With the football season in momentary limbo and an international tournament on the horizon, I thought it would be a decent opportunity to reminisce about my first World Cup. The 2002 edition in Japan and South Korea was a magical few weeks for 7-year-old me, as we were all treated to a festival of football like no other. And you know what they say: you always remember your first World Cup.
Being only seven, my previous experience of international football was limited and boy, has it turned out to be rather misleading. 2001/02 was my first season as a full-on football fan.
Whilst getting used to the ins-and-outs of the game, I had thought that only the mightiest of sides can come from 1-0 down to win a game.
So when Carsten Jancker put Germany ahead on that night in Munich (“they’re at home but in their away kit?”), imagine my surprise when Sven’s men go and knock five past them. Easy to forget how simple Owen, Heskey and co. made it look.
Anyway, that didn’t make me think England were good, I thought they were the BEST TEAM IN WORLD FOOTBALL, EVER. How embarrassing. I’d heard whispers that the Brazilians and the French were alright, but there really was no stopping England on that form.
What were you doing in 2002? It was certainly a happier time. Arsenal had just completed (another) league and cup double, Tottenham were trophyless (obviously) and no-one knew what a Roman Abramovich was. Also, Pingu and The Tweenies were like, really wicked, man.
Not forgetting Pro Evo 2. What a time to be alive.
I won’t sit here and pretend it was perfect though – war was about to break out in the Middle East, we were introduced to the cancer of reality TV that was Pop Idol and Piers Morgan was still an insufferable tool, so you can never win them all. Trevor Brooking’s ‘commentary’ was unbearably naff, too.
It seems unthinkable now but the ’02 World Cup started in May, less than three weeks after the end of the Premier League season. Even more unthinkable at the time was holders France’s shock defeat to Senegal as the world was introduced to Papa Bouba Diop. I missed the drama because I was having lunch.
These days, an eight-hour time difference would be a killer, but back then, it was very much what made that tournament special. Wake up first thing in the morning and there’s football. Then some more. And then another match. Sometimes there were four matches played by lunchtime.
The beauty of it all meant that normal school lessons were abandoned, meaning we could watch the games in class. Not that I can remember too much, but being able to go to school to talk about football must have rendered some of us delirious. Having conversations like: “Did you see Beckham’s pen?”, “Hasn’t Batistuta got stupid hair?”, and “How good was Darius Vassell last night?”.
Often it was the little touches that tournament life adds to the fan experience which makes it so addictive and rather grateful that we have to wait four long years for the next one. The BBC’s opening credits, Panini sticker albums, WALLCHARTS. Not to mention *that* Adidas Fevernova ball.
The football itself was pretty good, too – and served us up with memorable moments for fans young and old; Germany whacking 8 (EIGHT) past Saudi Arabia, Rivaldo’s theatrics, Thierry Henry’s red card (which shocked me as I thought only horrible bastards get sent off), Beckham’s redemption, a trademark Roberto Carlos free-kick – and that was just the group stages.
And it wouldn’t be a proper (and I use the word lightly) World Cup without a decent conspiracy theory – with South Korea’s run to the semi-finals – even as hosts – raising a few eyebrows. They squeezed past Italy and Spain despite disallowed goals and questionable refereeing decisions aplenty. The referee from the Italy game was later done for corruption while Spain had two perfectly good goals chalked off before going out on penalties.
Of course, both sides got their vengeance of sorts by sharing the next two World Cups between them.
Looking back, the second round of that World Cup threw up some events that just sound ridiculous now. Ireland taking Spain to penalties. Italy being beaten by supposed cheating. England actually winning a knockout game.
The euphoria of winning a World Cup game inside 44 minutes was certainly countered by the manner of the inevitable quarter-final exit. I remember the day so well I may recall it to more detail at a later point, but I doubt there will come another time that matches the excitement and anticipation of that Friday morning, mainly because I was purely there for the football, and it felt like football couldn’t lose. It wasn’t the end of the world if we lost, another tournament would come around eventually.
Plus, he didn't even mean it. Right?
Also, quite frankly I was totally oblivious to the shithouse rollercoaster that life is, but that’s the beauty of being young, I guess. Like I probably couldn’t care less about whatever Saddam was up to (or our own government, for that matter).
England were out of the World Cup, then. But no matter – I could get used to that. There’s still wallcharts to fill and stickers to source. Let’s keep the party going.
A word on Turkey. Third place at their second-ever World Cup takes some doing. Especially considering they had to overcome the UEFA play-offs and edge out Costa Rica on goal difference in the group stage.
Not content with a personal best, to then beat co-hosts Japan and fellow surprise package Senegal showed there was probably something in the Mediterranean water around that time with Greece performing similar heroics in Portugal two years later (I was always going to work that in somehow, wasn’t I?).
Only limiting Brazil to two one-goal victories in a World Cup deserves praise on its own. Arguably, they should not have lost the first game, where they ended with nine men after a contentious penalty decision and Rivaldo’s play-acting delivered crucial blows. Holding out would’ve denied Brazil the chance to go on to win every single game of their World Cup campaign.
It was to be as it so often is in the World Cup Final: the usual suspects on show. The Germans had quietly been going about their business dispatching all in their wake but were still underdogs to the fabulous Ronaldo’s Brazil. The Selecao were unsurprisingly bouncing after a sixth straight win and the return of Ronaldinho from suspension (for kicking Danny Mills, which turned out to be a rather cool thing for him to do).
Unfortunately, I did not get the best view of the final as I was at a Cypriot wine festival (yeah, I know), as was the family tradition at the time, desperate to find a TV with not too many tall people gathered around it. But I did get the gist that Ronaldo was running the show, and after missing some gilt-edged chances, finally put one away after Oliver Kahn, sporting some pretty awful sideburns, spilt a Rivaldo shot right into his path.
Even by the time they doubled their lead, Brazil were already worthy winners. Although I was gutted I was the only one in class supporting Germany (my mates politely reminded me of the war; I said they should let it go), it didn’t turn out too bad. Brazil were back on top of the world, Arsenal signed Gilberto Silva and the rest is history.
And that’s the story of how a foul by Paul Scholes created The Invincibles.
Vamos, Brasil!
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