In a column he wrote in other times about other sports, Dio Chrysostom painted a portrait of Roman fans of the second century after Christ: “When they go to the stadium, it’s as if they had discovered a cache of drugs. They forget themselves entirely and without a drop of shame they say and do the first thing that comes into their heads.” The worst catastrophe in the history of sport occurred there, in Rome, four centuries later. In the year 512, thousands died — they say thirty thousand, though it’s hard to believe — in a street war between two groups of chariot-racing fans that lasted several days.
In soccer stadiums, the tragedy with the most victims occurred in 1964 in the capital of Peru. When the referee disallowed a goal in the final minutes of a match against Argentina, oranges, beer cans, and other projectiles rained down from the stands burning with rage. The police responded with tear gas and bullets, and provoked a stampede. A police charge crushed the crowd against the exit gates, which were closed. More than three hundred died. That night a multitude protested in the streets of Lima: against the referee, not the police.
The 1986 World Cup
Baby Doc Duvalier was fleeing Haiti, taking everything with him. Also stealing and fleeing was Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines, while U.S. sources revealed (better late than never) that this much-praised Philippine hero of World War II had actually been a deserter.
Halley’s Comet was visiting our skies after a long absence, nine moons were being discovered around the planet Uranus, and the first hole was appearing in the ozone layer that protects us from the sun. A new anti-leukemia drug was being released, the daughter of genetic engineering. In Japan a popular singer was committing suicide and, following her, twenty-three of her fans were choosing death. An earthquake was leaving 200,000 Salvadorans homeless and a catastrophe at the Soviet nuclear plant in Chernobyl was unleashing a rainstorm of radioactive poison, impossible to measure or to stop, over who-knows-how-many miles and people.
Felipe González was saying sí to NATO, the Atlantic military alliance, after having screamed no, and a plebiscite was blessing his about-face, while Spain and Portugal were entering the European Common Market. The world was mourning the death of Olof Palme, Sweden’s prime minister, assassinated in the street. A time of mourning for the arts and letters: among those taking their leave were sculptor Henry Moore and writers Simone de Beauvoir, Jean Genet, Juan Rulfo, and Jorge Luis Borges.
The Irangate scandal was exploding, implicating President Reagan, the CIA, and Nicaraguan contras in gunrunning and drug trafficking, and exploding as well was the spaceship Challenger, on takeoff from Cape Canaveral with seven crew members on board. The U.S. Air Force was bombing Libya and killing a daughter of Colonel Gaddafi to punish him for an attack that years later was found to have been perpetrated by Iran.
In a Lima jail, four hundred prisoners were being shot. Well-informed sources in Miami were announcing the imminent fall of Fidel Castro, it was only a matter of hours. Many buildings without proper foundations but with lots of people inside had collapsed when an earthquake struck Mexico City a year before, and a good part of the city was still in ruins when the thirteenth World Cup got under way there.
Participating were fourteen European countries and six from the Americas, as well as Morocco, South Korea, Iraq, and Algeria. “The wave” was born in the stands at the Cup in Mexico, and ever since it has moved fans the world over to the rhythm of a rough sea. There were matches that made your hair stand on end, like France against Brazil where the infallible Platini, Zico, and Sócrates failed on penalty kicks. And there were two spectacular goalfests involving Denmark: they scored six on Uruguay and suffered five scored by Spain.
But this was Maradona’s World Cup. With two lefty goals against England, Maradona avenged the wound to his country’s pride inflicted in the Falklands War: the first he converted with his left hand, which he called “the hand of God,” and the other with his left foot, after having sent the English defenders to the ground.
Argentina faced Germany in the final. It was Maradona who made the decisive pass that left Burruchaga alone with the ball when the clock was running out, so that Argentina could win 3–2 and take the championship. But before that another memorable goal had occurred: Valdano set off with the ball from the Argentine goal and crossed the entire field. When Schumacher came out to meet him, he bounced the ball off the right post and into the net. Valdano talked to the ball as he came upfield, begging her: “Please, go in.”
France took third place, followed by Belgium. Lineker of England led the list of scorers with six. Maradona scored five goals, as did Careca of Brazil and Butragueño of Spain.
The Telecracy
Nowadays the stadium is a gigantic TV studio. The game is played for television, so you can watch it at home. And television rules.
At the ’86 World Cup, Valdano, Maradona, and other players protested because the important matches were played at noon under a sun that fried everything it touched. Noon in Mexico, nightfall in Europe, that was the best time for European television. The German goalkeeper, Harald Schumacher, told the story: “I sweat. My throat is dry. The grass is like dried shit: hard, strange, hostile. The sun shines straight down on the stadium and strikes us right on the head. We cast no shadows. They say this is good for television.”
Was the sale of the spectacle more important than the quality of play? The players are there to kick not to cry, and Havelange put an end to that maddening business: “They should play and shut their traps,” he decreed.
Who ran the 1986 World Cup? The Mexican Soccer Federation? No, please, no more intermediaries: it was run by Guillermo Cañedo, vice president of Televisa and president of the company’s international network. This World Cup belonged to Televisa, the private monopoly that owns the free time of all Mexicans and also owns Mexican soccer. And nothing could be more important than the money Televisa, along with FIFA, could earn from the European broadcast rights. When a Mexican journalist had the insolent audacity to ask about the costs and profits of the World Cup, Cañedo cut him off cold: “This is a private company and we don’t have to report to anybody.”
When the World Cup ended, Cañedo continued as a Havelange courtier occupying one of the vice presidencies of FIFA, another private company that does not have to report to anybody.
Televisa not only holds the reins on national and international broadcasts of Mexican soccer, it also owns three first-division clubs: América, the most powerful, Necaxa, and Atlante.
In 1990 Televisa demonstrated the ferocious power it holds over the Mexican game. That year, the president of the club Puebla, Emilio Maurer, had a deadly idea: Televisa could easily put out more money for the exclusive rights to broadcast the matches. Maurer’s initiative was well received by several leaders of the Mexican Soccer Federation. After all, the monopoly paid each club a little more than a thousand dollars, while amassing a fortune from selling advertising.