The 1986 World Cup was just before our time. It starts and ends with Diego, whichever lens you look through, we all know that. But what about the rest?
Well, that poses a tricky question; how do you capture something you never witnessed in person? In this day and age, you know the answer. But if you go beyond an overview and dig a little deeper yourself, you’ll discover something of your own, something that is, even if only to you, undeniably new.
Mexico ‘86 was a tournament of dubious origins, blistering heat, scorching goals, sensational shirts, massive characters, brutal challenges, strikes and protests. More than most since, it felt like a tournament where teams were entwined with a star player. Maradona’s Argentina, Platini’s France, Laudrup’s Denmark, Zico’s Brazil, Sanchez’s Mexico, Rummenigge’s Germany, Butragueño’s Spain. England didn’t quite have that star power after losing Bryan Robson early. There were great names as well as big names. Vasily Rats, Juan Antonio Senor and Filho Edinho all belonging in the former category.
It was a tournament of truly special goals. Brazil’s Josimar scored two worldies to announce himself as the best right-back on the planet before fading back into obscurity. Maradona’s, of course, belong in their own category. He scored the most controversial goal in World Cup history followed by the greatest minutes later. In Paulo Sorrentino’s The Hand of God, it’s referred to as a political act, revenge on the English for everything that came before.
There was an edge to it all. A roughness. The pitches were dry and uneven, the altitude punishing, the heat relentless. The ball didn’t zip across like it does now - it bounced, bobbled, skipped. Teams adapted or were left behind. Some couldn’t cope. Others rose to the occasion. It made for a rawer version of the game, less engineered, more emotional. You didn’t just need tactics - you needed character.
You see that character everywhere when you watch the games back now. Not just in the superstars, but in the supporting cast. The ones who ran themselves into the ground for 90 minutes just to give their number ten a platform. The tournament had drama beyond just the final scorelines - it had fever, friction, and the kind of chaos that modern football sometimes polishes away.
And the shirts - the shirts were unforgettable. Tight-fitting, sweat-soaked, striped, collared. Iconic in their own right. They seemed to carry a story with them, like battle flags for the nations. You knew who was playing just by the silhouette, never mind the colour or the fit.
That’s how the tournament feels looking back, players were tied a little closer to their countries than in the game we see today.
You see the sheer joy in a player's celebration as they realise they have actually scored a goal for their country at a World Cup finals. Completely pure. Unrehearsed. They are almost all spontaneous reactions to a dream realised. Go back and watch. You’ll feel something similar. You’ll discover something new each time. You’ll remember what the game means to you as you see what it meant to them.
Words by Lee Kelleher
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