Satellite TV and global saturation killed the World Cup mystery; we traded wonder for a commodity

In We Are the World Cup, Roger Bennett describes the quadrennial extravaganza as “the biography of our childhoods, teenage years and beyond.” While I wouldn’t go that far, I do have some distinct memories of tournaments from long ago. Three of them to be precise.

The 1954 competition in Switzerland was my first. Compared to this year’s extravaganza, it was a simple affair with just 16 countries participating and substantially less hoopla. And growing up in Dublin meant that the Republic of Ireland’s failure to qualify left me without a partisan rooting interest. Besides, everyone was sure that Hungary—dubbed the Mighty Magyars—would walk away with it.

The Hungarians first appeared on our radar in November 1953 when they eviscerated England on the hallowed home turf of Wembley. The score was 6–3, a result and a margin that confounded all expectations. And to top it off, the Hungarians played a new kind of fluid football that involved non-traditional formations, continual interchanging of positions and even a novel style of lightweight football boot.

Names like Ferenc Puskás and Nándor Hidegkuti didn’t exactly roll off my nine-year-old tongue, but between them they’d scored five of Hungary’s six goals, which was all my friends and I needed to know. They were the invincible stars of the show, the men who captured our imagination. And it was largely imagination, nurtured from newspaper reports and short glimpses in cinema newsreels.

Hungary cruised through the early stages of the World Cup tournament before engaging in an ill-tempered quarter-final struggle with Brazil, an event that became infamous as the Battle of Berne. After the Hungarians triumphed 4–2, the unhappy Brazilians invaded their dressing room to recommence hostilities!

For the final, Hungary faced West Germany, a team they’d trounced 8–3 in the pre-knockout stage a couple of weeks earlier. We joked that it was hardly worth playing the game. The Germans, however, had cagily fielded a reserve team in the earlier match and proved to be a different proposition in the final. In one of the great sporting upsets, they recovered from a 2–0 deficit to beat the fancied Hungarians 3–2.

By the time the 1958 tournament in Sweden rolled around, the Germans were still powerful but the Hungarians had been depleted by the aftermath of the 1956 revolution. And the Republic of Ireland having again failed to qualify, our sentimental allegiance was with Northern Ireland, who had (surprisingly) qualified.

Defying expectations, they pluckily battled through to the quarter-finals, earning additional accolades by having one of the tournament’s top goal scorers and the top-rated goalkeeper.

But the big story of the competition revolved around Brazil and the exploits of the 17-year-old Edson Arantes do Nascimento, known to the world by his nickname Pelé. As Brazil more or less eased its way to the title, he scored six goals in four games. International football suddenly had a new superstar.

While a number of the games were televised, it was still a pre-television age for most people in the world I lived in. So, unless you happened to catch a clip in a cinema newsreel, Pelé’s magical moves were a product of your imagination, much like those of the Hungarians several years earlier.

Placing Pelé in the pantheon of all-time football greats is a notional exercise. These sorts of assessments always are. But pretty much everyone believes he was one of the very best. To the late Bobby Moore, the man who captained England to their only World Cup title, “Pelé was the most complete player I’ve ever seen; he had everything.”

Now, fast forward eight years to the third of my World Cup memories. It’s 1966, I’m living in Toronto, still very much a new immigrant and coming to terms with a degree of culture shock. The sporting touchstones talked about in the office—hockey and North American football—were foreign to me and I sometimes found myself reaching back to the familiar, such as the World Cup being held in England that summer. But nobody was much interested.

However, a university friend from Ireland arrived in mid-July just as the tournament started. And for the first time, games were transmitted internationally by satellite, with the CBC opting to pick up the final on Saturday, July 30, 1966. Although we didn’t have a TV, another friend did, and so we gathered to watch the action coming live from Wembley that Saturday morning.

Played before a crowd of 98,000, the final featured England against West Germany. And, as best I remember, all three of us were rooting for England. The Germans scored first, England quickly equalized and then went ahead in the 78th minute. With the clock ticking down, an English victory seemed assured, but the Germans managed to tie it up at the death, which sent the proceedings to extra time.

Then came the English goal that remains controversial to this very day, followed by another at the very end to make it 4–2. It was the first time England won the World Cup and they’ve never gotten closer than a couple of semi-finals since.

The Germans, though, have been much more successful. They’ve won it three times, which added to their 1954 triumph makes them four-time titleholders, surpassed only by Brazil’s five. In addition, they’ve been runners-up three times, four when you include the 1966 loss to England.

As for this summer, current prognostications favour France or Spain, but surprises have been known to happen. We’ll just have to wait for the July 19 final to know how it all comes out.

Troy Media columnist Pat Murphy casts a history buff’s eye at the goings-on in our world. Never cynical—well, perhaps a little bit.