The heartbroken eight-year-old me, sat in the living room watching Diego Maradona (height: 5’ 5”) fist the ball past the agility-free and rather lackadaisical Peter Shilton (height: 6’1”).
Watching Maradona jink and stumble his way through England’s defence - blissfully unaware of the danger that the little fella would cause some thirty-yards up the pitch. He scored right-footed, which leads some people (me) to suggest it was a Terry Butcher own-goal, but even still, what a goal.
It wasn’t all over, there were still eleven people on the pitch wearing white shirts and sky-blue shorts. John Barnes came on for one of them, and crossed from the left to find Gary Lineker. 2-1! He did the same thing again, moments later, but Lineker couldn’t put it away.
Heart truly shattered, I went to bed, no doubt clutching my wad of ‘swaps’ – Panini Mexico ’86 stickers I already had duplicates of stuck wonkily into my album – that went with me everywhere. Not forgetting to turn off the radio, which had been playing the match commentary quietly - but just loud enough so that my little sister wouldn’t know that I’d been allowed to stay up late watching telly.
This was the first year I was aware of video recorders. A boy in my class at primary school, Wayne, his grandparents had a video recorder, and they had taped the first Scotland game for him. ‘Don’t tell me the score’ he probably pleaded with us. It was obvious though, Scotland lost, to Denmark, who were amazing and beat everyone. Well, until they had to play Spain and got trashed. Denmark had this amazing kit too, but I suggest you read about the amazing Danes of '86 here.
Bryan Robson was my favourite player then. Captain Marvel, they called him, skipper of both club and country. Got crocked in the second game, a tired affair with Morocco. Ray Wilkins, who had left the Manchester United midfield for foreign climes before I started watching football, got sent off. The third group game, against Poland, wow. This lad who’d scored a veritable shed-load of goals for Everton, Gary Lineker, up he pops to bag a hat-trick. Brilliant. Little chap called Beardsley tees them up for him, and we’re through!
Scotland meanwhile, oh deary me. I get out the bath and run downstairs. I've missed the first minute of their crucial World Cup decider against Uruguay. Oh blimey, a Uruguayan’s been sent off. That’s good news, 88 minutes to break down this defence. And Scotland have got Souness, and he’s a right hard bastard. We know this, me and my friends, because on one of our World Cup wallcharts, there’s this picture of Souness with a skinned knee, like ours were. And he hadn’t gone crying to his mum or nothing, he played on.
Souness wasn’t even on the bench. Neither was McAvennie, one of the top scorers in English football that season. They’d already lost to Denmark and Germany, and their shocking inability to break down the dirtiest team I’d ever seen meant they were on their merry way home.
Northern Ireland, if memory serves me right, they got a full plate of cold revenge from the Spanish side that they beat at the previous tournament. Brazil then smacked home a few goals past Pat Jennings to stick them on a plane home to what would presumably become George Best International Airport.
There was an amazing goal, me and my friends at school, we’d never seen anything like it before (we were 8, dammit). Manuel Negrete of Mexico. It was in the first knock-out round. Here is the video that I’ve just managed to find. Words fail me.
England beat Paraguay at this stage, I remember loving Paraguay’s kit. Red and white striped shirts, blue shorts, white socks. No-one wore those colours in English football, and I just loved how it worked. Obviously Atletico Madrid wear this kit, but we barely had English football on TV, let alone Spanish matches...
Then along came Argentina. The Hand of God and the boot of Butcher. Ho-hum.
France losing to Brazil on penalties, that was harsh too. Taffarel, the Brazilian ‘keeper, committed an atrocious foul on a French attacker, it was nearly up there with the GBH the German goalie had committed on France’s Battison only four years previous. And for Michel Platini, the best player in the world, for him to miss a penalty in the shoot-out, devastating.
And after all that, the Argentina won, beating West Germany. It’s always a little more rewarding to know that the team who bested you, were unbeatable. A recognition of deservedness. God lifted up that trophy high above Mexico City, and a voice called out, ‘Jamie, it’s time for bed’. I was only eight: it was probably past my bedtime and I had school in the morning.
Jamie
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