Classic Azzurri Matches – Italy vs Brazil 1982

Columnist Enzo Misuraca relives memories of classic Azzurri encounters, having followed the national team for over 30 years.

Can a ten year old fall in love? Does he have the ability to adore something more than anything else in the world and to immediately realise that this love will never end? Perhaps a question for psychologists to argue over, but one thing was certain for this ten year old, as Espana 1982 kicked off, it was love at first sight.

Unlike my friends, who doted on Kevin Keegan, Trevor Brooking and Bryan Robson, I found I had little interest in these players. I only had eyes for the likes of Dino Zoff, Antonio Cabrini and Marco Tardelli. Players I’d only ever seen before in my Panini World Cup sticker album yet they were as close to me as any Action Man or Scalextric racing set would ever be.

With the opening round already over, La Nazionale had stumbled through the first phase, though that was normal if the experts on the television were to be believed. In the second round we would face the might of South America, Argentina and Brazil. We beat the former 2-1, despite them having a supposed superstar called Diego Maradona. Argentina also lost out to Brazil, and it left us having to defeat the Samba kings if we wanted to reach the semi final. We had to win; a draw would have seen Zico and his teammates progress as they had scored more goals.

I was as nervous as a ten year old could possibly be. How could I concentrate at school, knowing Italy had to knock out a team that the rest of the world was praying would win the entire tournament. Television and newspapers were full of praise for Eder, Socrates, Junior, Falcao, Cerezo and of course Zico. We didn’t have a chance according to them, but I knew better. They were good, of course they were, but they had weaknesses, even this kid could see that. In goal, Waldir Peres did not look at all comfortable and in amongst all those superstars they still relied on a lumbering centre forward called Serginho, who had all the grace and agility of a circus elephant.

I ran all the way home, having endured the taunts of our imminent expected world cup elimination by other expert ten year olds in the school playground. I got in, threw my bag down and immediately switched the TV on. I couldn’t eat the sandwich mum had prepared for me, how could I, this was Italy against Brazil in the World Cup. The players eventually emerged to a mass of noise and magnificent bright sunshine, perfect conditions for what would ultimately become the match of the tournament.

The game kicked off and after five minutes Paolo Rossi, a player who had apparently been banned from football for fixing matches headed us in front from a great Antonio Cabrini cross. I didn’t cheer, I couldn’t cheer. The match had only just begun; I had another 85 minutes to worry about before any cheering could take place. We had scored and that was all that mattered, but I knew that Brazil would hit back. I’d seen them against Scotland, when David Narey scored and all that seemed to do was to make them angry.

They hammered the Scots 4-1 that night and that might happen to us if I had decided to cheer. And, as if to be proved right, a few minutes later the bearded Socrates played a one-two with Zico, sneaked down our left side and slotted a shot past Zoff, leaving the great man square on his backside. A deep breath, there was still plenty of time to recover and score again. Defensively Brazil was weak, we would get chances, I was sure of it.

As I wiped the beads of perspiration that were forming on my forehead I saw Cerezo play a square ball across his defence and a blue shirt pop up to intercept.It was Rossi, he was through and before I could even make sense of what was happening, he had smashed a shot through the flailing hands of Waldir Peres and we were in front again. This time I couldn’t help but cheer. We hadn’t rolled over and allowed Brazil to take control, we had scored and the children from Rio were the ones now with sweat forming on their brow.

Half time and the television pundits still expected Brazil to go through and gave Italy little hope of hanging on. It felt like everyone was desperate to see the gold shirted boys win the match and we were no more than a tough sparring partner that would eventually be floored. This worried me, I mean these were experts and they knew what they were talking about.

The second half could only be described as traumatising. We were holding on and wave after wave of Brazilian attack had to be repelled. They were good, no doubt about it and with 20 minutes to go they finally breached us. Falcao had the ball on the edge of the box for what seemed like an eternity. Why didn’t someone block him, where was the tight marking and the tough tackling we had shown all game (Zico’s ripped shirt proved just how hard we had battled up till then)? He stepped inside and hit a ferocious drive that crashed into our net. The camera focused close on his face as his howls of joy drove nails deep into my chest. At 2-2 we were out of the World Cup, a tear beginning to form in my eye. It wasn’t fair, we had tried so hard and we didn’t deserve to go out. The game restarted and it felt like only the remotest of miracles could save us now.

We had a corner with fifteen minutes to go. The superb Bruno Conti swung the ball over and it reached the boot of the equally magnificent Marco Tardelli. The Juventus midfielder spun and shot towards goal but his scuffed effort wasn’t strong enough. But, somehow it fell at the feet of Rossi who swivelled and steered the ball into the net passed the hapless Waldir Peres. That was it; I could not contain my joy any longer and screamed as loud as I could. Incredibly we were back in front, Rossi had penetrated their weak defence for a third time and I found myself hugging my nine-year-old sister, but I didn’t care!

As Brazil piled forward, a swift counter attack, was finished off by Giancarlo Antognoni, but disallowed for a non-existent offside. Surely we wouldn’t be punished for this refereeing error. But maybe we would, as with less than two minutes on the clock an Eder free kick was swung over and met by the head of Leandro. Zoff saved the effort but as he fell the ball squirmed from his grasp and began rolling towards the line. The 40-year-old keeper used every sinew of muscle he had to claw the ball away. The replay showed the ball go on the line but stop just short of crossing it, it was all becoming just unbearable.

Seconds later the final whistle blew, the most magical sound I had heard throughout the whole match. We had won, we were through to the semi final and we had done what no one believed could happen and what nobody really wanted to happen. We had beaten the favourites a team that everyone dreamed would win Espana ’82.

Love is blind, so the saying goes. But on this occasion the love for the Azzurri opened my eyes wider than I thought imaginable and the emotional roller coaster that would follow me throughout my life had only just begun.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fser8knw8Ws