When I was 13 I fell in love for the first time. It was 1994 and I could feel that my heart would never belong to another.
Feelings had previously been stirred. Gazzetta Football Italia was in full swing and Van Basten, Gullit and Rijkaard had me in thrall. Until Fabio Capello broke up the band, selling Gullit to Sampdoria and Rijkaard to Ajax. Though Rijkaard was not my favourite it was his new team who would have me rapt.
It was the brilliance of the Ajax team that would go on to beat Milan in 1995 that remains deeply implanted in my mind. The rat-a-tat passing. The pace of the forward play. Sharp combinations. Team goals. Solo goals. Long range strikes. They had my complete devotion.
You never forget your first.
The quality of the players at the back was undoubted, but you don’t often fall in love with defenders. No one grows up wanting to be Gary Neville. The forward players where the ones who made me weak at the knees. The flying Marc Overmars cutting in from one flank, fizzing low shots in at the near post. Finidi George dazzling on the other side with smart footwork and thunderous shooting. Patrick Kluivert with the ability to finish off the clever passing and movement from Seedorf, Davids, Ronald de Boer and Kanu.
Then there was Jari Litmanen.
As great as these players would become it was the fabulous Finn who really had me. I may have loved Ajax but it was really Litmanen who had me. Overmars, Kluivert, Seedorf, Davids, de Boer(s) and so on were all just the supporting cast. To my early teenage eyes it all came through Jari. His elegance and ability to find space seemed to be miraculous. Equally blessed with the awareness to create openings for team mates or score a goal of his own. Not quick, but with fast feet, to twist and turn away from opponents who nipped at his ankles. I knew he was not considered the best player in the world. I knew Baggio and Romario were more highly rated but that did not matter to me. I loved Litmanen and Ajax.
It was the perfect storm. My hormone driven age. The early incarnation of the Champions League. A growing hunger for all things football. And being allowed to stay up late to watch Champions League highlights. I was always going to fall for someone.
I have fallen in love many times since. With teams, with players and with myths.
I am not sure when I first became aware of the Magyars. It would certainly have been through one of the many football books I devoured. They beat England 6-3. Six. Three. At Wembley. My young jaw dropped when I read that. What had happened? How good must they have been to win 6-3 at the home of football? Then as a kicker I read on. England went to Hungary seeking revenge and left with a 7-1 defeat.
I had to know more.
My grandparents spoke Hungarian though neither of them were from Hungary. They escaped World War Two and came to Britain. One fighting, the other cooking. Sadly neither of them knew very much about football so could not help me with my curiosity. There was no internet to help me. I relied on books and VHS. The flickering images of that Ferenc Puskas drag back, Nandor Hideguti dropping off as a deep lying forward and the lethal striking of Sandor Kocsis was all that I could feed from. They became a myth. Heroes to rival Achilles and Paris. How did this team not win the World Cup in 1954? The answer to that question involves an injury to Ferenc Puskas and West Germany.
My curiosity has never been fully sated. The thin amount of footage of this Hungarian Golden Team means that even now I am drawn to videos and articles featuring the team and players. This unrequited love will probably last a lifetime.
The search for the Magical Magyars led me to another love from whom I have been separated from by time and technology. In 1958 Puskas left communist Hungary for the European Champions, Real Madrid. This united him with the great Alfredo di Stefano. The overlooked one.
The Real Madrid side who dominated the early years of the European Cup were undoubtedly great, but I feel no real love for them. Apart from two players. Of course one was Puskas. The other was di Stefano. Once again footage is rare. Generally consisting of Puskas scoring multiple goals and di Stefano dictating the game. The legendary 1960 European Cup Final being the greatest available example. Real Madrid beat Eintracht Frankfurt 7-3 at Hampden Park. Famously Sir Alex Ferguson was in attendance and the game had a profound influence on him.
I first saw the game after picking up a VHS in a bargain bucket. I was delighted to stumble across this in my local Woolworths. I couldn’t get to the check out fast enough. As soon as I got home the video went straight into the top loading video I had inherited from my parents. The modern, snazzy, timer record VCR was in the living room downstairs.
Squinting at the black and white footage to see Puskas fire in four goals and di Stefano help himself to three. Strikingly di Stefano seemed to have no fixed position. He had complete freedom. Even seeing the team play for the first time there was no doubt who was in charge of this team. Striding resplendent about the pitch, demand the ball from team mates, prompting and probing. Utterly dictating the play. Miguel Munoz may have been the boss but Di Stefano was the boss.
We all fall in love with different things. Have our own little niches. Generally it is the artists that capture our hearts. The sight of Georgi Kinkladze dancing past defenders was enough for the Manchester fans to fall in love en mass. His diminutive frame shifting the ball at high speed as Kinkladze seemed to find previously unknown gears. As the dynamic dribblers close in on goal the crowd head towards ecstasy, delivered by his left foot wand. This is what the footballing artists promise us. The Chelsea fans revere Gianfranco Zola. Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink may have had a superior goal scoring record but he lacked the art and imagination to elicit feelings of love.
“He’s one of our own”.
The Spurs fans take great pleasure in directing this chant at Harry Kane. Every goal is that extra bit sweeter because it has been fired in home by one of their own. Home grown players have a better chance of winning our hearts. Fans associate with their own. They feel the connection. That player running round on the grass out there. That could be me. Growing up on the terraces cheering the team on and then taking that passion on to the park. This can be enough to over ride the artistry. In the 1970s Liverpool fans briefly idolised Joey Jones.
Joey ate frogs legs.
Made the Swiss roll.
Now he’s munching Gladbach.
That appeared on a banner in the traveling Kop during the 1977 European Cup final. Joey Jones lined up at left back alongside Ray Clemence, Phil Neal, Emlyn Hughes and Tommy Smith. Jones was not the best player technically. He was not even at Liverpool for very long. He was that fan on the park. The ups and downs could all be channeled through Joey Jones. In Liverpool’s first European Cup final he represented all those hopes and dreams.
Young love is more powerful than the love you feel as you get older. It is over 20 years since Jari. The last player I fell in love with was Xabi Alonso. His extensive passing range drawing gasps at the sight of their beauty. A player with the vision to spot a goalkeeper out of position from deep inside his own half, or that the full back has just drifted to allow a slotted pass in to the channel. Though I know I love Xabi, he isn’t Jari and never could be.
Perhaps we seek out those who resemble our first love. I always a had a fondness for the man Litmanen replaced at Ajax, one Dennis Bergkamp. I couldn’t claim this to be wholly my love, you would have to hate football to not see beauty in the way Bergkamp. This then morphed. Combing with my longing for the Hungarian side of the early 1950s and becoming a fetish. My hankering for slightly obscure Eastern European play makers lasts to the day. Hagi, Savicevic, Boban, Blokhin and Belanov all holding a fascination for me. All with certain shared attributes of creativity, dribbling ability, imagination and the artistry. The 1986 USSR team, utterly dominated by Dynamo Kiev players, managed by Valeriy Lobanovsky, had echoes of the Hungarian team and also worked there way into an ever growing and heavier heart.
Yet still, none of them were Jari.
You never forget your first.
Jari Litmanen in action – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFLdz2kDcM0
Ajax 1995 – http://www.uefa.com/uefachampionsleague/news/newsid=2047904.html
Hungary 3 England 6 – http://www.theguardian.com/football/blog/2013/nov/25/hungary-england-1953-alf-ramsey
Puskas vs di Stefano – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoNZDwcWKrE
http://www.liverpoolfc.com/history/past-players/joey-jones
USSR 1986 – http://www.worldfootball.net/teams/udssr-team/wm-1986-in-mexiko/2/