Columnist Enzo Misuraca relives memories of classic Azzurri encounters, and describes the emotions of the 1982 World Cup final.
Italy had made it to the World Cup final and I was still in a state of shock. At school everyone wanted to be Paolo Rossi, Bruno Conti or Marco Tardelli during the playground football match. We were to face a hugely powerful West German team who boasted big names such as Karl Heinz Rumenigge, Ulrich Steilike, Paul Breitner and a tricky winger called Pierre Littbarski who had been very impressive. I wasn’t overly confident as the time ticked ever closer to kick off.
However, despite not being the favourites most people wanted us to win. Not because we had knocked out Zico’s Brazil, Diego Maradona’s Argentina or Zbigniew Boniek’s Poland but because in the France – West Germany semi final, the German keeper Harald Schumacher had gruesomely hospitalised French player Patrick Battiston with a shoulder charge which had many fearing for Battiston’s life. As would be the case for every subsequent football tournament, the English media were no fans of the West Germans and so many neutrals were supporting the Azzurri.
The scene was nicely set at home, the living room filled with friends and relatives all ready to watch the game. The nervous tension was like nothing I had experienced before. I remember being asked before the tournament began who I thought might win the World Cup and I expertly answered West Germany. They were an immensely impressive team even to a ten year old. But we did have a chance. Their main goal threat, Rumenigge, was a doubt due to injury and even if he did start the game he would not be fully healed.
As the television was manoeuvred to ensure everyone had a good viewing angle the screen suddenly went black. No problem, just switch it back on again. Dad switched and switched and switched. Nothing. He checked the plug, the fuse and waggled all the cables but still nothing. With about 15 minutes to kick off we had a smoky room full of excited people but no television. There was only one solution; the spare TV would be brought down so we could watch the match. But, this was not ideal as not only was it a fair bit smaller than the main one it was also black and white. We would have to watch the 1982 World Cup final, Italy against West Germany without the benefit of colour.
As the teams walked onto the pitch and the national anthems rang out, Rumenigge would in fact start for the Germans. The game kicked off and only minutes in we had fitness issues of our own. Forward Francesco Graziani was holding his shoulder and seemingly in tears. He had fallen heavily and would have to come off, his replacement being an 18-year-old youngster called Alessandro Altobelli, amazingly only a few years older than I was. Things had started off badly with the broken TV, not improved with Graziani replaced by a teenager and were soon to become increasingly worse as we missed a first half penalty.
Bruno Conti’s far post run was blocked and he went down. It looked a soft decision but we didn’t care. The cheers could be heard a mile down the road. Left back Antonio Cabrini placed the ball on the spot just as a firecracker landed a yard or so from the ball. It shouldn’t distract him; he was a professional after all. Whether it did or not is unknown but his scuffed effort went horribly wide and all I remember is Schumacher raising his fist in triumph.
The first half came and went and the room remained paralysed and silent, everyone still reeling from the penalty miss.
Copious numbers of cigarettes were being smoked and fingernails were being bitten down as far as possible as the second half began. Everyone was huddled around the small television, and what sounded like Hail Marys being privately whispered were intertwined with tactical suggestions discussed by some of the older members of the family as people desperately searched for the secret to winning the final.
Eleven minutes in and Gabriele Oriali was hauled down by the ineffective Rumenigge inside the German half. Tardelli took it quickly, out wide to the right for Claudio Gentile to stride onto. He had some space and hooked a cross dangerously into the penalty area and in amongst the flailing arms, legs and torsos the ball was steered into the net. The roar nearly took the roof off the house! Paolo Rossi had headed in his sixth goal of the competition and we had taken the lead. The joy was indescribable as everyone, young and old, hugged each other as if our lottery numbers had just flashed up on the screen. We could have watched the replays a million times, but there was still 35 minutes or so to negotiate and the room quickly quietened down.
West Germany came back and only a brave intervention by Zoff and Fulvio Collovati at the feet of Klaus Fischer and Rumenigge prevented an equaliser. That was too close; they were still very much in this. We soaked up some pressure and on 68 minutes Gaetano Scirea broke up a move and started a swift counter attack that would create one of the defining moments in World Cup history. Bruno Conti took the ball on and after a series of short passes between Giuseppe Bergomi and Scirea on the edge of the West German area, the ball was played centrally to Marco Tardelli. 
The Juventus midfielder seemingly mis-controlled but swivelled and hit a left foot drive just as the commentator excitedly announced his name. The ball flew past the lead footed Schumacher and queue the moment that would forever be etched in the mind of every football fan. As the room went wild for the second time I stood and watched Tardelli’s almost tearful celebration, his arms outstretched and a look of disbelief on his face, having scored in the final. At that moment I knew we had won, the Germans were broken; you could see it etched on their faces.
With ten minutes to go, the inexhaustible Conti broke down the right and squared the ball for the teenage Altobelli. With four defenders in front of him and Schumacher racing towards him, the youngster side stepped the advancing keeper and slipped the ball into the unguarded net. The room exploded once more and the trophy was now as good as ours. The gloom of the first half penalty miss was long forgotten and anyone standing outside in the street would have seen our house bouncing from its foundations.
Paul Breitner pulled a late consolation back for his team but we really didn’t care. The ref finally picked the ball up to signal the end of the game and as a tear formed in my eye, I was being hugged and kissed by just about everyone in the room. I was ten years old but I was a World Champion, thanks to my Azzurri heroes.
An occasion like this should only occur once in a lifetime, or so the television pundits kept saying. Thankfully for me, it would not be the last time although before I was to experience this joyous feeling once more, there would be tears of another nature that would teach me how bitter sweet this eternal love affair was to become.
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beautiful. simply beautiful.