the story of Socrates and the 1982 World Cup is really about football's last great chance, and how it went begging.
In the run-up to Espana 82 the Brazilians looked set to become an even greater team than the legends of Mexico '70. Two dire world cups, set alight by the Dutch and snuffed out in the final by teams whose ruthlessness one can only admire had served to induce an acme of expectation. The Brazilians were playing like magicians - the ball spun away from the outside of the foot as if its path was drawn by a cartoonist. Passes were collected on the chest, transferred to the heel and then sent thirty yards with pinpoint accuracy. The players, each and every one, moved like gods. Flemengo had beaten the Liverpool team that had dominated Europe 3-0 looking like there was a lot more in the tank, their centreforward Nunes scoring two extraordinary goals - and when we found out that Nunes wasn't going to make the national team there was a collective sucking of teeth and shaking of heads.
We didn't know, or much care, that their record against the top teams was patchy. Love is blind. And there was not one that we loved more than Socrates. Consider, if you will, the current English team, and try to imagine one that might be called Aristotle or Plato. Homer maybe....
So Socrates, political hero and stroker of passes that ran as if on rails, was the hero. Zico might have been more exciting, and Falcoa more dramatic, but Socrates, the philosopher king of Brazil, placed them on a level that mortals couldn't aspire to. And, for their first five matches, mortals wearing football shirts simply didn't aspire - one goal (I think it was against the USSR) bent so dramatically that the goalkeeper simply didn't move for fear of looking stupid.
Enter, stage right, Italy. A fearsome team, but one that got through the group stage by drawing three matches against teams we'd barely heard of, with a skinny striker, Paulo Rossi, fresh from a two year suspension for drugs, and then under investigation for taking bribes, barely touching the ball. They disposed of Argentina (with one of the great goals of all time), who then lost horribly to Brazil. Italy and Brazil met, with Brazil needing only a draw to go through to the semi-finals
The script went awol. After six minutes the ghost, Rossi, stole in to the area unnoticed and headed the opener. From that point the most redoubtable defence ever assembled repelled the most creative attack ever witnessed. Shots swerved in on Zoff, the Italian keeper like quidditches. Socrates glided through the defence and scored a goal of surpassing beauty, and we, breathing once more, sat back to enjoy the game.
The Brazilian midfield and forward line played like angels, but the defence had a problem. With the exception of Junior, who, mystifyingly, took up the position usually reserved for no 11s, they were crap. Rossi, loitering with little intent, was gifted the ball and raced toward the goal, scoring a second goal.
