Victory or Death: The World Cups of 1934 and 1938
Benito Mussolini officiates the wedding of Soccer and Fascism
The story of the World Cups of 1934 and 1938 should be enough to convince you that the World Cup is a political event. As Mussolini took power in Italy, he saw the opportunity to milk the ever-growing popularity of soccer for his own nationalistic purposes. Winning a World Cup became a priority, and the fascist regime pursued this goal as if their life depended on it. Fascism’s influence in these World Cups extended beyond Italy, as the Nazis took power and also looked to project their might through sport. Caught in the cross-line was a particularly innovative and creative soccer player who was the star of an emerging school of imaginative soccer. And that’s were our story begins this week, in the Viennese cafés where these new ideas about soccer were first developed.
The Danubian School
Last week, I wrote about how the players of the port cities of Buenos Aires and Montevideo revolutionized soccer by adapting the game to their environment and prioritizing individual skill and a healthy amount of showmanship. The result was the Rioplatense style, which dazzled the World when it traveled to Europe for the Olympic Games of 1924 and 1928, and finally at the first ever World Cup, which was won by Uruguay in 1930. I would like to start today’s entry by talking about the European equivalent to these developments. If there was somewhere in Europe, in the twenties and thirties, where players and managers were taking soccer to the next level, it was undoubtedly in the central European nations of the former Austro-Hungarian Empire. To complete the parallel to our South American story, the style that developed there was also named after a river.
Once again, I’m taking my cues from Jonathan Wilson’s Inverting the Pyramid. He describes the great advances in soccer tactics seen in the stadiums of Vienna, Budapest, and Prague, and explains that these were conceived and developed not on the pitch, but at the coffee houses of these cosmopolitan cities. By the time the Habsburg Empire was stripped for parts in the aftermath World War I, coffee houses had become an integral part of urban living in these formerly imperial nations. According to Wilson, coffee houses were “a public salon, a place where men and women of all classes mingled, [and which] became particularly noted for its artistic, bohemian aspect.” Every topic could be discussed there, including soccer. I imagine a similar atmosphere to a sports bar where fans argue after watching the game, except everyone is drinking coffee instead of beer, and most importantly, coaches, managers, and other officials are also taking part in these conversations, which means the ideas brought forth at the Danubian cafés were actually implemented on the pitch.
The greatest product of the Danubian School was the Austrian national team coached by Hugo Meisl, also known as the Wunderteam. The key to their success was Matthias Sindelar - he came from a Moravian immigrant family, grew up in the suburbs of Vienna, and became a star player for club Austria Vienna. He was so popular that he appeared in advertisements for watches and dairy product, and he even played himself in the 1938 film Roxy and the Wunderteam. Wilson describes Sindelar as a “gifted, almost cerebral forward” whose slight physique gave him the nickname “Paperman.” Much like the star players of Argentina and Uruguay were lauded for representing the sly and relentless spirit of their nations, writers of the time regarded Sindelar as the manifestation of the intellectual spirit of the coffee houses. His biggest virtue was his creativity, the ability to conjure up a goal or a defining play out of thin air. Playwright Alfred Polgar wrote of him: “He would play football as a grandmaster plays chess: with a broad mental conception, calculating moves and counter-moves in advance, always choosing the most promising of all possibilities.” These qualities made him stand out in comparison to other Austrian players (whose style prioritized strength and directness), but this singularity also made manager Hugo Meisl hesitant to bring him onto the national team (Wilson claims Sindelar’s omission also had to do with a bias against Austria Vienna, a team that was associated with the Jewish bourgeoisie). By 1931, however, Sindelar’s popularity was simply too big to ignore, and Meisl called him up to be part of his team.
Practically as soon as Meisl brought on Sindelar, the Wunderteam became unstoppable. A 5-0 victory over Scotland was an early sign of their dominance. That was followed by victories over Germany (6-0), Switzerland (8-1), Italy (2-1), and Hungary (8-2). Later in 1932, they played against England. They ended up losing 4-3, but this too was seen a great result at a time when it was practically impossible for any visiting team to beat England in their home stadium. And not only that, but the Austrians had actually dominated long stretches of the match thanks to their incredible passing ability. With this series of matches, the Wunderteam proved that they could stand up to anyone, including the “inventors of football.” Like most European nations, Austria did not make the trip across the Atlantic to the first World Cup, but since that tournament took place in 1930 (a year before Sindelar joined the team and their winning streak began in earnest), it’s doubtful they would have done particularly well. Instead, the big opportunity for the Wunderteam to prove their superiority would come at the second World Cup, scheduled for the summer of 1934.
Mussolini’s Calcio
Benito Mussolini set the template for modern use of sports as a propagandistic indoctrination tool. Competitive sports, which were reaching an unprecedented level of popularity at the time that Mussolini took power over Italy, were perfectly designed to extol the fascist ideals of youth, action, strength, and violence. Mussolini positioned himself as the model for all Italians, which included portraying himself as a great athlete. He was constantly on the cover of fascist newspapers and magazines, photographed while fencing, riding, skiing or swimming. According to Spanish writer Cristobal Villalobos Salas, author of Fútbol y Fascismo, “[sports] allowed fascism to introduce mobilized groups to the values and symbols of the new secular religion [i.e. fascism] that replaced all other ideologies and beliefs.” Mussolini had an ambivalent relationship to soccer. He attended matches as well as the opening of massive stadiums such as the Littoriale di Bologna or the stadium that was named after him in Turin, but he was never photographed playing soccer himself and was dubious of its use as a propagandistic tool. After all, soccer is unpredictable. You can’t control the result of a match… or can you?
By the early thirties, soccer had become so big in Italy that it became intolerable for Mussolini to not capitalize on its popularity. The celebrity players, the vast network of soccer magazines, radio programs, and newsreels, made up an unprecedented level of opportunity to promote his vision of a perfectly fascist society. Villalobos sums it up thusly: “Soccer becomes a mechanism for propagating the patriotic feelings that fascism sees as identification with the regime; concepts of group belonging, fidelity, discipline, and subordination of individual interests to the collective are all exalted.” This desire to remake soccer as inherent to Italian identity becomes clear in the renaming of the sport from the English term “football” to the endemic term “calcio.” The new name - which came from a game (calcio fiorentino) that is relatively similar to soccer and was first played in medieval Florence - drew a line between Italy’s history and its new favorite pass-time, and it remains the common Italian word for soccer to this day. The desire to prize Italian-ness also led to foreigners being banned from playing for Italian clubs. Finally, the Corinthian hand-shake between players of opposing teams before a match was substituted with an obligatory “Roman salute,” as well as the threat of punishment for those who refused to perform it.
Once Mussolini’s propagandistic effort took hold over Italy, it became imperative to project this image onto the rest of the world. It’s worth remembering that Italy was a relatively young country at this time. The Kingdom of Italy had only come into official existence in 1861, and the unification process hadn’t been completed until the capture of Rome in 1870. In contrast, England and France had existed in close to their current forms for centuries, and even South American nations such as Uruguay and Argentina had gained independence decades before the process of Italian unification got started. What’s more, Italy remained a highly divided culture into the 20th Century, where regional dialects were so thick that a Sicilian and a Piedmontese could hardly understand each other. Mussolini, thinking of nation building as the ultimate stronghold for military might, was keen on recapturing Italy’s past glory (which basically meant the glory of the Roman Empire) to gain respect from the rest of the world.
Mussolini had unsuccessfully lobbied to host the first World Cup in 1930, but his continuing efforts awarded him the chance to host the 1934 World Cup. He was not going to let the opportunity go to waste. According to Villalobos, right after securing hosting duties, Mussolini turned to Italian Football Federation President Giorgio Vaccaro and had the following exchange:
- I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but Italy has to win this championship.
- We will do everything we can.
- You don’t understand, general: Italy must win the World Cup. This is an order.
Mussolini had been dubious about soccer’s unpredictability, and when soccer became too big to ignore, he decided to take unpredictability out of the equation. Only one question remained, who would be the right man to fulfill Il Duce’s demands?
Vittorio Pozzo travelled to England to become an academic, but fell in love with soccer instead. Despite his father found out and cut his allowance, Pozzo strubbornly remained, teaching Italian to make ends meet while he studied the makings of his favorite team, Manchester United. Eventually, he visited Italy for his sister's wedding and was convinced to stay when he was offered the job of coach for the national team that represented Italy at the 1912 Olympics. The team didn’t do very well, but Pozzo remained in his native country, working jobs unrelated to soccer until he was once again called upon to steward the Italian team in 1929. The difference between his two stints was gigantic. The first time around, soccer in Italy was chaotic and amateurish; by the turn of the thirties, the massive fascist investment in calcio had resulted in a streamlined and competitive domestic league full of professional players.
As mentioned before, the fascist government had banned foreign players from the Italian league, but as is often the case with such decrees, there was a loophole. Italian clubs were allowed to hire international players as long as they had Italian ancestry. This was the case, for example, with Luis Monti, who made it all the way to the 1930 World Cup final playing for Argentina. Soon after that, the Italian club Juventus came knocking and offered him a house, a car, and a then-shocking sum of a thousand dollars a month as his salary. Monti, having been a World Cup finalist already, was an obvious call-up for Pozzo, who was ready to fully exploit the international loophole as he built his team. And so, Monti was nationalized and allowed to play for Italy, which makes him the only player to have played for two different countries in World Cup history. Several other players went through the same nationalization process, including Argentinians Atilio Demaria, Enrique Guaita and Raimundo Orsi, as well as Brazilian Anfilogino Guarisi. As far as matters of national purity were concerned, Pozzo was quite clear: “if they can die for Italy, they can play for Italy.”
Questions of Pozzo’s level of sympathy for the fascist regime remain inconclusive to this day. Jonathan Wilson claims the Stadio delle Alpi, built for the 1990 World Cup, would have been named after him if his connection to Mussolini weren’t such a huge stain on his reputation. There’s some evidence that suggests Pozzo supported the resistance and aided in the escape of political prisoners during the war, but at the same time he clearly worked closely with top fascist functionaries like Giorgio Vaccaro to achieve their nationalistic goals. Wilson certainly makes clear that Pozzo was more than willing to indulge in nationalistic rhetoric in order to motivate his players. For example: “On the way to Budapest for a friendly against Hungary ... he made his players visit the First World War battlefields of Oslavia and Gorizia, stopping at the monumental cemetery at Redipuglia (and told them) it was good that the sad and terrible spectacle might have struck them: that whatever would be asked of (them) on that occasion was nothing compared with those that had lost their lives on those surrounding hills.” Italy won the match 5-0.
The 1934 World Cup in Italy
Shortly before the 1934 World Cup, FIFA released a report determining, in their estimation, the top three footballing nations - they were Austria, England, and Scotland. The British were still boycotting the World Cup as explained in a previous entry, which made Austria’s Wunderteam the favorite to take top honors that summer in Italy. Argentina and Brazil were the only two South American contenders - reigning champions Uruguay refused to participate, still embittered by the fact that most European countries, including Italy, had refused to make the trip to their own World Cup four years earlier. Egypt became the first African nation to participate in a World Cup, while the United States was the sole North American representative. Twelve European teams rounded out the competition, including all three practitioners of the Danubian School: Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and the aforementioned Austria.
This would be an all knockout tournament as initially intended for the first World Cup. If you won, you made it to the next round, but if you lost a single game, you were sent home packing. The do-or-die intensity of a knockout bracket fit right in with the fascistic atmosphere of the procedures. Mussolini watched every match played by his team from the presidential balcony, towering over the men who had been entrusted to bring glory to Italy. The players, in turn, would start out with the cry “Italia! Duce!”, then run onto the pitch as if they were going off to war. Vittorio Pozzo’s preferred coaching style supported such a vision; instead of the creativity of the Austrians or even the cunning showmanship of the Argentinians who had been nationalized to play for him, he preferred “physicality and combativeness.” Historian Jonathan Wilson describes the Italian coach as “one of the earliest exponents of man marking, a sign that soccer had become not merely about a side playing their own game, but about stopping the opposition playing theirs.” “Man marking” means designating a player whose entire role is to “mark” one of the opposition’s players, i.e. do whatever they can to stop him from playing properly. For Pozzo, losing one of his men in order to hinder the opposition’s best player was an obvious trade-off: “if I succeeded in cutting off the head with which the eleven adversaries thought, the whole system would collapse.”
This destructive attitude was on full display when Italy faced Spain in the quarter-finals. Cristóbal Villalobos, who is a Spaniard, recounts it this way: “The match ended up looking more like a battle than a soccer game. Seven Spanish players fell injured in an encounter where the attitude of the Italians, who took the game beyond the rulebook’s limits, was an answer to the fascist motto: victory or death.” FIFA President Jules Rimet described the match as “spectacular, dramatic and played with an intensity that’s very seldom seen,” a diplomatic but cowardly description of an encounter whose unsporting excesses made it go down in history as “the Battle of Florence.”
According to Villalobos, Spain was “superior in technique and class.” Even if he were biased toward his own country, there is no denying Spain had Ricardo Zamora, who was widely considered to be the best goalkeeper of the time. Spain scored first, thirty-one minutes into the match. Italy equalized shortly before the half-time whistle, when Giovani Ferrari scored a goal while Angelo Schiavio grabbed on to Zamora preventing him from blocking the shot. This was clearly a punishable offense that the referee (the Belgian Louis Baert) chose to ignore. Then, in the second half, things turned truly violent. Six Spanish players were seriously injured, including Zamora, who was left with two broken ribs. On the Italian side, Mario Pizziolo was left with a broken leg. The match ended in a 1-1 draw, which required a replay to determine the winner.
The second match was played the very next day, on June 1, and was equally controversial. The Italians were down one man going into the match, but the Spanish, who had several players injured including their star goalkeeper, had been truly decimated. At the replay, several other Spaniards were injured, and two Spanish goals were nullified for alleged offsides.1 The match ended 1-0 in favor of the Italians, which pleased Mussolini but pretty much ended the career of Swiss referee René Mercet, whose controversial rulings earned him a lifetime ban from FIFA and from the Swiss federation. To this day, there are allegations that bribery might have been involved in the refereeing of both of these games, though as with most allegations of match-fixing at the World Cup, proof is purely speculative.
It was in the semifinal that Pozzo’s combative Italy and Heisl’s Wunderteam finally faced each other. Going into the story of this match, it’s important to avoid painting the Austrians as completely averse to violence - they engaged in a good amount of brawling during their 2-1 defeat of Hungary in the quarter-final round. Nevertheless, the match between these two teams does feel like a momentous clash between opposing soccer philosophies. On one side, the ingenious passing game of Matthias “Paperman” Sindelar, and on the other, the reactionary and forceful playing of the Italians. In a disappointing turn for all lovers of beautiful soccer, destruction won the day. Pozzo deployed nationalized defender Luis Monti to man mark Sindelar, a technique that worked exactly as intended. With their most talented player unable to perform, the Austrians could hardly get a shot on goal, while the defense-minded Italians were able to squeeze out a 1-0 win.
The final saw Italy face another Danubian team. Czechoslovakia gave Italy a run for their money, scoring first and then forcing the match into extra time, but in the end, Italy emerged victorious with a final score of 2-1. Mussolini’s big gamble had worked. The incredibly violent atmosphere of the tournament may have left the rest of the world with a sour taste in their mouth, but the Duce’s will had triumphed: Italy was the World Champion.
The Paperman and the Nazis
Four days after the 1934 World Cup Final was played in Rome, Benito Mussolini travelled to Venice for the annual cultural exhibition known as the Biennale. There, he met for the first time with Adolf Hitler, who had become chancellor of Germany the previous year. By most accounts it wasn’t a very successful meeting (the two egotistic dictators didn’t like each other) and yet it feels like a fateful preview of where Europe was headed in the next decade. By the time the next World Cup rolled around, any European with a sound mind would have seen the outbreak of another World War as very possible, if not outright inevitable. Right wing militarism was on the rise: Spain’s bloody civil war was heading toward a fascist victory, Mussolini had solidly aligned himself with the Nazis, and in early 1938, Hitler’s Germany annexed Austria through the infamous Anschluss.
Through the German annexation came an aggressive and systematic persecution of all Austrian Jews. In the realm of soccer, this meant a total upheaval of the Austrian league and its clubs. The regime sought to remove any Jewish presence from all soccer-related activities - they arrested players of Jewish origin, expropriated clubs with Jewish owners such as FC Vienna and FK Austria, and banned any club that refused to collaborate in these efforts. One such club was Austria Vienna, the home of beloved Matthias “Paperman” Sindelar. The story of Sindelar’s resistance to the demands of the Nazi regime have turned him into a role model for decency and patriotism. He stood by the side of Austria Vienna’s president Michl Schwarz after he was removed from office, refusing to go along with an order to never again speak to him. Similarly, after learning that a Jewish acquaintance had the coffee house he owned seized by the regime, Sindelar bought the business so it could comply with the Nazi’s “Aryanization” policies.
Sindelar’s most legendary act of defiance took place, fittingly, on a soccer pitch. The Anschluss process began on March 12, 1938, when German troops marched over the Austrian border. At that time, the Austrian national team had already secured a spot at the next World Cup by beating Latvia in their last qualification match, but annexation meant the dissolution of the national team. Germany had also qualified for the next Cup, and the Nazis were undoubtedly hoping to reinforce their squad with the magnificent players of the Austrian Wunderteam, much like the Italians had done with the nationalized South American players at the last tournament. As a peace offering meant to encourage this re-nationalization project, the regime organized the Anschlussspiel (annexation match) - a match between Germans and Austrians which would serve as a symbol for the coming together of the two countries.
The annexation match took place April 3, 1938, and it would be the last time Austria played as an independent country until after the Second World War. Having engineered the event as an emblem of reconciliation, Nazi leaders gave the order that the encounter should end in a diplomatic, ideally low-scoring, draw. Under such pressure, and terrified of winning, the Austrians purposely missed every chance they got during the first half. But as the second half rolled around, the hubristic Germans, who had forgotten about Mussolini’s old fear, got a lesson on soccer’s unpredictability. Sinderlar was the captain of the Austrian squad, and he had insisted that his team wear a white jersey with red stripes (the colors of the Austrian flag, instead of the white-and-black jersey that was usually worn by the Wunderteam.) As the match neared its end, his defiant spirit got the better of him. His country might have lost its independence, but they hadn’t yet lost their dignity. Not only did Sindelar score a goal, but went on to celebrate with a joyous dance in front of the Nazi officials. Infected by their teammate’s rebellious spirit, the Wunderteam came back to life and Karl Sesta scored the second goal that secured an Austrian victory.
Even after this embarrassment, the Nazi high command, determined to secure a German victory at the 1938 World Cup, was keen on getting as many Austrians on their team as possible. German national team manager Sepp Herberger’s called on Sindelar to join the team several times, but his offers were continuously refused as the star player claimed to be unable to play due to injury. The Germans saw right through Sindelar’s excuses, so he was banned from the German soccer league and forbidden to leave the country to play for any foreign clubs. Unable to play, Sindelar fell into a deep depression. On January 23, 1939, his friend Gustav Hartmann came for a visit. He was surprised nobody was answering, then he sniffed a suspicious smell. Hartmann knocked down the door and found both Sindelar and his girlfriend, Camila Castagnola, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. Villalobos compiles the many rumors that spread in the aftermath of his death: “that it was a romantic suicide in view of Austria’s surrender to Nazism, that his girlfriend was Jewish, that they both were and wanted to escape ... (that it was) a targeted assassination by the Gestapo.”
Some historians, like Camilo Francka insist Sindelar’s defiance is greatly exaggerated, and that his death was merely an accident caused by a faulty chimney. For whatever it’s worth, the German-language Wikipedia page for Matthias Sindelar is rather ambivalent about his allegiance, choosing a characteristically detached tone that lists several facts without trying to extract any grander narrative from them. Still, the fact that Sindelar’s legend persists is in itself telling. It speaks to the desire to retroactively find righteous deserters within a shameful stretch of history. It speaks to the wish to find role-models so that future generations know how to behave when they’re faced with similar dilemmas. It also speaks to the strength with which a truly great footballer can hold onto the public’s imagination. Matthias Sindelar, who played so beautifully that he was called the “Mozart of football,” may have been defeated by the Italians on the pitch and the Nazis off of it, but his memory lives on. Take, for instance, the poem Auf den Tod eines Fußballspielers (lit: On the Death of a Footballer), by Friedrich Torberg:
He played soccer like no other
full of fantasy and flair
He played casual, free, and clever
He played ever, he fought never2
The 1938 World Cup in France
“We must encourage mankind to be one thanks to football.” Those were the words of FIFA President Jules Rimet when he first proposed the creation of a World Cup at the 17th FIFA Congress in 1928. The hosts of the wonderful British podcast The Rest is History describe his words as “a real 1920s League of Nations thing to say.” Ten years later, the longing for peace through unity that was prevalent in the aftermath of the Great War had aged like a glass of milk. The World Cup lumbered toward its third edition among chaotic politics and fears of upcoming wars.
Hosting duties were awarded to Jules Rimet’s home country of France. The decision of having two European hosts in a row was particularly controversial in South America, where it was strongly believed hosting duties should alternate between the two continents. Argentina, who had lost its hosting bid to France boycotted the tournament, as did most every other South American country including past winner Uruguay. The one holdout was Brazil (allegedly because they wanted to be in FIFA’s good graces anticipating the chance to host the 1942 edition). The chaotic nature of the time was reflected in several key absences. As mentioned above, Spain was embroiled in a civil war and Austria had been annexed by Germany. Meanwhile, Japan - expected to be the first Asian country to participate in the Cup - was too busy invading China. In their stead, the first Asian nation to play at a World Cup were the Dutch East Indies (the colonial name for modern day Indonesia).
Hitler’s plan to emulate Mussolini’s victory by loading up his team with the best Austrian players was a big failure. Once again, this was a knockout tournament, and after Germany drew its opening match against Switzerland, they lost 4-2 in the replay. The Germans couldn’t make it past the first round, and went home, disappointing their Führer in the process. But that wasn’t the end of fascism at the tournament, Mussolini was quite invested in Italy retaining the title of world champions. According to Villalobos, the dictator organized a banquet during which the Italian team wore fascist uniforms and received a personalized send-off speech from Il Duce.
The Italians weren’t exactly welcomed across the border, especially in Marseille where Italy played its first match against Norway. A large number of Italians had fled Mussolini’s regime and made their way to France. These expats agitated the crowd into loud boos after seeing the Italian players performing the fascist salute before the match. French animosity toward the fascist team only grew after Italy won the match, meaning they would face France in the quarter-final. Never ones to shrink at confrontation, the Italians made a statement by wearing black shirts (the same as the uniform of Mussolini’s fascist paramilitary) to their match against France. The spectators booed and whistled throughout, but their animosity was not enough to keep the Italians from a 3-1 victory.
Italy’s opponent in the semifinals was Brazil, who started the tournament with an eventful 6-5 win against Poland (the highest scoring World Cup match up to that point), but had a much tougher time against Czechoslovakia in the quarter-final. The match was a violent affair, full of tough fouls and lax refereeing. The match ended in a 1-1 draw, and was accordingly dubbed by the press as the “Battle of Bordeaux.” Brazil won the replay and made it to the semifinal, although depleted by the intensity of the encounters. Eyebrows were raised when Brazilian coach Adhemir Pimenta fielded a squad that did not include several of his star players, most notably tournament top scorer Leônidas the “Black Diamond.” Under such circumstances, the Italians were able to eke out a 2-1 win.
Much has been made out of Pimenta’s peculiar decision to bench Leônidas for this game, especially since he was the key player during Brazil’s follow-up match against Sweden, where they earned third place of the tournament. Some sources claim he was resting his best player in anticipation of the final, others insist that Leônidas was simply unable to play due to injury. However, I cannot find convincing evidence for either claim, let alone the conspiracy theories that point toward bribery or coercion by the Italians. The truth may very well be that the Italians were actually really good. For one, Brazilian journalist João Saldanha, who was present at the match, seemed to think so: “The Italians could have won by a landslide. I was sitting behind the Brazilian goal and saw our goalkeeper save even his thoughts. We were bombarded.”
The final saw Italy face the third of the Danubian School teams, Hungary. The Hungarians had steam-rolled through the tournament, thrashing Sweden 5-1 in the semifinal. Most accounts of the final match portray it as a rather entertaining game and a convincing win for Italy, who beat Hungary 4-2 and became the first country to win two World Cups in a row. Rumor has it that Mussolini had sent a telegram to Pozzo and the Italian team on the eve of the final that simply read: “win or die,” but several Italian players of the time deny this ever happened. Still, the feeling that Italy’s second World Cup win was achieved through force rather than skill persists to this day. The Hungarian goalkeeper Antal Szabo, for example, claimed he “was never happier after a match. By not saving those four goals, I saved the lives of eleven human beings.”
Upon their triumphant return, the Italian team was greeted by Mussolini, given gold medals, and a bonus worth three months salary. Most importantly, they brought the World Cup trophy back home with them. The Second World War broke out the following year, cancelling the tournaments scheduled for 1942 and 1946. During this time, the trophy remained in Italy, hidden under the bed of the Italian soccer commissioner. After the dust of war settled, the trophy was still there, but not so much the enthusiasm for international soccer. In a world scarred by war atrocities, divided by the festering cold war, and haunted by the atomic bomb, the idea of the World Cup seemed hopelessly naive. Nevertheless, FIFA President Jules Rimet persisted. He knew somewhere out there there was a country willing to host the next World Cup…
That is all for now. Just as the World Cup took a hiatus for the war, so too we will be taking a hiatus from World Cup history, but not from soccer as a whole! I thought this would be a great opportunity to talk about the basics of soccer tactics. Join me next week if you want to learn what a goalkeeper does, what is a midfielder, and why the best players always seem to wear the number “10” jersey!
Sources for this article:
Fútbol y Fascismo by Cristóbal Villalobos Salas
Inverting the Pyramid: The History of Soccer Tactics by Jonathan Wilson
I’ll try to explain the offside rule in detail in the near future, but for now think of it as this: “if an attacking player receives the ball when he is ahead of the opposing defense, he is offside.”
Er spielte Fußball wie kein Zweiter
und stak voll Witz und Fantasie.
Er spielte lässig, leicht und heiter.
Er spielte stets. Er kämpfte nie.