terça-feira, outubro 26, 2004
Visões dos outros
Soccer: PSG puts Porto back in its place
Peter Berlin
International Herald Tribune Friday, October 22, 2004
PARIS A year ago, as the Champions League slogged through its made-for-TV group stages, Porto seemed to be no more than a permanent member of the supporting cast: a biggish fish from a smallish pond that would never have the financial muscle to beat the wealthy royalty of European club soccer.On Wednesday, Porto took the field in Paris with a different aura: It is the reigning European champion. The irony is that, on the evidence of its 2-0 loss to Paris Saint-Germain, it is now the team it was supposed to have been 12 months ago: a decent, hard-working member of Europe's soccer middle class, not quite good enough to do more than make up the numbers in the early rounds.Last season was not Porto's first triumph in Europe's top club competition. But like its compatriot Benfica and other former champions from small soccer-crazed nations, such as Glasgow Celtic and Ajax Amsterdam, PSV Eindhoven and Feyenoord of Rotterdam, it seemed to have been left behind by the financial realities of 21st-century soccer. All are clubs from small countries with one or two large cities, whose leagues are dominated by two or three big clubs. They have the advantage of a less-challenging domestic schedule that leaves them fresher for European games. They can use their smaller local rivals as feeder clubs for new talent. The downside is that the relatively small populations of their countries mean they cannot reap the colossal television revenues that support their English, German, Italian and Spanish rivals. Since the so-called Bosman ruling in 1995 introduced free agency into European soccer, any glimmer of success has immediately attracted the attentions of soccer's wealthy magpies, who instantly pluck away emerging talents.It helps that Porto is a well-run club where the players buy into the team ethos. As Costinha, a Portuguese international defender, said before Wednesday's match, "the star is the team." But after Porto beat Monaco, 3-0, in May to become the first team from outside the big four nations to win the Champions League since Ajax in 1993, it could not keep the "bigger" clubs away. It lost its coach, half its defense and a complete set of midfielders. And although it brought in another boatload of young Brazilians, it banked enough money, according to L'Equipe the French sports daily, to reduce its debts to €35 million, or $44 million. That a club that has just won the Champions League and had a magnificent new stadium built for it by the Portuguese government for Euro 2004, still owes so much is a measure of how difficult it is for clubs from smaller markets to compete financially in Europe.Porto arrived in Paris on Wednesday not only as the champion but also, in the words of its coach, Victor Fernandez, as a young and rebuilding team.Against a Paris team that is languishing near the bottom of the French league and had lost its first two group games, Porto looked the brighter and crisper team for 30 minutes.PSG has gone from being an attention-getting loss-leader for Canal Plus, the French television broadcaster, to an embarrassing drain on resources for a parent that has become an unwanted part of the troubled Vivendi empire.In good times or bad, PSG under Canal Plus has always been run more as a reality TV show than as a soccer club. Nothing has provided more riveting viewing than Luis Fernandez, Vahid Halihodzic's predecessor as coach, twitching toward an emotional breakdown on the sideline. The pressure seems to be getting to the more phlegmatic Halihodzic, too. On Wednesday, it took only a few minutes for his antics to draw a visit from the referee. While PSG defended with energy and discipline, for 29 minutes it looked woeful in attack. The running and passing of its players communicated clearly that they had little confidence in themselves. No player seemed to bear out the coach's complaint that his team lacked talent better than Charles-Edouard Coridon. With tacky white shoes, his socks around his ankles, his shirt hanging out and his tired jog, he looked like a player plucked from bystanders by a Saturday morning team that arrived a man short.Yet on a clammy night, as an electrical storm played above the Parc des Princes, lightning struck on the field. As PSG counter-attacked, Coridon lumbered desperately up the field. Philippe Pichot, wide on the right, hesitated, giving Coridon time to reach the penalty area. The cross was low and a little behind him.Instead of turning to control it, Coridon lurched forward, put his left hand on the ground and swung his right leg up and around, catching the ball with the outside of his foot. It was an upside-down, sideways, no-look, overhead kick. Vitor Baia, the Porto goalkeeper, seemed nonplussed, as the ball bounced under his late lunge and into the goal.A minute later the game was over. With Porto still seemingly stunned, PSG thrust forward. Pauleta slid the ball wide to Reinaldo. As Baia advanced, Reinaldo opted not to shoot but slid the ball back to the onrushing Pauleta, who poked it into the unprotected goal.After that, PSG happily sunk into a defensive shell. Lionel Letizi, the PSG keeper, hardly had a save to make. The mighty did not so much fall as subside gently. Porto is now last in the group, and back among the also-rans.
Peter Berlin
International Herald Tribune Friday, October 22, 2004
PARIS A year ago, as the Champions League slogged through its made-for-TV group stages, Porto seemed to be no more than a permanent member of the supporting cast: a biggish fish from a smallish pond that would never have the financial muscle to beat the wealthy royalty of European club soccer.On Wednesday, Porto took the field in Paris with a different aura: It is the reigning European champion. The irony is that, on the evidence of its 2-0 loss to Paris Saint-Germain, it is now the team it was supposed to have been 12 months ago: a decent, hard-working member of Europe's soccer middle class, not quite good enough to do more than make up the numbers in the early rounds.Last season was not Porto's first triumph in Europe's top club competition. But like its compatriot Benfica and other former champions from small soccer-crazed nations, such as Glasgow Celtic and Ajax Amsterdam, PSV Eindhoven and Feyenoord of Rotterdam, it seemed to have been left behind by the financial realities of 21st-century soccer. All are clubs from small countries with one or two large cities, whose leagues are dominated by two or three big clubs. They have the advantage of a less-challenging domestic schedule that leaves them fresher for European games. They can use their smaller local rivals as feeder clubs for new talent. The downside is that the relatively small populations of their countries mean they cannot reap the colossal television revenues that support their English, German, Italian and Spanish rivals. Since the so-called Bosman ruling in 1995 introduced free agency into European soccer, any glimmer of success has immediately attracted the attentions of soccer's wealthy magpies, who instantly pluck away emerging talents.It helps that Porto is a well-run club where the players buy into the team ethos. As Costinha, a Portuguese international defender, said before Wednesday's match, "the star is the team." But after Porto beat Monaco, 3-0, in May to become the first team from outside the big four nations to win the Champions League since Ajax in 1993, it could not keep the "bigger" clubs away. It lost its coach, half its defense and a complete set of midfielders. And although it brought in another boatload of young Brazilians, it banked enough money, according to L'Equipe the French sports daily, to reduce its debts to €35 million, or $44 million. That a club that has just won the Champions League and had a magnificent new stadium built for it by the Portuguese government for Euro 2004, still owes so much is a measure of how difficult it is for clubs from smaller markets to compete financially in Europe.Porto arrived in Paris on Wednesday not only as the champion but also, in the words of its coach, Victor Fernandez, as a young and rebuilding team.Against a Paris team that is languishing near the bottom of the French league and had lost its first two group games, Porto looked the brighter and crisper team for 30 minutes.PSG has gone from being an attention-getting loss-leader for Canal Plus, the French television broadcaster, to an embarrassing drain on resources for a parent that has become an unwanted part of the troubled Vivendi empire.In good times or bad, PSG under Canal Plus has always been run more as a reality TV show than as a soccer club. Nothing has provided more riveting viewing than Luis Fernandez, Vahid Halihodzic's predecessor as coach, twitching toward an emotional breakdown on the sideline. The pressure seems to be getting to the more phlegmatic Halihodzic, too. On Wednesday, it took only a few minutes for his antics to draw a visit from the referee. While PSG defended with energy and discipline, for 29 minutes it looked woeful in attack. The running and passing of its players communicated clearly that they had little confidence in themselves. No player seemed to bear out the coach's complaint that his team lacked talent better than Charles-Edouard Coridon. With tacky white shoes, his socks around his ankles, his shirt hanging out and his tired jog, he looked like a player plucked from bystanders by a Saturday morning team that arrived a man short.Yet on a clammy night, as an electrical storm played above the Parc des Princes, lightning struck on the field. As PSG counter-attacked, Coridon lumbered desperately up the field. Philippe Pichot, wide on the right, hesitated, giving Coridon time to reach the penalty area. The cross was low and a little behind him.Instead of turning to control it, Coridon lurched forward, put his left hand on the ground and swung his right leg up and around, catching the ball with the outside of his foot. It was an upside-down, sideways, no-look, overhead kick. Vitor Baia, the Porto goalkeeper, seemed nonplussed, as the ball bounced under his late lunge and into the goal.A minute later the game was over. With Porto still seemingly stunned, PSG thrust forward. Pauleta slid the ball wide to Reinaldo. As Baia advanced, Reinaldo opted not to shoot but slid the ball back to the onrushing Pauleta, who poked it into the unprotected goal.After that, PSG happily sunk into a defensive shell. Lionel Letizi, the PSG keeper, hardly had a save to make. The mighty did not so much fall as subside gently. Porto is now last in the group, and back among the also-rans.
segunda-feira, outubro 25, 2004
O vazio
Ontem na Luz não estavam mais de 20 mil pessoas; na Quinta, cerca de 15 mil. No Dragão também creio que estavam 30 mil, número não muito distante do de Alvalade. A verdade é que nenhum dos três grandes conseguiu garantir mais de meia casa na última jornada. Isto para não falar dos restantes clubes, onde, com a excepção do Guimarães, que também se aproximou da meia-casa (cerca de 13 mil), nenhum dos restantes ultrapassou os dez mil (a esmagadora maioria muito longe disso).
Estes são números difíceis de encontrar no resto da Europa e nem o facto de termos novos estádios faz as pessoas assistirem ao vivo aos jogos da nossa Superliga. Normalmente são diversos os motivos apontados: o sistema, excessivo protagonismo dos dirigentes, maus espectáculos, preço dos bilhetes...
A verdade, é que se estes motivos podem ter o seu peso, não me parecem justificar as miseráveis assistências em Portugal. E não me convencem pela prova do inverso: apesar de todas as condicionantes supracitadas, os jogos entre os grandes estão sempre cheios e as últimas jornadas também assistem a um aumento exponencial de adeptos. Os maus espectáculos e o sistema não desaparecem nestes jogos. Assim sendo, porque é que as pessoas insistem em passar filas intermináveis para comprar um bilhete para um Benfica-Porto e não aparecem para um Benfica-Hereeven?
Quanto a mim são dois os factores que originam esta situação. Em primeiro lugar, a falta de 'bairrismo' dos portugueses, no que ao futebol diz respeito. A desculpa de serem sempre os três grandes a ganhar, não impede de em Espanha os estádios estarem cheios para ver jogos entre equipas mais perto da linha de água do que da Europa. Não é por Manchester e Arsenal repartirem os títulos da última década, que as pessoas deixam de encher o estádio para ver o Norwich-Bolton. Mas aqui não se pode culpar somente os adeptos. A maioria dos pequenos clubes não tem uma política de ligação do clube à comunidade. O ano passado em Coimbra, por exemplo, não havia desconto de cartão jovem/estudante. Em Coimbra, imaginem... . Relacionado com este fenómeno está a 'idolatrização' da equipa. Em Inglaterra, por exemplo, os clubes têm políticas activas no sentido de transformar os jogadores em heróis locais. Em Portugal, jogadores que ganham 2 ou 3 mil contos (muito acima da média nacional), são vistos como carne para canhão, como anónimos que compõem um onze. Pouco se espera deles, para além do pontinho fora a muito custo e pausas de jogos; e da vitória sofrida em casa, por 1-0. Eu espero muito mais de alguém que ganha esse dinheiro. Curiosamente, a maior parte dos clubes pequenos, nem sequer tem nomes nas camisolas! Quando jogam contra os grandes, as bancadas enchem-se (finalmente) para ver jogar os verdadeiros ídolos. Mesmo que não se seja do grande em causa, sabe-se o jogador que se está a assobiar, não se conhece o baixote, ponta-esquerda, que até tem algum jeito para a bola e que por acaso até é da nossa equipa. Basicamente, a relação entre adepto e clube é deixada para as leis do acaso.
Contudo, esta teoria, só explica as bancadas vazias dos pequenos, não se aplicando aos grandes. A estes cabe outro fenómeno, que no caso dos pequenos se adiciona à falta de bairrismo: a ausência de rotinas saudáveis. O português não tem por hábito ir a espectáculos desportivos, o que é estranho num país onde os jornais dessa área são dos mais vendidos. Nos EUA, por exemplo, um jogo de futebol americano começa de manhã, com os churrascos à porta do estádio; em Inglaterra, os pubs enchem-se horas antes do jogo, num ritual repetido todas as semanas por centenas de milhares de pessoas. A verdade é que são fenómenos saudáveis, promovem a confraternização, a convivência. Em Portugal, chega-se em cima da hora, saindo ainda antes do jogo terminar, para não ter esperar muito tempo. Isto os que chegam a ir, é claro. O aliciante de uma tarde no supermercado, onde se gasta inutilmente 2 ou 3 vezes mais que num bilhete, debaixo de ares condicionados atrofiantes, ultrapassa normalmente o fantástico aroma da relva, ou o magnífico som de um chuto numa bola.
Como é que se ultrapassa tudo isto? Parece-me que só há uma solução e esta passa pelos clubes encontrarem as políticas certas para atrairem os adeptos. Para tal, é preciso ter dirigentes com visão, inteligentes. E aí entramos num outro problema nacional...
quinta-feira, outubro 21, 2004
Derby
Para mim foi o derby dos empates:
Porto melhor no 1º tempo (marcou um golo), Benfica melhor no 2º tempo (marcou um golo).
Porto cometeu um erro grave (Baía), Benfica também (Fyssas). Ambos os erros deram golo do adversário. Olegário Benquerença e seus auxiliares cometeram 2 erros.
Se o jogo foi tão equilibrado, porque é que o resultado não foi um empate?
Pois, isso já é mais difícil de explicar...é que, a Baía, nos últimos anos, tem sido permitido jogar a bola com a mão fora da área e dentro da baliza!!! Eu não sou muito da teoria da conspiração, mas este jogo deixa um travo amargo na boca dos benfiquistas...Mesmo se empatassem, a diferença era 3 pontos (Benfica +1, Porto -2). Os erros de arbitragem são naturais. Acredito que Benquerença não tenha visto golo a 100% e que não conseguisse ver (se bem que mais difícil de acreditar) o puxão de Seitaridis (até porque Karadas ainda rematou). Mas o fiscal-de-linha tinha obrigação de julgar correctamente os dois lances e aí entramos noutra parte específica do futebol: a actuação dos árbitros auxiliares. É que mudar de nome e a qualidade de exibição ser igual ao que era anteriormente é grave! O árbitro auxiliar tem um papel mais activo que o fiscal-de-linha (ou bandeirinha). A minha sugestão é: Metam um apito na boca destes 2 indivíduos para ver se eles tomam consciência do que têm que fazer. Já chega de serem sempre os árbitros principais os maus da fita. Até porque Olegário nem esteve muito mal (falhou, quanto a mim, em não dar amarelo a Jorge Costa e Baía, em ter dado a Seitaridis, em ter expulso Nuno Gomes e pouco mais). Na área técnica até esteve razoável.
Porto melhor no 1º tempo (marcou um golo), Benfica melhor no 2º tempo (marcou um golo).
Porto cometeu um erro grave (Baía), Benfica também (Fyssas). Ambos os erros deram golo do adversário. Olegário Benquerença e seus auxiliares cometeram 2 erros.
Se o jogo foi tão equilibrado, porque é que o resultado não foi um empate?
Pois, isso já é mais difícil de explicar...é que, a Baía, nos últimos anos, tem sido permitido jogar a bola com a mão fora da área e dentro da baliza!!! Eu não sou muito da teoria da conspiração, mas este jogo deixa um travo amargo na boca dos benfiquistas...Mesmo se empatassem, a diferença era 3 pontos (Benfica +1, Porto -2). Os erros de arbitragem são naturais. Acredito que Benquerença não tenha visto golo a 100% e que não conseguisse ver (se bem que mais difícil de acreditar) o puxão de Seitaridis (até porque Karadas ainda rematou). Mas o fiscal-de-linha tinha obrigação de julgar correctamente os dois lances e aí entramos noutra parte específica do futebol: a actuação dos árbitros auxiliares. É que mudar de nome e a qualidade de exibição ser igual ao que era anteriormente é grave! O árbitro auxiliar tem um papel mais activo que o fiscal-de-linha (ou bandeirinha). A minha sugestão é: Metam um apito na boca destes 2 indivíduos para ver se eles tomam consciência do que têm que fazer. Já chega de serem sempre os árbitros principais os maus da fita. Até porque Olegário nem esteve muito mal (falhou, quanto a mim, em não dar amarelo a Jorge Costa e Baía, em ter dado a Seitaridis, em ter expulso Nuno Gomes e pouco mais). Na área técnica até esteve razoável.
quarta-feira, outubro 20, 2004
Uma questão de frontalidade
Na Segunda-feira, mal saí de casa, a primeira coisa que fiz foi comprar O Jogo. Devo confessar que nos últimos tempos tenho tido este diário como o menos folclórico e sensacionalista dos jornais desportivos portugueses. Julgava até que a típica costela portista, se tinha diluído no rigor jornalístico. Ou me enganei, ou houve uma regressão d'O Jogo no caminho para a neutralidade. A forma como tentaram desculpar o árbitro da sua 'bela' actuação de Domingo foi deprimente. Nesse aspecto, devo confessar que o Record - supostamente mais ligado aos do Campo Grande - se mostrou o mais acutilante dos jornais, apontando o dedo ao que tinha que apontar, não olhando a camisolas.
Não me importo minimamente que O Jogo seja do Porto e A Bola e o Record dos emblemas de Lisboa. O que chateia é este estado híbrido em que a imprensa desportiva vive. Nesse aspecto, Espanha está muito melhor servida. Não que os seus jornais sejam mais rigorosos, mas sim porque estão perfeitamente definidos em termos clubísticos: há os de Madrid e os de Barcelona e cada um analisa a realidade por esse prisma. Quem quer, compra, quem não quer, não compra. Há um ano ou dois, após um escaldante R. Madrid-Barcelona, a Marca e o Sport (ou talvez o Mundo Deportivo) trocaram galhardetes através das suas manchetes: a Marca apontou os erros que o árbitro tinha cometido contra o Real; os de Barcelona fizeram o mesmo em sentido inverso. Em Portugal isso seria impossível. Nos diários desportivos portugueses, como, de resto, em toda a imprensa nacional, tenta-se antes passar uma imagem de neutralidade e isenção, ocultando os reais interesses e tendências de cada um. Será por uma questão de mercado?
quinta-feira, outubro 14, 2004
Os estranhos que vieram do frio
A vitória de ontem foi estranha. Estranha porque não é todos os dias que Portugal ganha por 7-1; estranha porque não me lembro de ver o Petit marcar dois golos num só jogo; estranha porque nenhuma equipa marca quatro golos de fora-de-área num só jogo; estranha porque o Ricardo Carvalho teve duas falhas (sem bem que mínimas). Mas o mais estranho de tudo foi mesmo a Rússia. No jogo contra Portugal no Euro2004, já foi notória uma certa passividade por parte dos russos. Mas a expulsão de Ovchinnikov como que reacendeu os gelados corações do Leste e o espectro do empate só desapareceu aos 89 minutos quando o já saudoso Rui empurrou a bola para o fundo das redes. Mas ontem foi pior. Talvez por o horizonte do fim do grupo ainda ser longínquo, talvez por não contarem com a prestação de Mostovoi e de um ou outro titular, a verdade é que ontem a apatia, a passividade, a falta de ideias, soluções ou vontade foram muito maiores. O espaço concedido pelos russos foi inacreditável, a falta de rigor táctico, atroz. Desde o primeiro minuto que a Rússia ansiou pelo último. Creio mesmo que mal chegaram ao aeroporto de Lisboa já estavam ansiosos de voltar para o frio russo.
Triste, apática, à espera do nada. Esta foi a estranha imagem que a ex-potência mundial (e do futebol) deixou em Lisboa. Mas não será esta a própria imagem da sociedade russa? Com atentados horrendos, miséria social, corrupção e autoritarismo, haverá vontade para mudar, para progredir? Ou será que os russos desistiram do futuro? No futebol, desistiram do presente, certamente.
sábado, outubro 02, 2004
O Jogo
Simplesmente delicioso..tinha 8 anos quando vi este jogo e aqueles 2 golos, a fabulosa Argentina de Maradona, despertou-me para o futebol. Aqui ficam as palavras do único grande génio da bola, que me perdoem Pelé e Eusébio...
(...)The next game was against England, on June 22, 1986 - a day I will not forget for as long as I live. That game was so hard-fought, so tight, with Barnes making things difficult for us towards the end. And with my two goals. My two goals!
I remember many things about the second goal. If one of my relatives tells it, there's always yet another English player involved. When I was growing up in Fiorito I used to dream of scoring a goal like that on the little makeshift pitch, for Estrella Roja, and I did it in a World Cup, for my country, and in a final. I say a final because for us, because of everything it represented, we were playing a final against England. More than defeating a football team, it was defeating a country.
Of course, before the match we said that football had nothing to do with the Malvinas War, but we knew a lot of Argentinian kids had died there, shot down like little birds. This was revenge. It was like recovering a little bit of the Malvinas. In the pre-match interviews we had all said that football and politics shouldn't be confused, but that was a lie. We did nothing but think about it.
In a way, we blamed the English players for everything that happened, for all the suffering of the Argentine people. I know it seems like madness and a nonsense now, but truthfully at the time that was what we felt. It was stronger than us: we were defending our flag, the dead kids, the survivors. That's why I think my goal meant so much. Actually, they both did. They both had their own charm.
The second was the goal you dream of as a kid. Whenever I see it again I can't believe I managed it. Now it's become a legend, and as such there's been all sorts of rubbish said about it. Like the fact I thought about my little brother's advice to dummy the keeper. I didn't, but I later realised unconsciously that it must have entered my head, because I finished like my brother Turco had told me six years before.
In 1980, against England at Wembley, I'd done a very similar move but finished by sidefooting the ball when the keeper came out. I'd missed by a fraction. Turco phoned me and said: "You moron! You shouldn't have sidefooted it, you should have thrown a dummy - the keeper had already committed himself." And I answered: "You little shit! It's easy for you to say that. You're watching it on the telly!"
But he really shut me up: "No, Pelu, if you'd thrown a dummy, you could've dragged it towards the sideline and finished with your right, do you see?" The brat was seven years old! Well, this time I finished like my brother wanted.
Another thing that was true, even though it has also become a legend, was that I could see [Jorge] Valdano running down my left, free on the far post.
Here's how it went: I started off from the middle of the pitch, on the right; I stepped on the ball, turned, and sneaked between Beardsley and Reid. At that point I had the goal in my sights, although I still had a few metres to go. I passed Butcher on the inside and from this point Valdano was a real help, because Fenwick, who was the last one, didn't leave my side. I was waiting for him to stand off, I was waiting to pass the ball - the logical thing to do.
If Fenwick had left me, I could have given it to Valdano, who would have been one on one against Shilton. But he didn't. So I faced him, then threw a dummy one way and went the other, towards the right. Fenwick tried so hard to close in on me, but I carried on and I already had Shilton in front of me.
I was on exactly the spot I'd been on at Wembley that time in 1980, the exact spot! I was going to finish the same way but . . . God, the Beard, helped me. The Beard reminded me, tic . . . and Shilton bought the dummy, he bought it. So I got to the end and I went tac, inside . . . At the same time Butcher, a big blond guy, caught up with me again and kicked me quite hard. But I didn't care, I'd scored the goal of my life.
In the dressing room, when I told Valdano I was watching him, he wanted to kill me. "I can't believe you were looking at me and you still scored that goal! That's downright rude, mate, that's humiliating, that's not possible."
I wanted to put the whole sequence of that goal in stills, blown up really big, above the headboard of my bed. I'd add a picture of Dalmita (Gianinna hadn't been born yet), and below an inscription which read "My life's best". Nothing more . . .
I got a lot of pleasure from the other goal, too. Sometimes I think I almost enjoyed that one more, the first one. Now I feel I am able to say what I couldn't then. At the time I called it "the hand of God". Bollocks was it the hand of God, it was the hand of Diego! And it felt a little bit like pickpocketing the English.
No one noticed at the time: I went for the ball with everything I had. Even I don't know how I managed to jump so high. I struck out with my left fist behind my head. Even Shilton didn't see what was happening, and Fenwick, who was behind me, was the first one to appeal for a handball. Not because he'd seen it but because he couldn't understand how I could have jumped higher than the keeper.
When I saw the linesman running towards the middle of the pitch I did a beeline towards the stand where my dad was with my father-in-law, to celebrate with them. Don Diego was hanging over on to the pitch thinking I'd headed it in. I was a bit stupid, because I was celebrating with my left fist outstretched. The ref could have cottoned on and suspected something was up. By now, all the English were protesting and Valdano was giving me the shhh! with a finger over his lips.
Valdano had passed to me, we'd played a one-two, they put pressure on him and he passed me a dud ball because he'd had no choice. I jumped. I jumped at the same time as the keeper with my fist outstretched and . . . goal, gooooaaaaaaaaal , go weeping to church! As I told a BBC journalist a year later: "It was 100% legitimate because the referee allowed it, and I'm not one to question the honesty of the referee."
The rest of the world wanted my head, of course. But when I returned to Italy after the World Cup, an amazing thing happened. Silvio Piola came to see me. He'd been one of Italy's great goalscorers during the 1938 World Cup, and he said to me: "Tell all those who say you're dishonest because you've scored a hand-goal, if that's the case, they have one less honest man in Italy. I also scored a hand-goal, playing for the Azzurri against England, and it didn't stop us celebrating then!" He was a great old boy. I later read he really had scored one like mine.
In the final we were up against Germany, the team I'd picked from the start. That World Cup was the first where both teams stepped on to the pitch together, and we performed a load of stupid rituals in the tunnel: we'd shout and beat our chests. All the other teams had looked at us with fear. Except the Germans. I remember telling Tata Brown: "This lot aren't afraid of anything."
We scored two great goals to start, but when they drew level I got scared. Unwarranted fear, as it turned out. Sure, they'd scored with two headers in our area - unforgivable for any serious team - but when I looked at the midfielder Briegel's legs and saw they were like logs, I knew we could make it.
When we got back to the centre spot for the kick-off, I squashed the ball against the turf, looked at Burru and told him: "Come on, they're knackered, they can't even run any more. Let's get the ball moving and we'll finish them off before extra-time."
And that's how it was. I was still in our half when I turned, lifted my head and saw a huge wide avenue open up in front of Burruchaga for him to run straight on goal. He turned his back on Briegel and left him behind. I sidefooted the ball and off went Burru, off went Burru, off went Burru . . . Goaaal ! Burru!
I remember we all piled up on top of each other, like a huge mountain. We felt like world champions, six minutes left, and there it was . . . But Bilardo was shouting at us: "Stop fucking about! Go mark; you and Valdano, mark! Come on, come on!"
When the match was finally over, all you could hear in the Azteca stadium were Argentine voices singing - the Mexicans had been left speechless. That's when I burst into tears. I had cried at every moment of my career, and this was the best, the most sublime.
(...)The next game was against England, on June 22, 1986 - a day I will not forget for as long as I live. That game was so hard-fought, so tight, with Barnes making things difficult for us towards the end. And with my two goals. My two goals!
I remember many things about the second goal. If one of my relatives tells it, there's always yet another English player involved. When I was growing up in Fiorito I used to dream of scoring a goal like that on the little makeshift pitch, for Estrella Roja, and I did it in a World Cup, for my country, and in a final. I say a final because for us, because of everything it represented, we were playing a final against England. More than defeating a football team, it was defeating a country.
Of course, before the match we said that football had nothing to do with the Malvinas War, but we knew a lot of Argentinian kids had died there, shot down like little birds. This was revenge. It was like recovering a little bit of the Malvinas. In the pre-match interviews we had all said that football and politics shouldn't be confused, but that was a lie. We did nothing but think about it.
In a way, we blamed the English players for everything that happened, for all the suffering of the Argentine people. I know it seems like madness and a nonsense now, but truthfully at the time that was what we felt. It was stronger than us: we were defending our flag, the dead kids, the survivors. That's why I think my goal meant so much. Actually, they both did. They both had their own charm.
The second was the goal you dream of as a kid. Whenever I see it again I can't believe I managed it. Now it's become a legend, and as such there's been all sorts of rubbish said about it. Like the fact I thought about my little brother's advice to dummy the keeper. I didn't, but I later realised unconsciously that it must have entered my head, because I finished like my brother Turco had told me six years before.
In 1980, against England at Wembley, I'd done a very similar move but finished by sidefooting the ball when the keeper came out. I'd missed by a fraction. Turco phoned me and said: "You moron! You shouldn't have sidefooted it, you should have thrown a dummy - the keeper had already committed himself." And I answered: "You little shit! It's easy for you to say that. You're watching it on the telly!"
But he really shut me up: "No, Pelu, if you'd thrown a dummy, you could've dragged it towards the sideline and finished with your right, do you see?" The brat was seven years old! Well, this time I finished like my brother wanted.
Another thing that was true, even though it has also become a legend, was that I could see [Jorge] Valdano running down my left, free on the far post.
Here's how it went: I started off from the middle of the pitch, on the right; I stepped on the ball, turned, and sneaked between Beardsley and Reid. At that point I had the goal in my sights, although I still had a few metres to go. I passed Butcher on the inside and from this point Valdano was a real help, because Fenwick, who was the last one, didn't leave my side. I was waiting for him to stand off, I was waiting to pass the ball - the logical thing to do.
If Fenwick had left me, I could have given it to Valdano, who would have been one on one against Shilton. But he didn't. So I faced him, then threw a dummy one way and went the other, towards the right. Fenwick tried so hard to close in on me, but I carried on and I already had Shilton in front of me.
I was on exactly the spot I'd been on at Wembley that time in 1980, the exact spot! I was going to finish the same way but . . . God, the Beard, helped me. The Beard reminded me, tic . . . and Shilton bought the dummy, he bought it. So I got to the end and I went tac, inside . . . At the same time Butcher, a big blond guy, caught up with me again and kicked me quite hard. But I didn't care, I'd scored the goal of my life.
In the dressing room, when I told Valdano I was watching him, he wanted to kill me. "I can't believe you were looking at me and you still scored that goal! That's downright rude, mate, that's humiliating, that's not possible."
I wanted to put the whole sequence of that goal in stills, blown up really big, above the headboard of my bed. I'd add a picture of Dalmita (Gianinna hadn't been born yet), and below an inscription which read "My life's best". Nothing more . . .
I got a lot of pleasure from the other goal, too. Sometimes I think I almost enjoyed that one more, the first one. Now I feel I am able to say what I couldn't then. At the time I called it "the hand of God". Bollocks was it the hand of God, it was the hand of Diego! And it felt a little bit like pickpocketing the English.
No one noticed at the time: I went for the ball with everything I had. Even I don't know how I managed to jump so high. I struck out with my left fist behind my head. Even Shilton didn't see what was happening, and Fenwick, who was behind me, was the first one to appeal for a handball. Not because he'd seen it but because he couldn't understand how I could have jumped higher than the keeper.
When I saw the linesman running towards the middle of the pitch I did a beeline towards the stand where my dad was with my father-in-law, to celebrate with them. Don Diego was hanging over on to the pitch thinking I'd headed it in. I was a bit stupid, because I was celebrating with my left fist outstretched. The ref could have cottoned on and suspected something was up. By now, all the English were protesting and Valdano was giving me the shhh! with a finger over his lips.
Valdano had passed to me, we'd played a one-two, they put pressure on him and he passed me a dud ball because he'd had no choice. I jumped. I jumped at the same time as the keeper with my fist outstretched and . . . goal, gooooaaaaaaaaal , go weeping to church! As I told a BBC journalist a year later: "It was 100% legitimate because the referee allowed it, and I'm not one to question the honesty of the referee."
The rest of the world wanted my head, of course. But when I returned to Italy after the World Cup, an amazing thing happened. Silvio Piola came to see me. He'd been one of Italy's great goalscorers during the 1938 World Cup, and he said to me: "Tell all those who say you're dishonest because you've scored a hand-goal, if that's the case, they have one less honest man in Italy. I also scored a hand-goal, playing for the Azzurri against England, and it didn't stop us celebrating then!" He was a great old boy. I later read he really had scored one like mine.
In the final we were up against Germany, the team I'd picked from the start. That World Cup was the first where both teams stepped on to the pitch together, and we performed a load of stupid rituals in the tunnel: we'd shout and beat our chests. All the other teams had looked at us with fear. Except the Germans. I remember telling Tata Brown: "This lot aren't afraid of anything."
We scored two great goals to start, but when they drew level I got scared. Unwarranted fear, as it turned out. Sure, they'd scored with two headers in our area - unforgivable for any serious team - but when I looked at the midfielder Briegel's legs and saw they were like logs, I knew we could make it.
When we got back to the centre spot for the kick-off, I squashed the ball against the turf, looked at Burru and told him: "Come on, they're knackered, they can't even run any more. Let's get the ball moving and we'll finish them off before extra-time."
And that's how it was. I was still in our half when I turned, lifted my head and saw a huge wide avenue open up in front of Burruchaga for him to run straight on goal. He turned his back on Briegel and left him behind. I sidefooted the ball and off went Burru, off went Burru, off went Burru . . . Goaaal ! Burru!
I remember we all piled up on top of each other, like a huge mountain. We felt like world champions, six minutes left, and there it was . . . But Bilardo was shouting at us: "Stop fucking about! Go mark; you and Valdano, mark! Come on, come on!"
When the match was finally over, all you could hear in the Azteca stadium were Argentine voices singing - the Mexicans had been left speechless. That's when I burst into tears. I had cried at every moment of my career, and this was the best, the most sublime.
sexta-feira, outubro 01, 2004
Porto órfão
João, consideraste que era uma análise tendenciosa dizer que o verdadeiro 'culpado' da brilhante vitória do Porto era o José Mourinho. Afirmar tal coisa seria, na tua opinião, o mesmo que dizer que o Benfica campeão europeu devia tudo ao seu treinador.
É claro que um clube campeão europeu não se resume ao seu treinador: há toda uma estrutura montada de suporte a uma caminhada de sucesso. Mas ninguém retira mérito à organização do F.C. Porto, em última análise, por terem dado condições para que o Mourinho trabalhasse. A diferença está que essa mesma estrutura sem o Mourinho não seria, certamente, campeã europeia, nem chegaria perto da final. Ora, no caso do Benfica, isso não se passou, como tu sabes, na década de 60. Chegar a 5 finais em 10 anos com treinadores diferentes, não é obra do acaso, nem de um homem só. O Benfica, depois de bi-campeão europeu, não caiu na normalidade, como tu constatas em relação ao Porto - ele já vivia na normalidade. É certo que é muito injusto comparar os dois contextos, o poder económico dos grande clubes não era tão grande e o Acordão Bosman estava muito longe de existir, mas a verdade é que o Benfica europeu, foi europeu para lá de Guttman e este Porto parece-me longe disso.
Ao contrário do que tu achas, não é com orgulho, nem satisfação que eu penso que o Porto campeão foi mais Mourinho que Porto. Porque o que isto significa, como eu já referi, é que os treinadores começam a ter uma importância demasiado grande no jogo. E se para já tem sido bom para os pequenos (Porto, Grécia...), a curto-prazo o feitiço vai-se virar contra o feiticeiro. Em boa verdade, já começou, ou não foi o Porto que perdeu 3-1 com um Chelsea rico que pode comprar as receitas de sucesso de qualquer um?
