The Heroes of World Cup 1966

By Max Palme

July 1966: The dreams of an Iranian political correspondent are shattered to pieces when he is informed that instead of flying to Saigon, he will have to travel to London to report on the World Cup. To him, this is an insignificant matter at a time when the world is silently burning in the flames of wars and in the coldness of the Cold War. However, to his surprise, he finds football to be a new global language. World Cup 1966, in particular, appears to be reuniting people all over the globe. In the middle of the worlds unrest, World Cup 1966 is a moment of fresh air.

From the early elimination of the two time champions, Brazil and Italy, to the phenomenal appearance of North Korea; from the brave Portuguese men who gave their all to stay longer in the competition to the proud Germans who made every effort to repair the broken image of their nation; from the tears of Black Pearl to the nine goals of Black Panther; and from Englands disappointing draw in the opening match to their glorious victory in the Final; the story brings back all the ups and downs of World Cup 1966, set against a stark backdrop of world events that defined that tumultuous time period.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491893197

Book preview

Chapter 1

July, 9.

Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Nick Coward here. On behalf of my crew and British Eagle International Airlines, I would like to welcome you to Heathrow Airport, London, England. It is Saturday the 9th of July 1966, 4:30 pm local time. The temperature at the airport is 19 degrees Celsius, 66 degrees Fahrenheit and in London 18 degrees Celsius, 64 degrees Fahrenheit. We’d all like to thank you for flying with British Eagle International, and I wish you a pleasant time in beautiful England.

I stood up to leave the airplane along with most of the passengers, and suddenly the intercom buzzed to life once more. Oh! exclaimed the Captain’s voice: Ladies and gentlemen! My apologies for forgetting an important point! He paused for a moment and continued with a loud and excited voice: Don’t forget, the World Cup is in two days, right here in London. Be sure to root for England as they knock Uruguay out of the competition! The sound of applause from most of the passengers concluded the captain’s announcement.

It was not my first time visiting London. I’d been there before for two journalism seminars, and I loved it every time. I was not only fascinated by the architecture of the city and its lively ambience, shopping malls and red, double-decker buses, I also adored the British accent and the manner in which the people talked so respectfully and politely.

Passport please, a middle-aged man dressed in a white clean uniform asked me. He sported grey hair, was well-shaven and wore large glasses.

Here you are, Sir, I replied as I gave him my passport.

What is your name, Sir? he asked.

Mehdi Ghazanfarian.

Date of birth?

December 4, 1942.

What is your nationality?

Isn’t that on my passport, Sir? I complained. I knew I was being unreasonable, but I was losing patience.

Just answer the question, please. He said with a firm voice.

Persian, Sir.

Do you have any hotel reservation?

Yes Sir! Here you are, I said and showed him the confirmation of the hotel reservation.

How long will you be staying in England? he asked without a pause.

Until the end of July, I suppose.

Do you have enough money to finance your stay?

Yes Sir, I have Traveller’s cheques.

Do you have anything for told declaration?

No Sir.

Strong alcohol, perfumes or cigarettes?

No, no, and no, Sir.

Is this the first time you are visiting England?

No, I have been here before. There are some stamps somewhere in my passport. He turned over a leaf of the passport while nodding his head. I perceived it as a sign of approval.

Why are you visiting London again? The World Cup Tournament I guess, isn’t it?

No Sir. I am here to meet the Queen of England, I said sarcastically and laughed.

We talk about Queen Elizabeth with respect, Sir! He took my act seriously.

I did not mean to insult the Queen!

But you did, he said and looked deep into my eyes. So…, he made a long pause then carried on: Why are you here?

I am here to see the Queen at… He interrupted my words and asked:

Do you have an invitation?

I felt he had found me an offensive idiot of a man. Well, I was without a doubt a fool. I had put myself in a bad situation even though I knew all about those harsh and boring airport procedures.

Invitation for what, Sir? I asked.

To meet the Queen!

Oh, Sir, I laughed. That is not what I meant.

So what did you mean? he asked in a deadly serious tone.

Did I say anything disrespectful? I complained a bit aggressively.

Are you drunk?

Nooo, no Sir…, maybe a little bit…! But no, I don’t think so!

You know, he looked at me for a while, and then continued: You are not in the position to verify your identity and your intention of visiting England.

What do you mean, Sir? I asked anxiously.

Your conduct here is entirely suspicious!

Am I being suspicious?

Yes!

Why? I asked and added: I have a valid visa and…, but before I could finish my sentence I saw two policemen standing behind me, both tall and strong, dressed in dark blue uniforms.

Over there, Sir, said one of them.

I want to know what is wrong…

Please Sir, he said with a strong voice.

Ok, ok!

Is this your luggage Sir? the other officer asked me.

Yes Sir.

Take them please and follow us.

I followed them like an obedient soldier until we reached the airport police station.

Sit here, please, one of the officers told me.

How long shall I wait here? I asked while sitting on a dark-brown wooden bench. Both policemen shrugged their shoulders without saying a word.

Oh, what the bloody hell, I said to myself. I was concerned that they might send me back to Tehran. I was not sure if I was drunk from the glass of red wine I had for lunch or if it was just my foolish humorous rejoinder. My sense of humour apparently did not work in London. To some extent, I could understand the necessity of such boring procedures, as there were rumours that Iranian students were planning some protests against the Shah of Iran during the World Cup. However, I came from a family that had always been pro-monarchy, with the exception of my little sister. At that time she was a 19-year-old student, following communism and wishing for justice to be brought by the Soviet Union. My father was an army man, a colonel, who was ready to die for the Shah of Persia. My mother was a housewife and a true follower of her husband and his faith. My brother was 27 years old and employed in the Persian Royal Guard. My parents were extremely proud of him, since he had to pass a series of difficult exams to get that position, and pledge fealty to the King of Persia. I was a 24-year-old journalist, and like the majority of my family, pro-monarchy and pro-capitalism. I had graduated from a well-known university in Tehran and was quickly hired by the PT, the Persian Telegram, an English daily newspaper issued especially for foreigners. Of course my father’s connections helped with getting this job, but I was also a hard worker. I had just spent six months in Vietnam to report on the war and decided to try it one more time on a new duty. My father was extremely happy when he heard about my decision: You will become a real man in the war zone, my son, he said proudly. To be honest, if he could he would have joined the Americans in the Vietnam War. He saw the world as black and white, divided between the capitalist and the communist parties, where the white side was capitalism, the symbol of democracy, and where communism was simply a new version of dictatorship, or what he called the red totalitarianism. He was proud of the fact that the Shah of Iran was profoundly supported by the West, particularly the USA. I am sure you would be an eyewitness of the Americans’ victory this time, he said and nodded with a smile. My brother had also been proud of my decision. You are a real journalist, he said. God bless you, my brother. My mother and sister on the other hand were totally against my trip to Vietnam. My mother was terrified of losing me to the Vietcong, about whom she had heard lots of horror stories, mostly from my father and his colleagues. My sister considered my involvement as some kind of approval for the war. She was the member of a tiny activist group, firmly against the US and its battle against Vietnam. It seemed a harmless club to me, but my father and brother were worried that their non-toxic ideology would turn into an anti-monarchy movement sooner or later.

Mr… Ga… zan… fa… rian. There was a police officer calling me.

Yes Sir!

Come in, please.

I took my luggage and walked into his office. The police officer was a young blond man with a classic English moustache. He was elegantly dressed in a white shirt with a black tie matching his black trousers. He also wore a black peaked cap with a checkered Sillitoe tartan wrapped around it.

Sit down, please, said the police officer in a friendly tone. I obeyed instantly.

I should apologise, Mr Gha… zan… fa… rian, for the trouble you faced in the pass control. You know this is the procedure in every country.

Yes, of course, Sir. But I did not commit anything immoral or…

Let me finish, please!

My apologies.

For security reasons we expect you to fully cooperate in this process, even if you think it is boring or funny.

Yes.

I have to inform you that we have the right to send you back to your native country if we find you to be lying. Do you understand, Sir?

Yes, Sir!

So, please tell us about why you are visiting England.

I took a deep breath and explained: As I mentioned, my real intention is to see Queen Elizabeth.

And you think this is funny, Mr Gha… zan… fa… rian.

Not at all, Sir.

Then please explain what you mean.

I am a journalist from the PT.

The PT?!

Yes, the PT, the Persian Telegram newspaper. I gave him my international identity card.

The officer studied the card carefully, and said, I see. Alright. He handed my ID back.

I am here to report on the World Cup, but my real excitement is to see the Queen and her speech at the opening ceremony.

How about the matches? he asked curiously.

It is my job to report the matches, but I find football quite boring and meaningless.

If so, then why are you working as a sports journalist?

I am not.

The officer leaned back in his chair and let out a frustrated sigh. I am getting confused, he said in an annoyed voice. Are you a journalist or not?

Yes, I’m a journalist, but not a sportswriter.

Not a sportswriter you said?

Correct.

Interesting, he said as he shook his head. Carry on, please.

I smiled then, because I could tell he was more interested in what I did rather than if I were telling the truth or not. So I indulged him.

I was in Vietnam last year, reporting on the progress of the war. In fact, I should have flown to the US today to join a group of American journalists. We were supposed to fly to Saigon sometime during the next week…

Then… just out of curiosity, he interrupted me, why are you here?

The journalist who was supposed to come to London had an accident and I was the only one available to replace him.

So that is why you’ve decided to provoke us? To send you back to Iran?

No, no Sir! I didn’t mean to provoke anyone, but I will not complain if you feel it is your duty to send me away.

I’ve already received the required information from the Persian delegation in London. I don’t think you want to hear this, but they’ve asked us to grant you entry.

This means you are not returning me to Tehran?

No, unfortunately not, he laughed.

Whether fortunate or not, I received permission to enter England. All that had happened at the airport had stemmed from one slip of the tongue. It was not at all my intention to cause trouble. Further, I had to forget about Vietnam. After all, I was not even sure if I could ever join the journalists in Saigon. There was a debate currently going on in the US about forbidding foreign journalists to visit the war zone. They believed that foreign members of the press were damaging the Americans’ ambitions for the war.

When I got the job at the PT about two years earlier, I was just the son of a colonel. No one took me as a serious reporter until I voluntarily joined the group of correspondents to Vietnam a year later. That adventure had brought my name to the light, and soon it was not only my father and brother who were proud of me, but also my colleagues in the journalism business. They suddenly admired my courage and determination in getting the story. Everything was going so wonderfully for me, until about a week ago. Oh, what a bloody day that was, when I heard the sports team of the newspaper had been in a fatal car accident. The head of the PT’s sports writing department was killed and two journalists and a photographer were seriously injured. The same evening I was called to meet the chef-redactor of the newspaper. He was a chubby man with a big grey moustache, and always dressed in a dark, navy blue suit with a white shirt. Even though I had great respect for him, it was not a pleasure to meet him face to face. He was supportive of my work, but at the same time quite aggressive. He never seemed satisfied, and worst of all he would never change his mind.

I am so sorry to tell you that I have to cancel your trip to the US and Vietnam.

Why, Sir? I asked. I was still in shock about the devastating news.

The Vietnam War is not our main concern at the moment.

What are you talking about? You know the US is in the process of a massive preparation…

Yes, yes, he was impatient and I could tell that he was ready to end the discussion. Maybe there will be a big bang, but I cannot take the risk of such a dangerous and expensive trip for something uncertain. I have to think about your life, too.

I would like to take the chance, you know that, Sir.

I know you do. You are a silly young man looking for adventure, but I don’t want to lose you. I have already lost one of the best.

The risk is worth it. It is a historical war between the West and the East.

It is not at all the highlight of this month. The World Cup will be the main focus. It is my final decision.

What can I say? I am disappointed. I was so ready for the journey.

I know, I know, he said, nodding his head. That is why I have another proposal for you.

I hope it is more exciting than the trip to Vietnam.

Yes it is, it certainly is.

I am already thrilled. What is it, Sir?

A trip to London.

I don’t need a vacation right now, I said sarcastically.

Funny, very funny, he said and smiled. You will be our reporter for the World Cup. You are flying the day after tomorrow.

Mister, Mister!

Yes?

Do you need a taxi, Mister? The taxi driver was a dark, short and skinny man talking in an Indian accent.

Yes, thank you.

Are you here for the World Cup, Mister? he asked and opened the boot.

Yes, I am.

I know a very good and cheap hotel, he said while he was putting my luggage in the car. It is in the central area of London.

Thanks for the offer, but I already have a hotel reservation.

Ok, he said while opening the door. Where is your hotel Sir?

The Silva Hotel, in…

I know the Silva Hotel very well, he interrupted me. I have driven many times over there.

I see…

Silva is a good hotel.

As soon as he started driving, my mind flew from London back to Saigon. I couldn’t get the words out of my mind: The first love stays on your mind forever. My first trip as a journalist had been unforgettable. I was impressed by every single thing. I could remember every detail as if it were still in front of my eyes. I was astonished by the beautiful nature of Vietnam, the trees on the streets and even the clouds in the sky. More than anything, I saw in vivid detail the green landscape of the paddy fields, with all the workers in big straw hats. The scene could be the most fascinating subject for any painter. As soon as I had reached Saigon from the airport, the first thing that caught my attention was the bright designs and colours of the women’s clothing, contrasted by the simple cotton clothing of the men. I was in a green paradise, in God’s Promised Land, until a terrifying explosion reminded me that I was just inside a green bloody hell…

Mister, Mister… It was the taxi driver.

Yes? I said. I was sleepy.

Here it is the Silva Hotel.

I looked through the window. The hotel was located at a crossroad in a very busy district. It was a pretty building with several floors. The flags of 16 national teams present in the World Cup were waving slowly above the grand entrance. You could still see the beautiful red rays of the sunset playing against the flags’ flapping tails. I paid the driver, took my bags and was on the way to the hotel, when I heard:

Mister…, Excuse me, Mister, I turned my head and saw a little boy running after me. He was in brown dungarees, a grey shirt and a black cap. His shaggy blond hair reached his shoulders.

Yes? I asked.

Do you want me to polish your shoes? I am the best shoe shiner on the street.

Sorry boy, I have no time now.

I will make them very shiny, Mister.

I’ve just arrived from a long journey, and I’d prefer to rest.

It’ll just take a few minutes, he insisted.

Sorry, I am exhausted and would like to go up to my room now.

How about tomorrow? he asked.

Yes, tomorrow would be fine.

You will be here tomorrow, won’t you?

Yes, I will. I will be here for the next three weeks, I said with an annoyed voice.

Great! Then see you tomorrow, Mister!

Yes, I’m sure we will, I said. The only thing running through my head at that moment was a nice, hot bath.

In the hotel lobby there was a big crowd waiting behind a large desk, with only two receptionists working: a young black boy and a blonde, middle-aged woman, both dressed in green uniforms. Most of the people in the line were asking for rooms on the spot. The majority did not have reservations. Sorry, there are no more rooms available. Everything has been booked a long while ago. It was the answer I heard again and again from the receptionists. It was most definitely a bad time to look for a room in London. After ten minutes, it was my turn.

May I help you, Sir? it was the young black receptionist who addressed me.

Yes, please, I said while I approached his desk. I have a reservation from the PT, the Persian Telegram newspaper.

What is your name, please?

Mehdi Ghazanfarian.

Meh… di Gha… zan… fa… rian, he repeated while checking the booking list. Yes, we were expecting you some hours ago.

Some bureaucracy formalities at the airport…

You are not the only one, Sir, he said and smiled. Would you please fill in this application?

Sure. I filled in the application and gave it back to the receptionist.

Room number 466 on the fourth floor, he said and gave me the key.

Is there an elevator?

Yes, Sir, right there on the left side.

Thank you.

Once I found my room I opened the door and entered. It was not bad at all. The room was painted in light green, though it was a bit old. All the furniture was made of wood. In the entrance there was a mahogany wardrobe and a coat hanger. On the other end was a window with a view to the street, hidden behind golden curtains. There was a rich, black double bed, elegant and covered with a yellow eiderdown. On both sides of the bed, there was a small black night-table, each with a milk-coloured bed lamp on top. In front of the bed, there was a desk and a table with two chairs, all in light brown. The room had its own bathroom with a toilet and a shower.

I opened the window and the shutters. It was early evening. I could see people on their way home in cars and on the red double-decker busses. The sidewalks were also full of people in a rush, as though they were all racing to get home first. It was tremendously noisy, so I closed the window and started unpacking my stuff. It did not take long. Then I took a bath and a bit later I went down to the restaurant to get something to eat.

The atmosphere of the restaurant was dazzling and swanky, with well-dressed patrons sitting around the tables, enjoying their meals and chatting. The low lighting set a very elegant mood, matching the deep brown hues of the woody tables and chairs. The room felt quite cool due to some ceiling fans running on high. The waitress guided me to a table in a corner near a window. I ordered a typical English dinner consisting of roast beef, mashed potatoes and vegetables, with a glass of oaky red wine. It did not take that long to get my order.

Nice and rapid service in such a busy time, I said to the young waitress.

Thank you, Sir, she replied politely and smiled.

During the dinner I was thinking about my duty as a sportswriter. I cannot say that I knew anything about football, but I have to admit my knowledge was less than any ordinary football fan. So before my journey to England, I had filled my head full of football regulations, techniques and the history of the World Cup. I already knew that the first World Cup took place in 1930 in Uruguay and the host had won the first tournament. Since then the contest had taken place every four years, except during the Second World War. Only four countries had won the seven World Cups so far: Uruguay, Italy and Brazil each had won twice, and West Germany had won once in 1954. Now, in 1966, the eighth World Cup was about to kick off. It was strange to me that England had not yet succeeded in the World Cup. This World Cup was a great chance for them to prove that they were the true inventors of modern football.

There was a schedule of the World Cup on the table. I had a quick look at it while I had my dinner. I noticed how difficult it was for each team to advance. The 16 teams in the tournament were divided into four groups, but only the first two in each group would be able to qualify for the next round. In Group One, England was the favourite. I believed England could win against Uruguay and the rest of the group. Uruguay or France would get second place, but I tipped towards Uruguay, considering their previous successes in the World Cup. Mexico, in my opinion, was left without any chance. I decided that the best team of Group Two was West Germany. Argentina, Spain and Switzerland were going to have a fierce battle for second place. My guess was for Spain. I recalled that Real Madrid had managed to win the European Cup that year. In Group Three, Brazil was sitting at the top and would remain there beyond any doubt. Hungary would assure second place. Another team in the group, Portugal, was in the World Cup for the first time, and did not have much experience. And I had not heard that much about Bulgaria. The master of Group Four was, of course, Italy, while second place would probably go to the Soviet Union. Chile and North Korea have no chance, I thought and wrote down the quarterfinal matches as I predicted:

England–Spain

Brazil–Soviet Union

West Germany–Uruguay

Italy–Hungary

Are these chairs free, Sir? a tall, blond man asked politely.

I beg your pardon? It was my sudden reaction.

Are these chairs free?

Yes. Please, after you.

I looked up to find three men standing over me. The tall, blond man was wearing a dark brown shirt. He had short hair and sported a Winnfield-style moustache. He sat next to me. The other two were black-haired. The one sitting in front of me, next to the window, had slicked back hair, was well-shaven and elegantly dressed in a slim, light grey jacket with a light blue shirt. The third man wore a black walrus moustache, with a white knit shirt and a black flat-cap. The blond man noticed that I had been studying the football schedule.

Oh, are you tipping the World Cup? he asked.

Well, why not? We’re in the heart of World Cup fever, I replied.

Are you good at tipping? asked the man with the cap.

No, I am not, but I am a journalist.

A journalist? said the third one, very surprised. We are journalists too. I’m Roberto Barochelli, from Italy.

And I’m Heinz Muller, said the blond man. I am German.

I am Chris Dikoudis, from Greece, said the man with the walrus moustache and the cap.

My name is Mehdi Ghazanfarian, I am Persian.

Nice to meet you, they all said.

Nice to meet you all.

So you are Persian, said Heinz Muller. How nice! We beat your football team four to nil in the Olympics, he laughed.

Yes, two years ago in Tokyo, I said. Football in Iran is still not well-organized as it is in Europe.

So this is your tip for the quarterfinal, then? asked Roberto Barochelli as he looked at the schedule.

Yes, sort of, I replied.

What about the results of the quarterfinals? Heinz Muller asked me curiously.

Well…, I took a deep breath and continued. I’m betting that the semi-finals will be between England and Brazil, and Italy against West Germany.

And the finalists? asked Roberto.

I’m tipping on Italy and Brazil, I said and looked at Roberto.

Bravo, Bravo Mr Gazan… fa… rian…

Oh, just call me Mehdi, please.

Ok, Medi, said Roberto. That is easier.

Yes, yes, said Heinz and shook his head. Meti thinks football is a kind of ancient hockey. He mocked me while waiting for my reaction, then added: No offence!

I shrugged my shoulders and said: Then I would rather tip Iran against India in the final.

And who will win the final? asked Chris.

Iran of course, who else? I laughed.

I meant your tip on the World Cup Final.

Brazil, for sure, I said and added immediately: Sorry Roberto.

Ma, it does not matter, my friend, said Roberto with his interesting Italian accent.

I don’t think Brazil can reach so far, said Heinz.

Why not? I asked.

Because of the weather!

The weather?

Yes, the English climate is Brazil’s greatest enemy. You see, it is not that warm here, and it rains almost all of the time. Brazil cannot cope with the conditions.

They did in 1956 in Sweden, didn’t they?! I felt proud as I knew a bit about the history of the World Cup.

One flower does not bring spring, Meti, Heinz said and asked: Did I pronounce it correctly? Your name, I mean.

Medi, said Roberto. Medi is the right pronunciation.

You know, Medi, started Heinz, in the 1934 World Cup in Italy, all four top places were occupied by the European teams. In 1938 in France, there were three European teams in the top four and only Brazil in third place as non-European. In 1950, in Switzerland, this happened again: European teams took the top three spots…

And Uruguay took fourth, added Roberto.

Yes, and only in 1958, in Sweden, a non-European team was able to win the competition. But again the next three teams were Europeans, explained Heinz passionately.

So it can happen, right? I asked.

Yes, but with a low probability. It has happened only once so far.

And no European team has ever won outside of Europe. I didn’t know why I mentioned this.

Yes, the climate advantage, as I mentioned, replied Heinz. But the World Cup is in Europe this time, here in England, and not in North or Latin America.

What is your guess, then? I asked

Germany and Portugal in the final and Germany would certainly win.

Portugal? I was stunned.

Portugal is my favourite team. They play fantastically, as good as Brazil in their best form. They have great young players, especially Eusebio. I adore him. He is just a 22-year-old boy, but already a star.

How come Portugal can get to the final in this weather condition, but not Brazil? I asked.

Portugal has a much higher ambition and they are under lower pressure. Nobody expects anything from them.

And who will take the third spot?

England or Italy, answered Heinz.

And Brazil?

Out in the quarterfinal.

Wow, I was very surprised. What is your prediction, Roberto?

Just like you, my guess is Brazil against Italy in the final, but Italy will win the final. I would bet on England against West Germany for third place.

And you, Chris?

Soviet wins against Brazil in the final, and England will play against West Germany or Italy for third place.

He is a comrade, said Heinz and smiled.

Comrade? I asked.

Communist, said Roberto. Chris is a communist.

No, I am not a communist, replied Chris, as he pushed his cap back on his forehead and added: But the Soviet Union is a great team with Lev Yashin. I should admit.

We had a long talk until midnight. We discussed the World Cup and exchanged our experiences and trips as journalists. I wanted to sit with them for the entire night but I was exhausted after my long flight. When I said goodnight I felt I had known them for a long time. It was a strange but nice feeling. When I reached my room, I went to bed right away. It only took a few minutes for me to fall asleep.

It was about 2 o’clock in the morning when someone began to bang on my door. I woke up and went to the door, drowsy and tired.

Who is it? I asked

Open the door! Hurry up, hurry up!

I opened the door, the sleep now completely wiped from my eyes. An armed soldier stood before me, and ordered me to follow him immediately. I obeyed without question. He led me out into the dim moonlight. I could not see much in the night air, but it appeared that he was leading me into a dark field surrounded by trees. There was nothing but dead silence as we walked onto the clearing. Eventually I was able to