Who remembers the first World Cup, played in Uruguay in 1930? Few people—if anyone at all—who attended that tournament are alive to share their memories. The same goes for the editions in 1934, when Mussolini brought his own trophy to celebrate Italy’s victory, and in 1938, when the Italians won again, this time on French soil. There were no World Cups held in the 1940s. The 1950s began with the fall of Brazil at the Maracana and ended with the dawn of Pelé in Sweden. The 1960s brought Brazil another championship, thanks in large part to Garrincha, and saw England win the cup — the first and only time “football came home.” In the 70s, Pele led Brazil to its fourth title at the Estadio Azteca and Dutch total football came close to winning the country’s first World Cup, only to fall at the feet of West Germany in the 1974 final.
In the years since, the World Cup has only continued to expand in its influence, its mythos and symbolism. While it’s evolved in tandem with the forces that have shaped our world—globalization, hypercommercialization, and the plague of modern autocrats—it’s also served as an undeniable touchstone for generations upon generations of humans around the world. It is an all-encompassing spectacle, the most popular sporting event in the world. In the spirit of capturing its fraught dynamics and universal appeal—and on the eve of a new World Cup final—we’ve asked novelists, journalists, artists, and other public figures to share memories from tournament editions over the past half-century.
This is the first of a two part article. Read Part II (2002-2022) here.
Mexico 1970
Mircea Cărtărescu (novelist): The golden epoch of Romanian football peaked at the 1970 World Cup in Mexico. Our boys beat Czechoslovakia 2-1 at the Jalisco stadium in Guadalajara—”the lion pit,” as the press called it—and lost 0-1 to England and 2-3 to Brazil. I was 14 and used to wake up at midnight to watch the games. I was used to it since the moon landing in the previous year. What a time to be an adolescent! When I first went to Guadalajara 7 or 8 years ago, I visited the Jalisco stadium first. I thought I could still see our lions— Dumitrache, Neagu, Dinu, Lucescu—on the grass, fighting Pele and Jairzinho, Allan Clark and Robert “Bobby” Charlton. Many years after that fantastic period I wrote “The Mandebil,” one of my best stories ever. My main character, a disturbed boy, got his nickname from Jose Maria Ortiz de Mendebil, a Spanish referee who was terribly hated by the Romanians at that time because of his biased acting against our football team.
West Germany 1974
Dimitry Elias Léger (novelist): My early childhood involved shuttling constantly between Haiti and New York City, to the point that I still don’t know which language I spoke first—English, French, or Haitian Creole. What I do know is that “Sanon” may have been the first word I ever uttered in my life. I was three years old in 1974, and damn if I don’t remember the goal as if I were at the stadium: Emmanuel “Manno” Sanon, broad-chested and in a tight red shirt, legs glistening with sweat, a huge grin on his face, chugging the ball around Dino Zoff, the redoubtable Italian keeper, to score. It was Haiti’s first goal in its first-ever appearance in the World Cup, and against the legendary Zoff!
Afterward, I remember people on the street high-fiving each other and dancing whenever they saw the goal replayed on television. Even as the country descended into civil unrest after the fall of the dictatorship in 1986, Sanon’s goal, like Gaetjens’s goal, remained a cornerstone of national history, evoking General Dessalines’s victory over Napoleon in the 1804 war for Haitian independence from colonialism, the first Black country to ever win freedom by force.
Joseph O’Neil (novelist): I lived in Den Haag and was ten years old and on summer evenings when it wasn’t raining played football on the Kruisbeklaan with Marc Fischer and Leon Bouter and the Wassenaar brothers (Wim and Ronald) and Michiel Jansen and Bas Broekarts and the Visée brothers and Markie Deeleman and Jeffrey Schuurmans. Lamp posts served as goals.
That year, a television entered our home. On its screen appeared, in June, in blazing orange Adidas shirts, the Holland football team — Oranje. Cruyff, Neeskens, van Hanegem, Rep, Suurbier, Krol, Haan, Rijsbergen, Rensenbrink, Jansen, Jongbloed–these names remain as familiar and indelible and beautiful as those of my straatvoetbal friends. With every game, with every cry of Hup, Holland, hup! those West German World Cup weeks accumulated in drama and marvelousness. It came to an end in the final, with the 2-1 defeat to the tournament hosts. Afterwards, I stepped out with a ball under my arm. It was six o’clock. Four more hours of daylight awaited. Yet all was quiet and empty—no cars, no cyclists, no kids. The population had all drained away and a strange Dutch desert had come into being.
Argentina 1978
Simon Kuper (journalist): I am eight years old, and I’m sitting in my pajamas in our living room watching the final with my parents and grandparents. I recall that night as vividly as almost anything else in my childhood. A World Cup is like Proust’s madeleine. Each new World Cup reminds you of past World Cups, and the people you watched them with.
Argentina won 3-1 in extra time. Few Dutch people minded all that much. Even Rensenbrink said in old age that what kept him awake at night was not his shot against the post, but the theft of his beloved fishing boat. The Dutch in 1978 were proud to finish second in the world again.
Spain 1982
Pico Iyer (essayist): I was spending a month bumbling around Italy, pretending to gather notes for a rock-bottom student guidebook popular at the time, Let’s Go: Europe. My mandate, to visit every run-down guest-house and unpleasant restaurant in Sardinia and Rome so as to guide travelers almost as witless as myself, was made more difficult by the fact that all of Italy seemed to have taken the entire month off to follow the World Cup.
In every little mountain village I passed through, day after day, I gleaned results from the cries down some alleyway, guessed the week’s schedule from the tricolor flags draped around balconies. The Italian team had sludged through the first round, claiming uninspiring draws with Poland, Peru and even Cameroon. A squad known for its defense—its only goal, it seemed, was not to lose—erupted in an explosion of attacks to defeat first Argentina and then Brazil.
On the night of the final, my only goal was to secure a seat in a restaurant before the screen up front got blocked by a hundred others. By the time the kickoff came, I was squeezed between zealots, and my neighbors began to screech and gasp through every kick in a scoreless first half. Then, in the 57th minute, out of nowhere, Paolo Rossi—the hero who would receive both the Golden Boot and the Golden Ball–headed home a cross. Then Tardelli scored with his left foot. Then Altobelli netted a third. The huge screen was barely visible for shouting figures and waving flags as Dino Zoff became, at forty, the oldest person ever to lift the World Cup trophy.
That night, forty-four years on, remains one of the highlights of my life. All of Rome, it seemed—it might as well have been all of Italy—streamed into the streets, singing and dancing and honking horns, bringing la dolce vita to screaming life. I ran from block to block and the parade never ended. I’d entered every Fellini satyricon at once, amidst drinking and crying and kissing. I didn’t sleep all night.
Mexico 1986
Mehdi Hasan (journalist): My earliest memory of the World Cup as an England fan, aged 7 years old, was England vs Argentina, Gary Lineker vs Diego Maradona, in the quarter-finals of the 1986 World Cup. The first Maradona goal, the “hand of God,” left me enraged at the sheer illegitimacy of it. The second sublime goal from Argentina’s “Golden Boy,” in which he dribbled past five — count ’em, five! — England players left me in reluctant awe, my mouth agape. Since 1986, I have waited for the World Cup to come home, to no avail, enduring one failed penalty shoot-out after another.
Jeremy Corbyn (politician): As much as it pains me to say it, Maradona and his two goals against England in the 1986 World Cup were sublime. Some fans might be upset with me for saying that, but let’s have some respect for Maradona: he was quite good at football.
Sergio Levinsky (journalist): It’s impossible to discuss the 1986 World Cup without focusing on Maradona. This isn’t just because of his two legendary goals against England in the quarter-finals at the Azteca. It’s also due to his defiant stance against FIFA and its two principal leaders, João Havelange and Joseph Blatter, when he protested the scheduling of matches during the scorching midday heat and, frequently, at high altitudes.
After Argentina beat Germany in the final, the press, driven by an almost adolescent impulse, pushed against the police cordon in an attempt to reach the champions’ dressing room. Though this was strictly forbidden, Julio Grondona, the AFA President, pulled us inside. What I witnessed next I’d never see again: a jam-packed room where the players gave full expression to their emotions, some weeping openly, others longing for their families, and a few recalling, with vindictive satisfaction, the harsh criticism they had endured in the media before the tournament began.
Italy 1990
Simon Kuper: In 1990, I travelled to Italy at the start of the World Cup. Weeks later, the tournament ended with West Germany beating Maradona’s Argentina 1-0 in a very boring final. Maradona explained afterwards that Argentina had lost because of a complicated FIFA-orchestrated conspiracy against the Argentinian people.
Jeré Longman (journalist): That was the first World Cup for the United States — a team of college kids, sons of immigrants — since 1950. They were taunted before their group match against Italy, but after escaping with a 1-0 victory, the Italian stars Paolo Maldini, Franco Baresi and Roberto Baggio visited the American dressing room to pay their respects and exchange jerseys. The boxer Marvelous Marvin Hagler also dropped in.
I attended a planned riot between English and Dutch supporters before a group match in Sardinia that came with everything but engraved invitations. Toto Schillachi of Italy had his moment as the tournament’s leading scorer, even as spray-painted signs mocked his Sicilian upbringing and accusations that his brother stole tires.
Simon Kuper: The final was West Germany’s last ever match at a World Cup. The two Germanies were scheduled to reunify three months later. Franz Beckenbauer, the West German coach, said: “We’re number one in the world. Now the players from East Germany are going to be added on. I’m sorry for the rest of the world, but for the next few years we’re going to be unbeatable.”
U.S.A. 1994
Jeré Longman: Before the World Cup, I went to Romania, which would face the United States in a group match. It was a time of chaotic capitalism after the fall of the Ceausescu regime. I was told players were being transferred for 10,000 bottles of Coca-Cola and powder to make ice cream.
Roberto Lovato (author): I’ll always remember the 1994 World Cup as an apocalyptic event, the end that was also a beginning. I watched the historic signalling the US’s coming of soccer age on a small television. Crowding around the television alongside me were 50 farmworkers, union reps and other immigrant leaders packed into a big tent on a farmworker camp outside of Fresno, California. We took a break from our meeting to watch the opening.
Our hearts were full of anger and hope, planning a major mobilization against Governor Pete Wilson’s Proposition 187 and taking a break to watch newly-elected President Bill Clinton inaugurate the “magnificent celebration” by saying “The World Cup has captured the imagination of our country, as has the game itself in the last few years.”
Clinton’s speech was followed by a massive display of “soft” U.S. power: an army of celebrities enlisted by organizers and their corporate sponsors to herald the coming of the Great Game to “America.” We smiled as Oprah sashayed across the stage to uproarious applause to introduce Diana Ross, the singer who would prophecy the US’s soccer destiny with “I’m Coming Out.”
After introducing Ross, Oprah started walking off stage when her heel broke, causing her to tumble off the platform before an audience of over three quarters of a billion people. Ross soldiered on, dancing on the field awash in confetti and balloons on a soccer-ball-shaped stage and armies of dancers dressed in coordinated white costumes making way towards a goal post as she crooned for the country, “I’m coming out, I want the world to know got to let them know,” before the stage was set for her to score for soccer: shooting a penalty kick into the goal that was rigged to split apart when she scored.
Ross lined up to take the penalty shot on cue, continuing to sing, took a stutter-step like the best pros do, approached, then back-pedalled for dramatic effect, and took another stutter-step, and then took her fateful penalty shot: a chip shot that spun waaay far to the left of the goal post which collapsed on cue, in what would become a symbol of the sporting and imperial decline that scapegoats immigrants I was watching the spectacle with. Ever the sportswoman and entertainer, Ross continued singing. “I want the world to know,” she shouted, right after her Titanic miss, as she jogged to the stage.
Jeré Longman: The United States was not yet a soccer country, but it knew how to host a big event. A brief mania occurred when the Americans advanced to the second round — the defender Alexi Lalas began receiving letters addressed simply to “The Red Headed Guy.” Bora Milutinovic, the American manager, was hardly a household name except in restaurants in Los Angeles, where waiters and kitchen staff loved him for guiding Mexico to the quarterfinals of the 1986 World Cup. One night at his home before the World Cup began, while I spoke with him, he called a restaurant to make a reservation, announcing himself simply as “Bora.” When that did not elicit sufficient recognition, he said, “Give me someone from Mexico.”
As for the final, what I remember most about Roberto Baggio ballooning his penalty shot over the crossbar is his head. It dropped like the blade of a guillotine.
Roberto Lovato: The price of tickets for the final in Pasadena’s Rose Bowl — $60 to $475 — was steep for many. But the neoliberal turn had not yet launched Gianni Infantino’s age of the $2 million ticket, which made it possible for some of us to see their first game ever.
Many in the crowd were immigrants bearing Mexican, Salvadoran, Honduran and other flags of the insurgent continent that gave birth to and embraced Maradona, even though he had been expelled for using ephedrine just two weeks before.
My friends and I were trying to buy hot dogs from a vendor, when an announcement boomed loudly on the stadium speakers: “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Governor Pete Wilson of the great State of California.” I felt like Satan had been invited to the Last Supper.
But Providence prevailed. Wilson walked across the grass, waving as he headed to the mic about 20 feet from him. He hadn’t taken but a few steps when the stadium started booming with boos. We chanted so loudly that even the expletives filling the air were drowned out.
France 1998
Jeré Longman: Before the World Cup, I went to Iran to write about the state of soccer there. In Tehran, I spoke with Mahin Gorji at Azadi Stadium. She was the first female Iranian sportswriter allowed into the media tribune since the 1979 Islamic revolution. As we spoke in the open press box, she ignored bits of food being tossed at her in disgust at her presence. She was a huge fan of Mia Hamm and would write about her during the 1999 Women’s World Cup.
The United States faced Iran in Lyons in a group match, the first soccer game ever between the two nations. Sport escaped politics, if only briefly, before the game began. Iran’s coach, Jalal Talebi, lived in northern California. The Iranian players shook hands with the Americans and handed them white flowers symbolizing peace. Players posed together for a team picture. Fans were friendly and courteous. Politics intruded during the match, but only in a peaceful if vigorous protest by Iranian expatriates against Iran’s Islamic regime. When Iran won 2-1, supporters in Tehran ecstatically took to the streets, some women without their mandatory scarves.
France seemed somewhat less enthusiastic as hosts as the tournament began. I went to a bar that held a contest for patrons to use screwdrivers to puncture soccer balls. A month later, after France defeated Brazil in the final, a million people gathered on the Champs-Elysees to celebrate.
João Pedro Vala (novelist): I was eight years old, my family and I were on holidays and I was intending to support Brazil, mainly due to my childhood love for bright colors and relentless joy. I remember telling that to my father early in that morning, only to find he would support France instead, which is, I guess, what adults tend to do. Divided between my passion for Ronaldo and the obedience I felt I owed to my father, I changed my mind and decided to be on my father’s side, so I tried, as best as I could, to support France. But even Zidane, who, despite being a genius, was, nevertheless, a bald grown-up, couldn’t steal my heart and I don’t remember feeling any kind of happiness while the goals kept piling up behind Taffarel’s helpless back.
Simon Kuper: The winning, united, multiracial French team briefly became a symbol of a winning, united, multiracial France. The football victory was going to melt away racial divides.
It didn’t. After 1998, France went through a quarter century of economic stagnation, fading global power, terrorism, ethnic riots, the uprising of the ‘yellow vests’, and recurring fear that the anti-immigrant far right would win the French presidency.
A World Cup can’t heal a country. But it can divert an individual’s life path. Three days after the tournament ended, I was back in the FT building writing the currency report: ‘Money traders see higher UK rates.’ I soon realized that I couldn’t take it any more. Within a month, I resigned.
I went off to be a freelance football writer. Later I drifted back to the FT as a columnist, but I’ve never again worked in a corporate office. In 2001 I bought a little flat in Paris. In 2002 I tried living there. I’m still here. That flat is now my office. I’ve become a French citizen, and I’ll probably die in Paris. The World Cup changed my life.