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by Aldyr Garcia Schlee The 1986 World Cup was held in Mexico - just as it was in 1970. What was new about the Brazilian team – again based in Guadalajara and again favoured by the refereeing – wasn’t their elimination in the last 16, the result of a missed penalty by Zico, but instead the return of the “polo” collar on the shirts and the appearance of the manufacturer’s logo on the chest and shorts. Everything repeated itself: Telê Santana was still the coach and continued with the big stars of 1982, even though Zico and Falcão weren’t in perfect shape, and only Sócrates and Junior played in all the games. There were unexpected problems in the calling-up of players (when the temperamental Renato Gaúcho was excluded, Leandro took his side and also withdrew from the team); there were predictable problems with chosing a team and suprising problems with substitutions during games. Some forgattable non-entities like Edson and Casagrande got a game, but were eventually dropped. The mediocrities of the day, such as Alemão and Elzo, had to be chosen; young talents like Branco, Müller and Careca got a chance; and there was the sudden and improbable appeaarance of Josimar, like a rabbit out of a hat, a right back who scored goals and made the Brazilians believe in miracles. In 1986, right from the start, the miracle really was about to happen. The 1x0 victory over Spain started before the game, when the Spanish were hit and weakened by a mystery stomach illness. The win only happened because the ever-remembered Australian ref “Saint” Bambridge didn’t want to see what everyone else saw, even without the replay. First, that a ball kicked by Michel González went over the line in a valid but disallowed goal, and secondly, because after Careca hit the bar, Sócrates went in off-side and scored the winning goal – invalid, but allowed. All of Brazil turned into a party. So much so that no one was much bothered with the slight 1-0 against Algeria just afterwards; and everyone was exultant when the 3x0 against Northern Ireland led them to the last 16 (who could forget Josimar’s diagonally-hit goal, there from never-never land). Then we beat the ever-present Poland (with two penalties and a third miracle goal fom Josimar). That was how we arrived at the quarter finals and a showdown with the French. And then that extraordinary epic in Guadalajara. It started as per usual, with a goal from the opportunistic Careca, levelled at 1-1 thanks to the brilliant Platini, and could have been 2x1 to Brazil if Zico hadn’t missed that fateful penalty, well saved by Bats. The game headed into extra time. The score stayed the same; there was no time left for miracles. It was to end in a penalty shoot-out. Eleven yards separating the spot and the keeper, the heart ready to jump, the coffee getting colder, the hands sweating, the eyes stuck to the screen. Sócrates, with all his confidence and aplomb, stood just one step behind the ball. He coldly swung his leg like a pendulum and unluckily kicked into the hands of Bats. (France immediately went 1x0 up, with Stopyra). Alemão’s head was hung low and tense. But he took some distance to run up and kicked the ball into the back of the net. (France went 2x1 up with Amoros). Zico then came forward to take the third penalty for Brazil. He almost broke half the world’s hearts – he was going to miss, again! - but didn’t fluff it. (France then went 3x2 up, with Bellone, after the ball hit the crossbar, hit Carlos’ back and then, eventually…went in). Then Branco. He put the ball in position, look firmly at the goal, into infinity, to all of us, and did what he had to: 3x3 (the unimaginable happened. Platini, the infallible Platini, missed his chance, kicking the ball over the bar.). Last up, Julio César seemed relaxed: he walked to the penality spot with confidence – it was the depository of all the hope and all the fame and glory of Brazilian football; but he didn’t achieve the miracle, nor even the prosaic task of beating the opposing goalkeeper, since he hit the post. (France went 4x3 up, finsihing it all off. ) It was the end. And the beginning of Brazil’s bitter, premature return, carrying in their baggage the weight of one more blameful elimination and the excuses of another useless invincibility. And so the final arrived, again with West Germany – the German blood of the Schlees pumping excitedly, now against the arch-rivals Argentina. But it wasn’t worth cheering against them; the strong and well-paced rhythm of Maradona’s comandos prevailed – 1x0, 2x0…2x1, 2x2 tragedy!…and before the end of regular time, a dramatic tango, 3x2, from Burrachaga’s competent feet, very well deserved. Previous Shirt     Next Shirt Comment on this Story If you want to make comments about this story or send emails to Aldyr then send us an email (). To Top Copyright © 2004 by Aldyr Garcia Schlee.