was a sight so new and addictive— I was hooked. It was also the tournament with the first penalty shootout, probably the game of the tournament. The French, featuring Michel Platini, broke a 1-1 deadlock with two goals in extra time, before the Germans brought a semi- fit Karl- Heinze Rumenigge on, and turned things upside down. They somehow levelled it against the disintegrating French, and won it from the spot.

Four years later, it was even better as we watched the best World Cup Final I’ve seen live. I was with friends, at my half German friend’s house as midnight came around. The Argentines were head to head with the Germans in Mexico. A couple of us were ecstatic as the Argentines opened a 2-0 lead, then grimaced as our hosts celebrated unbelievable German spirit as they brought it back to 2-2. Till another phonetic delight, Jorge Burruchaga, sent us into ungainly somersaulting delirium by winning it for Diego’s boys. We ran down to the building compound and set off fireworks to celebrate, our laughter and cheering drowning out the pyrotechnics! In the weeks before we had furiously debated whether Maradona’s 'Hand Of God' was offset by the sublime slaloming second goal that finished off the English. Football was now religion, as we tried to imitate them on the school pitch too. 

Maradona, 'Hand of God'

I’ve watched most of the World Cups since, but have relied more on the fortunes of Liverpool in club football for my fix. Down 0-3 against Milan in the 2005 Champions League final at halftime, at 1.30 am, I followed the advice of my Red Setter, Dylan, and loyally watched on, rewarded with the best final and best comeback in the tournament’s history. There were many more things to enjoy now— both the quality and volume of coverage about and around the game and its players is great now, but I also started relating to the role of the manager too. Like a film director, you don’t get out onto the pitch, even though you craft all the strategy. There is a huge role for intangibles that bring the best out of your team, and when it works, it is the players on the field who should be in the spotlight. The best games are like great films too— full of dramatic reversals, and heroes overcoming the greatest odds. It maps well onto politics too— rich plutocracies like Manchester City, Chelsea & PSG, a reflection of the oligarchs above us too.

April 13, 2014: Before their English Premier League soccer match at Anfield Stadium against Manchester City Liverpool supporters hold their scarves prior to a minute's silence in tribute to the 96 supporters who lost their lives in the Hillsborough disaster of 25 years ago on 15 April 1989, Liverpool, England. File/AP Photo/Jon Super

This year, football gave me a chance for more sober reflection too— 25 years after 96 fans lost their lives at Hillsborough, one of the sports' worst disasters, I watched as their families’ fight for justice seemed finally like it would succeed. Sobering because as Prime Minister Cameron said sorry for the injustice in the original verdict, I wondered how long it would take for all those waiting for justice in our country, thousands of victims of violence and inequity, all through the decades, right till those acquitted in the Akshardham case by the Supreme Court after 11 years, to get an apology from the state. In football, Luis Suaraz, went from being guilty for various indiscretions, to being the best player in Europe. What helped the transition from being one of the most reviled players to one of its most loved, was also an apology for his past indiscretions.

I watch still, but with life full of many other wonderful distractions, it matters less. Maybe that is the only way it should be, but for a night, I would love to be that kid again.

Rohan Sippy is a film director