For those who fell for football in the very early 80s thanks to Steve Sumner, John Adshead and all the rest, we were lucky to have two of the best ever World Cups one after the other. Getting up in the middle of the night in the middle of a New Zealand winter to watch was like stepping into an exotic, over-colorised world of blaring horns, Adidas footballs, lots of hair and DRAMA. There was a guy called Socrates for goodness sake. The All Blacks, fresh off the Springbok tour, seemed like a trip to the dental clinic next to all that.
Maradona!
Maradona!
Maradona!
For those who fell for football in the very early 80s thanks to Steve Sumner, John Adshead and all the rest, we were lucky to have two of the best ever World Cups one after the other. Getting up in the middle of the night in the middle of a New Zealand winter to watch was like stepping into an exotic, over-colorised world of blaring horns, Adidas footballs, lots of hair and DRAMA. There was a guy called Socrates for goodness sake. The All Blacks, fresh off the Springbok tour, seemed like a trip to the dental clinic next to all that.