Appropriate.Īnd it was clearly also enough for the Italian FA, who rushed to appoint a new manager to replace the sainted Enzo Bearzot. Mexico was thus always going to be reheated porridge, but it was, nonetheless, a huge downer for my June 1986.

The 3-2 defeat of Brazil still represents for me the greatest game I’ve ever seen. It had given, magnificently, what it had to give 4 years earlier, when it thrilled so many. Italy, the World Champions, went through the motions of defending the trophy in 86. That process would turn into The Big Short in later years. Painful, but truthfully, we were by then getting used to it, with a few of us already withdrawing some of the emotional capital invested in the SFA. Once again, for a fourth time, a Scotland squad realistically capable to getting to a semifinal, massively, massively underachieves. So we lose to Denmark, to West Germany (after leading), and can’t beat a Uruguay team in 10 men for 85 minutes.

Sir Alex, probably, regrets that error to this day. Goodness knows why Sturrock was preferred to Frankie-boy, albeit very fine player that he was. If ever there was a carpe-diem strike partnership, it should have been, in that sticky summer, a delicious overdose of Glasgow gallus, represented by Charlie Nicholas and Frank McAvennie. Yet, even the to-be-knighted Aberdeen manager could make errors. WTF happened?Ĭlassically, despite being drawn in the infamous Group of Death, the squad – led by a young Alex Ferguson – had all of us full of hope. Can you imagine? Chilling, when you see the backline we will have this summer. Gough, Narey, Miller, McLeish, Nicol, Malpas (and Hansen) were once what this country had available for selection in the back line, to whomever was lucky enough to be manager. My own Scotland had, for the fourth time in a row, taken an exceptionally strong squad to Mexico 86. Unless you were Argentinian, or English, it’s unlikely to be remembered. Mexico86 was, when all was said and done, a very disappointing World Cup. Like a Howard Wilkinson, Dave Sexton or Andy Roxburgh, Italy’s Azeglio Vicini had that geography-teacher anti-charisma type of way.Ĭonte was already going bald and I shudder to think what Klopp was getting up to at that age. Celebrity wasn’t so in vogue, money was good but not obscene, and obscure technocrat coaches abounded in the Federations around the world. Yes, it’s pure nostalgia.įootball was run differently in those days. It is simply a tale about those years, for me, and for football. This isn’t a story about super leagues and business models. Perhaps, the last hurrah! for a culture of football, pre Murdoch and Berlusconi. That very tournament, for many of my generation, is “ Dark Side of the Moon“.

It’s the first time a major tournament has been hosted in the Bel Pease since the iconic Italia90.īig tournaments, the big games, are marker poles for most guys.

The story of my life song alex balogna