WE’VE COME ON A BUNDLE
ANYONE who has suffered through the re-run of Euro 96 on ITV must concede that nostalgia doesn’t bear close scrutiny. That cherished memories, like childhood toys, are best left shrouded in a golden haze, not dragged from the loft and dusted off.
Our collective conscious remembers an England team of swaggering leaders, goals galore, and a manager in Terry Venables whose departure set the country back a decade. Elements of that are certainly true. Yes, we were crap against Switzerland. Lucky to draw with Spain. But for Uri Geller’s penalty-spot voodoo, Scotland might have snatched an equaliser and Gazza’s famous goal would never have happened.
Our opinion of that team – and its performance – has been distilled from one blinding half against the Dutch. Much the same can be said for the rest of the tournament. Moments of brilliance, like Davor Suker’s destruction of Denmark and Karel Poborsky’s glorious chip, left the impression of a football fiesta. But that was only because we forgot the other two weeks of mediocre dross, culminating in the lowest-scoring knockout stage of any World Cup or European Championships in history. Football came home alright, but it kicked its shoes off at the front door and fell asleep on the sofa.
Sport has a tendency to roboth manticise the past; to elevate the great players of yesteryear above contemporary heroes, lament the loss of characters and disparage modern sensibilities as decadent or soft. Lockdown and its deluge of nostalgia has provided a welcome reminder that, actually, the good old days weren’t that great after all.
Re-runs of matches from the 1990 World Cup served largely to illustrate the vast improvement wrought by the backpass law.
Stability
Famously, Packie Bonner held the ball for SIX whole minutes during the Republic of Ireland’s Group match against Egypt, whilst the tournament ended with a 40-yard backpass – cheered to the rafters – from Klaus Augenthaler to German goalkeeper Bodo Ilgner. “To win a World Cup with a team like this,” said a despairing Ron Atkinson. Classic Cup finals and old Serie A contests from the eighties showed that men were indeed men – but that a player like Lionel Messi would, in all likelihood, have been kicked into retirement long before his 33rd birthday. Diego Maradona, for instance, was felled 53 times in his seven matches at Italia 90 (it really was terrible, you know). During Argentina’s run to the final at Brazil 2014, Messi suffered just 18 fouls. That’s not to say the present is perfect. Wealth and status have always skewed the playing field in favour of the biggest clubs, but modern TV deals have tipped it to the perpendicular.
The days when sides like Newcastle, Nottingham Forest or Ipswich could ride a wave and gatecrash the elite are long gone; so, too, the prospect of any team repeating Wimbledon’s nine-year ascent from the Southern League to the First Division.
Pursuit of those riches has caused wage inflation across the scale, with half the EFL at death’s door and hundreds of Non-League clubs in peril even before the Covid-19 crisis cut them off at the knees. Money has unquestionably raised the standard of English football, but also robbed it of hope, stability and fairness. That could hardly be described as progress.
Aliens
Gone, too, is the sense of the exotic that once came with European ties and international tournaments. Thanks to FIFA, Football Manager and blanket coverage of global football, my nine-year-old nephew could probably name Inter Milan’s starting XI and tell you who top-scored for Japan in World Cup qualifying. Nothing is a surprise.
For me, names like Klinsmann, Gullit and Carlos Valderama were like aliens from another planet, decked in outlandish kits and sporting fabulous hair.
Tuning in to a World Cup – quite literally on my blackand-white binatone – was like smashing a Pinada. Even commentators could sound naively surprised by the exploits of Gheorghe Hagi or Hristo Stoichkov, despite playing for Barcelona. Nostalgia then, is often justified. But before we lament the good old days, it is important to remember that our vision of the past is actually a highlights reel, like those YouTube videos of JayJay Okocha that filter out the thousand-and-one times he landed on his backside. Look back with fondness, yes. But not with longing. Because as the 90 minutes of existence I wasted rewatching France versus Romania proved, the past isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.