My favourite world cup that. Would love to hear your stories. My brother had me supporting Spurs before that but Mexico 86 was when I fell in love with the game. Watching Brazil and particularly Careca, wow. They were like people from another planet. Josimar scoring two absolute worldies and he was their reserve right back. Built the romanticism of Brazil and the yellow shirt for me. And Maradona, wow. Just incredible stuff.
Thats why I'm struggling with this world cup. I can't give much of a fudge about it. From a moral perspective, its vile that they have the world cup. Absolutely vile. The human rights abuses, the judgment on people's ways of living. From a football perspective, it also makes me sick. Fifa were blatantly bought. This has jack brick to do with developing football. Its anti everything I fell hopelessly in love with in 1986 when it was just 22 lads displaying silky skills for their national flag. Maybe it's over romanticised in my head because I was 6 years old but it certainly wasnt the cynical, dystopian money generator that the 2022 world cup is and will be.
Spying On The Russians
So, it's been an interesting start to the '86 World Cup for me. After twice visiting Mexico City (great place to visit, btw. My son just returned from there, blown away with the art, architecture, culture and cuisine) to cover the draw and a friendly between Canada and Mexico, I had the lay of the land pretty good.
Got my base of operations for the month in an older, verifiably earthquake-proof hotel on Londres in the Zona Rosa. A good shake happened between the first two visits and one newer hotel was declared unfit for habitation. There were fatalities when air conditioner units fell from the rooms above and struck pedestrians below.
A couple of hours north, my Canada are based in Irapuato. They're in a group with Frawwnce, Hungary and the Soviet Union. My main clients are a monthly football magazine and a football-mad, three-times a week Italian language newspaper in Toronto - where there are over 500,000 Italian-heritage residents.
I'm bouncing back and forth between the placidity of the Canadian camp and the frenzy of the Italian camp in Mexico City. At Canadian media conferences, the 8-10 of us journos from Canada would basically gather around a big breakfast table, enjoy a congenial start to the day and then manager Tony Waiters (Englishman, ex-keeper, really nice guy) would join us at the table and basically shoot the breeze for a while. Fun, friendly and a laughs aplenty. Players available whenever asked for.
The Italian camp couldn't have been more different. A shrieking, hysterical and often violent gathering of emotional, overwrought people constantly pushing and shoving to get the best places. I saw a TV cameraman clobber another with a big metal camera tripod. I knew all the bad words in Italian and refined my delivery of them in those visits.
One morning, not long after Canada had nobly held zee French to a 1-0 defeat, I was chowing down at a Canadian camp breakfast and up sidled one of the most charming men in the Canadian football scene. Smooth, suave, supremely congenial. The David Niven of Canadian soccer. Not only was he a former international and current official with Canada's governing body for football, he was a renowned football TV journalist and also carried multiple credentials to let him pass as a FIFA committee member, broadcaster, print journalist and heaven knows what else.
'Norfy, just the man I'm looking for', he said. 'How'd you like an assignment to shoot some snaps of one of the world's great goalkeepers that I'm interviewing for magazine X?' I thought, yeah, anything that extends the receivables is good with me. I asked when he wanted to do it. 'Today,' he replied. 'As soon as your ready to go?' Wow. Admittedly, I had made plans but thought this was a good opportunity since it might lead to more work once we were back in Canada.
'Yeah, sure,' I replied. 'Who's the 'keeper and where do we go?'
'Rinat Dasayev, the Soviet keeper', he said. 'And he's about 10 minutes drive away. And since you've got a car we can both go together'.
I was mildly thrilled. My first ever World Cup game was Brazil vs the Soviet Union in Sevilla in '82. A credential mixup meant I couldn't get onto the pitch until the second half. Luckily, my photo vest had the right colour to be at the right end. One of my first photos was a great shot of Dasayev diving toward me, full stretch, as the ball whizzed past his outstretched hands as Brazil tied the game en route to a 2-1 win.
I immediately agreed and we piled into my car and headed off to the Soviet camp. As we drove in, we passed the modest 10-storey hotel where the Soviet team players were staying. On a number of balconies, we could see bright red CCCP football shirts, shorts and socks hanging to dry in the midday heat over the railings above the street. Each player was responsible for doing his own laundry.
At the Soviet camp, we were closely checked for proper credentials and clearance to visit. My colleague had done his homework. I was introduced as his photographer and we were directed in. I had my usual big bag of gear which included some long lenses. The interview was slated to happen after training.
The players were out on the training pitch in rather bland outfits of blank coloured t-shirts and shorts - no names or numbers. We were separated from them by a considerable distance - a running track and broad green space, a chain link fence and more space below the spectator stands in which we were now seated under a hot sun.
'Norfy', my colleague begins, 'Why not take out that big lens and see if you can't get some shots of Dasayev while he's training?'
It was a bit of long way off, but I agreed to try. As I was fitting my 600mm f5.6 Nikon lens, my chum unzips a leather pouch and takes out some paper sheets with the markings for a football pitch on them. He starts marking the sheet with Xs and Os and squiggles, lines and arrows. Suddenly, he asks: 'Can you make out the identities of the back line in front of Dasayev?' I peer through the big lens and start rattling off names of the players I recognized - Chivadze, Morozov.
Then looking around the pitch, I see Oleg Blokhin, Protasov, Rodionov, Aleinov. The names and positions spill out as quickly as I can spot each player. Then I lift my eye from the camera. Glancing left, there's the names I've called out in amongst all the lines and squiggles and arrows. With even more of those markings now. And on more than one sheet of paper.
Then it dawns on me. He's charting the Soviet team training to get an idea of how they might play when they meet Canada. He's using me and my big lens to spy on the Soviets.
'Just keep it cool, Norfy,' he re-assures me, sensing my surprise. 'If anyone comes over here to check on us, we'll see them coming from a long way off. I'll tell you and you just keep focusing on Dasayev. We're just here for an interview.'
But no one did come. No one caught on, or said boo. The interview went off without a hitch, I did a few set up shots of the goalie after the interview - cute pics of him having fun with the Mexican ball boys who helped out at their training sessions. They were published months after the World Cup ended. I made a couple of hundred extra dollars. Canada lost 2-0 to the Soviets, so no idea how the info my colleague learned might have helped.
But there you have it. Without realizing it was happening until it was happening, I ended up spying for Canada on the Soviet Union.
I'm still in the Witness Protection Program.
