Author : Zurab Medzvelia
I was asked in the midst of the World Cup to write something about football and express my feelings. What else could I write about? I did some thinking and found a way out: I chose the most popular topic of blogs and podcasts of these days, “My World Cup”, and, while watching 4 matches every day and being very busy at work, I found the easiest way to avoid writing – by using my own Facebook posts from different times (with minor corrections), I have thus compiled almost an interview with myself.
My First Mundial
(This is most recent, I wrote it in October 2020, when I took the first vacation of my life and organized for myself a “Kvaratour” by attending three Naples games – the first one in Amsterdam, at the Johan Cruijff Arena).
“Happy birthday to Cruijff, peeeople!” – I used to shout every April 25th. A father and a son, that is, my father and my grandfather, were born on the same day, and the toast to that genius Dutchman would be heard in the family of three generations of football fans...
I am 7 years old and I am glued to a black and white television set with my father and many other men. Although I have been watching football for almost a year with pleasure and interest, I have never seen anything like it – there are some very different people playing: All with long hair, some with their gaiters down, some with their t-shirts untucked… and they play differently. They are wearing carrot-colored uniforms, my father and others say, and they also say... that Number 14 is a miracle... and I think that day in 1974, the story of my love affair with football continuing till now was finally decided... European football was not broadcast by the Bolsheviks in 1976. And Cruijff was no longer at the 78 World Cup. In short, I haven't watched him live ....
I'm 25 years old and I'm flying to Kyiv to see the 45-year-old Barcelona coach. The senior Laudrup and that crazy Stoitchkov arrived. But the head coach didn't come: A few hours before the flight, he became sick and needed heart surgery. In short, he could not come to Ukraine and I could not thank him for that evening...
I am 56 years old, I already know what a heart attack is, and on my last day in Amsterdam I walked to the first house of Number 14, who had been dead for six years already, and jokingly muttered something that was rumored to be often complained about by neighbors to Johan's parents: “The ball of your son smashed our window!” And since then, how many teams were smashed with his ball, and how many things he won, and how many things he changed, and how many people he raised, and how many people fell in love with football, impossible to count...
I said thank you Johan and left.
The Most Memorable Match
(This was written in the winter of 2020 – Paolo Rossi died on December 9 and I mourned him this way).
There are games after which you sit with a broken heart, angry and bewildered and cannot believe that your favorite team has lost. Like, for example, Munich in Barcelona in 1999 or Milan in Istanbul in 2005.
And there are games in which you're not particularly on someone's side, so you're not annoyed by anything, in fact, you're not even angry, you're just stunned – did that really happen?
Similarly, I was stunned after the Italy-Brazil match on July 5, 1982. Yes, there were similar ones after that too, but such a shock? No, never again. And I've watched 12 World Cups.
On one side, a totally insane Brazil with Zico-Falcao-Socratés-Eders. By all accounts one of the best teams in the history of football. And Italy on the other side, who slipped through without a win and only because Cameroon's goalkeeper stumbled. Italy wins the game 3-2. And those three goals all scored by Paolo Rossi.
The man looked like a shadow. You would have thought there was something wrong with him and he must not have been quite healthy. So, where is this Rossi of yours? Suddenly, at just the right moment, he would flash. He had a whole series of seasons like that.
Still in Juve's youth team he underwent three surgeries. Then there were a lot of injuries. Let us skip to the end and mention the 1985-86 season when he was at AC Milan. He did not score in 19 of 20 games and scored in only one, and two goals at once. Where and with whom? It's easy to guess – at the right time and in the right place – at San Siro against Inter.
Worse than being in the shadows, a 2-year suspension and, after that, in the first four games, “Well, where is he?” Then, in just one week: 6 goals and the best scorer of the World Cup, the best player and the champion. The main hero of the “Sarria Tragedy” and “the man who made Brazil cry”.
Yes, he played once in Brazil after that, and whenever he happened to be at the edge of the field, so many coins were thrown at him that the man would have been rich if he had bothered to pick them up. He didn't get angry. Not only that, he once took a taxi to go somewhere during that tour. In the middle of the road the taxi driver realized who the passenger was and told him to get out of the car immediately. He didn't get angry at the driver or try to cajole him either, but the driver said, “Ok, don’t get out, but I will never forgive myself for fulfilling your wish, so I will not take you where you are going, but back to the hotel.” The Brazilians thawed out this year when, at Falcao's request, Paolo and his fellow champions recorded a video in which they supported the Brazilians in defeating the coronavirus…
He died of lung cancer at the age of 64. He left behind three children: 38-year-old Alessandro by his first wife and two girls – 10-year-old Marie Vittoria and 8-year-old Sofia Elena by his second wife, who was 16 years younger than him and whom he met in 2008.
He was originally from Tuscany and ended up living in Tuscany in a village of 15 houses he built, surrounded by a football pitch and vineyards. He produced good wine, they say. I'm not a wine connoisseur, I'm not a drinker, but I love football and so I wanted to recall in a few words the most shocking match and its main hero.
The Most Memorable Goal
(I remembered this during the previous World Cup on Facebook, but here I will give a little preface, a story from the times when I was working in the football federation in the early 1990s: Once there was a big earthquake and naturally all the people from both floors of our federation immediately ran out onto the street – Ramaz Shengelia was among them; Ramaz thought: “I will see whether anyone is still inside” and went back in... later he was telling the staff, “I broke in, ran from room to room and then I saw Medzvelia standing on a chair carefully taking a Van Basten poster off the wall, yelled “What are you doing, come quickly!” and that crazy man replied, “Without that, there is no chance!”).
For me it was my 11th World Cup and in my forty years I have seen many different goals: The ones that delighted me, the ones that drove me crazy with joy (Dennis Bergkamp 1998!!! Dennis Bergkamp!!! Dennis Bergkamp!!!), the ones that upset me to tears... But this one stands out among them all – Ramaz Shengelia's goal against Scotland on June 22, 1982.
Even then, at the age of 15, I didn't care whether there were 3 Georgians on the USSR team or 10 – I was still on the side of the opponent. Scotland needed a win in this game and the USSR needed a draw. So, then come on, Scotland! And soon Scotland scored a goal, thanks to a very grave mistake by Chivadze. I was delighted with the goal but when I imagined that it was our man who would be blamed for the defeat, the advance of the Scots was no longer so joyful. Then the score was tied. And who did it? Well, Chivadze, of course! And I got rid of that “Sasha complex” and started “Come on, Scotland!” And then, there was the 84th minute: Two Scotsmen collided with each other and Ramaz Shengelia ran alone towards the goal... Six seconds passed from that collision to the goal, and in those six seconds I managed to yell out four times:
First it was “No!!!” Then it was “Go!” Then it was “No!” again, and finally, again, “Go!!!”
My favorite player back then was Ramaz. I loved him a lot and felt sorry for him. Unlike Kipiani or Gutsaev, people almost never forgave him for mistakes and scolded him severely. It was because of him that I sat behind the goal gate of the Dinamo's rival in the first half, and in the second half too, knowing Ramaz would score, he would break through in his own manner and I would be there too, close to this happiness.
Well, that was the reason for this “No! – Go!” – your favorite player takes a one-on-one lead and of course you want him to score, but his shirt has СССР on it and I couldn't care less about the USSR, but if he were to blow that chance, we'd be disgraced in front of the whole world...
He scored. Two minutes later the Scots equalized again and with four minutes left I really wanted them to score again and leave this USSR stuck in the group, but they were not able to...
I told this story to Ramaz on July 1, 1991. To be more precise, I did not tell it to him, I told it as a toast at the banquet organized by some Moldovans on the eve of the first away match of the Georgian national team in Chisinau (me and the banquet, me and the toast, who knows who would understand, but Ramaz and I were the only Georgians, and the others were toasting, and what else could I do?). So I told the story of those 6 seconds and brought the hosts to tears. Ramaz came up, hugged me, and said: “You've been crazy since childhood”.
The Most...
(Cruijff, Rossi, Schengelia... How much joy they have given to millions of people, and most importantly, we, the happy ones, have never once regretted this joy; however, there are exceptions... I often think back to that story, because of the footballer-politicians, and let it be here; so, a couple of words about the Algerian-born star of the French national team).
You think it was Zidane? No gentlemen, this story happened long before that.
July 13, 1930. Montevideo, Uruguay. In the first match of the first world football championship, the French national team defeated Mexico 4:1. Standing first from the right in the photo is French captain Alexandre Villaplane – the first player of Algerian origin in the French national team. I repeat: The captain of the French national team in the very first match of the historic, very first world championship.
14 years pass. On December 26, 1944, this former star and captain, now the SS Lieutenant Alexandre Villaplane, was tried by the French and executed at Christmas for collaborating with the enemy Germans during the Second World War.
My...
(I haven't dug this up from somewhere, and I'm writing honestly now so the article doesn't end with mentioning Nazis, collaborators, and other bastards).
I've been watching football for 49 years, and it just so happens that there were only 3 players who enthralled me at first sight and in just a few minutes: Marco van Basten, Andres Iniesta and... Khvicha Kvaratskhelia.
Anyway, where's the time to write so much, so let me finally just express a wish: May this Qatar be the last World Cup without us!
I'm not a drinker, as I have said, and yet I have made a good toast, haven't I?
Well, join in!
