Bad blood spilled over after Argentina beat The Netherlands on penalties.
It’s a Saturday. 9 July 1994. Victoria Falls. The start of Quarter Final weekend.
The weird USA World Cup that no one, bar the Brazilians and the Italians who made it to the final, really got into. Not even the Americans, who seemed largely bemused by the whole fandango.
I take up position at the apex of a horseshoe bar on the Zim side of town, for once well ahead of time. There’s a big TV hanging high up straight ahead, and a friendly and efficient barman.
Life is good, as the clock ticks down towards the first of the four games: Italy v Spain.
A little later a German arrives and takes the seat to my left. He’s friendly and open. We chat about the games to come — Germany are up against one of three shock teams of the tournament, Bulgaria; Sweden and Romania are the others, facing up in one of the other quarter final ties.
The Netherlands versus Brazil completes the quartet.
Shortly before kick-off a Dutchman arrives and takes the still-vacant seat to my right. He is also friendly and open. To me, at least. Innocently, I introduce my new German friend to him. They barely grunt at each other. The animus is clear, but to me somewhat confounding.
And then I remember the history, the source of the animosity. Some say that it is partly to do with the War. Others say it is only about the titanic matches that have been played, often with seething animus.
Regardless of its precise genealogy, this is a footballing conflict to rival any. The three of us sit together for much of the next two days. I chat amiably with the German, and sometimes, no less convivially, with the Dutchman. But not a word is shared between them. Not one.
Similar bad blood and football was on display, predictably enough, on Friday evening when Argentina ran out penalty-kick winners against the men in orange. It was a pulsating, though low quality game.
Apart from the excitement and the sense of imminent violence, there was little to like about the encounter. That was more than enough, however; this tournament has been dangerously short of edge and drama and, yes, the sort of properly bad behaviour that most real football fans feast on.
Both teams seemed more eager to reveal their weaknesses than display their strengths. And the outright enmity was close to the surface and burst through repeatedly, encouraged by a comically error-strewn and narcissistic performance from referee Antonio Mateu Lahoz, who has now been reportedly “sent home”.
Lionel Messi did not acquit himself especially well, particularly with his obvious lack of magnanimity in victory. But since none of the other players on either side conducted themselves well, it might be a little churlish to single him out.
Yet, is that not a sign of true greatness on the sporting field? The faculty to be — yes, inevitably — deeply competitive with a fierce hatred of losing, but also the ability to rise above the intensity when the final whistle has blown.
Look at Federer and Nadal. Their matches have been as intensely and insanely competitive as it is reasonable to imagine is possible. But afterwards, they show grace and kinship in abundance.
Football’s a different sauce though, isn’t it? The tribal characteristics are fundamental to its existence, and in many ways, to its appeal.
Earlier, a remarkable Morocco side had held on against the favoured Portugal team. They go into Wednesday’s semi-final against the French, having conceded just one goal in the tournament so far and having prevailed against Belgium, Spain and now Cristiano Ronaldo’s side, as well as drawing goalless with Croatia. An enviable run.
A great deal of sentimental stuff and nonsense has been written about how Morocco’s progress is a huge victory for “Africa”, as if this represents a great righting of the historical geo-political scales.
Support Morocco as the cussed underdogs if you will, but not because of politics. Don’t forget Morocco’s colonisation of the Western Sahara. The plight of the Palestinians has, pleasingly, for once been given prime TV time recognition in Qatar, not least, ironically perhaps, by the Moroccans, who have rolled out the Palestinian flag after each of their heroic victories.
And they don’t play elegant watchable football. It feels like Wimbledon on their (in)famous FA Cup run in 1988.
Like Messi, Ronaldo behaved badly in defeat, and squeezed out the mandatory tears as the cameras followed him unrelentingly and unforgivingly down the tunnel. Goodbye CR7.
Whether LM10 will now be able to exploit his absence to confirm himself as the biggest GOAT of the two is far from certain given that the resilient and rugged Croatians lie between Argentina and the final. They’re not easy on the eye either.
Hence, we are now left with four teams, none of whom set the pulse rating or the heart throbbing.
The France v England quarter final may prove to have been the best of Qatar22. It should have been the final.
For once, the English did not deserve their misfortune; they may even have been the most likeable team around — certainly if you measure it by bookings; they collected their one and only yellow card in the 2-1 defeat to Les Bleus that will forever be remembered for Harry Kane’s penalty kick for three points.
It will take something very special and unexpected in the remaining three games to lift 2022 anywhere near the Pantheon of great or memorable World Cups. How to measure such things? Numerous. But here’s one. Pick a team with one player who played a distinguished role from each of the last 11 World Cup winning sides (here’s mine, below). And then figure out who it will be from Qatar22 that should replace Kempes in the line-up. Messi or Kylian Mbappe would slot in nicely. But if not either of them, then who?
Dino Zoff (Italy, 1982)
Philip Lahm (Germany, 2014)
Fabio Cannavaro (Italy, 2006)
Aldair (Brazil, 1994)
Andreas Brehme (Germany, 1990)
Kante (France, 2018)
Xavi (Spain, 2010)
Zidane (France, 1998)
Diegao Maradona (Argentina, 1986)
Mario Kempes (Argentina, 1978)
Ronaldo (Brazil, 2002)