The Cup That Grips The World

Until the Dutch came rollicking over the Rhine in their orange clogs and put everything right, it was easy to feel like a guest who has arrived half an hour too early for the party, an impression reinforced by being met on the doorstep, that is to say, Germany's Frankfurt Airport, by a sergeant of the federal border police sitting grimly in the cockpit of his Sch�tzenpanzerwagen, a drab-painted semitank armed with two machine guns and parked where taxis normally stand.

You could sympathize with the host, though. The World Cup of Soccer, or El Campeonato del Mundo de F�tbol, or La Coupe du Monde, or even Die Fussball-Weltmeisterschaft of 1974, is to millions of people all over the world the supreme sport event, eclipsing even the Olympics. Of the 100 nations originally entered, 16 finalists, divided into groups of four, were in Germany for a three-week round robin in nine cities that would first eliminate eight teams, then six more, the two survivors battling for the championship in early July. With an estimated 800 million people around the world watching on television, West Germany, as host, wanted no political gatecrashing, no repetition of the Munich Olympics.

So guests had to put up with a few inconveniences, such as the ring of steel that surrounded Frankfurt on opening day when the defending world champions, Brazil, took on Yugoslavia. Water cannons, armored cars and police helicopters were on display, perhaps a little too ostentatiously, and the first fans to arrive, small groups of excited but entirely well-behaved Yugoslavians who hadn't far to travel because they worked in German factories, were body checked by Hessian state police as thoroughly as if they had walked into Belfast's Alder-grove Airport wearing shamrock-green hats. A small Alp of confiscated beer cans swiftly mounted at the checkpoint, and police were also demanding the little wooden sticks attached to the paper national flags the fans carried. "We have a whole van full of sticks," one policeman boasted. He had yet to meet the happy but not-to-be-pushed-around Dutch nor, even more significantly, had he yet been breathed upon by the Scots, who had obviously dropped in on another party along the way.

It was clear that West Germany had spared no expense in staging the Cup. For two hours before the first game, in an elaborate opening ceremony, domes resembling black-and-white soccer balls opened up like water lilies to reveal singing and dancing troupes of the 16 participating nations. The most superbly costumed, the most brilliant, was that of Brazil, which was choreographed by Domingo Campos and paid for by Pepsi-Cola. It was observed silently by the least superb, least brilliant but possibly the most attractively unpretentious group: seven long-haired, dungaree-clad Aussies who called themselves Mulga Bill's Bicycle Band and sang a little country music. Mulga Bill helped the festivities, but there were cynics in the crowd. "When we come to the last ball," said a German, "out pop the Arabs."

Anything popping out received massive television coverage, for like much else in the World Cup, the long opening ceremony seemed to have been staged with the huge television audience in mind rather more than the 62,000 spectators at the Waldstadion at Frankfurt. "Without England it's miserable. Without color, it's unbearable," declared one TV ad in The London Daily Express . If the firm was fearful that no one in England was going to watch because the British were out of the World Cup, it was mistaken. Within a day or two the BBC would be crowing that it had established a lead of 11 million viewers over the rival ITV channel, and in Doncaster, an astute cinema manager was offering a series of X-rated films for housewives widowed by 3� weeks of football telly.

In Germany itself the Department of Health gave some solemn advice to compulsive television watchers. "Eat plenty of carrots, spinach, tomatoes and liver," it proclaimed. "They contain vitamin A, which strengthens the vision." Meanwhile, Brazilian TV had made sure not even the acutest vision would pick up the sight of the great Pel� who, having passed up $100,000 in bonuses from his club, Santos, to work for an identical sum as a TV commentator in Germany, found his new job vetoed by the Brazilian TV journalists' union.

A huge, happy, sentimental roar greeted Pel� at the opening ceremonies when he walked onto the field to receive a replica of the Jules Rimet Gold Cup, which his national team won in perpetuity in Mexico City in 1970. Not everyone was pleased with his presence in Germany, however. "Why don't they fill the cup up with Pepsi?" muttered a disgruntled Brazilian journalist. Among a section of the Brazilian press and, it was said, among the Brazilian players, Pel� had been freely criticized, not so much for having refused to play but for dominating the scene merely by his presence. It was hardly his fault that the individual skills of the Brazilian team were being constantly and disparagingly compared with his own. His business commitments were especially disapproved of after his agent reputedly had said, "That man could sell anything except a brassiere."

But at the Waldstadion, even though Pel� received the trophy flanked by four little boys wearing Pepsi T shirts, the crowd stood in adoration. Then, after 2,000 German schoolchildren, looking spiritual in white, formed the World Cup motif and a few ceremonial words were spoken by portly men in dark suits, the blue, white and red of Yugoslavia lined up against the yellow, blue and white of Brazil. The World Cup had begun.

But no one had told the players, seemingly. The Brazilians had already called the honor of appearing in the first game a poisoned gift, meaning that the tensions implicit in it could lead to a freak result. For long periods in the first half both teams were unwilling to commit themselves to attack.

There were a few flashes of brilliance by Brazil, but after the half, the team faded. Dragan Dzajic, the striker from Red Star, Belgrade, spreadeagled Brazil's defense again and again, but it was almost as if the Yugoslavians could not realize what was happening. Twice, with the Brazilian goalkeeper at their mercy, Yugoslavian attackers fired wide and the final score was 0-0.