Guest Post by Neil Clack
One little known football fact is that Diego Maradona is a West Ham supporter, and was at the 1980 FA Cup Final, cheering on his beloved Hammers.
Ok, slight exaggeration, but the Argentina squad, Maradona included, were at Wembley in 1980 – they were in town for a friendly against England on the Tuesday after the Cup final, and they were supporting West Ham as they were the underdogs. Reports don’t say whether they were wearing hats and scarves or not!
The squad were accompanied in London by a few Argentine journalists, and the day after the Cup Final, this quite beautiful report appeared in La Nacion (translated literally here, so as not to lose the feel).
WEST HAM WIN THE ENGLISH CUP
(Londres)
West Ham, in front of the indescribable racket of their thousands of supporters, who occupied seventy per cent of the replete terraces of Wembley Stadium, made the big news, and left aside the majority of the predictions by beating Arsenal 1-0, winning the prize of the Cup of the English Association.
Of the match, there is little to say, except the winner concreted a solid defensive work, after gaining the advantage with a goal by Brooking on 12 minutes of the first half in a spectacle that was only mediocre, and in which the sworn virtues of English football only surfaced very sporadically.
Magnificently conducted by this excellent player Brooking, integral member of the national team, West Ham duly took advantage of the awkward Arsenal attacks, which were too tumulus and without order – they wanted to rush all that they could not make with good play, in spite of the work of the Irishman Brady, who was solitary in his urge to create and put a little serenity.
The greatest praise, in the end, goes to the referee George Courtney, whose labour turned out really magnificent.
But, for those, like this correspondent, who had the chance to see this grand occasion for the first time, the strictly technical passed into second place compared to the fascinating moments experienced from the moment we left for Wembley until the return to the hotel. Only those memorable days of the 1978 World Cup surpass what was observed here, though it is worthwhile mentioning that in our country the fervour never lost the lack of control, as happened in this town.
La fiesta started to come alive very early when ramshackled vans and coaches carrying supporters on their way to Wembley, already with the white flags, distinctive of West Ham, or the yellow of Arsenal. There were parades in the streets, permanent interruptions in the traffic, confrontations between the followers of both clubs, sometimes peacefully, and on other occasions, with a tremendous quota of aggression, above all on part of youths that were not even frightened off by the presence of the police.
Arriving at the scene of the match was a true odyssey. The recommendation had been to go by underground, but this was completely impossible to get on; after four trains of full carriages had passed without stopping, there was no option but to take a taxi, but, another difficulty, as not all of them would accept to go to the venue. At last at midday – the match started at 3pm – our journey commenced, and it took around 2 hours, in the middle of the most infernal racket you can imagine, with interchanging of insults between car drivers at every instant. All the phlegmatic English world collapsed in a second for a game of football, that appeared to signify the beginning of the end of the world, inspite of the incredible police presence.
Approaching the stadium, now added to the convoy of vehicles was a true human wall, enwrapped in the colours of their club, with enormous banners, and tremendous hats of the Cup, music bands, and, the lamentable, a surprising quantity of people in a state of enebreation, with carrier bags replete with cans of beer.
In the stadium, in the press box at least, the organisation was perfect, in spite of the discrimination of the English Association, who placed the local journalists in one section, and the foreigners – 147 in total, mainly from continental Europe – in another, although the view was really excellent.
The music band of the Royal Artillery Corps of the Queen marched on the pitch, playing popular themes, even known opera pieces, with notable quality.
At 14.30 both teams appeared in two parallel files, both headed by their prospective managers, dressed in tone with the colours of their clubs.
The players lined up in front of the Royal balcony, and after God Save the Queen was sounded, the Duke of Kent was presented to the footballers by the respective captains of the two teams.
Then, the match, in the middle of terrifying shouting, and the constant waving of giant banners, while the public, en masse, in unison and in tune, sang songs in chorus, above all the popular Cuban ballad Guantanamera (that would be ‘One Trevor Brooking’)
It was like this until the end, when the victorious players, hugging, crying and jumping for joy in incredible attitudes, like the young centre-forward Cross, who was turning around and around, in a type of crazy frenzy.
This continued until the most waited for moment arrived, that which the players and public dream about, this scene repeated so many times, seen in the newspapers and magazines, and on the television, the handing over of the cup. One after another, patting and slapping one another as they ascended the steps to the Royal Box, the players moved towards the Duchess of Kent, who handed the trophy to Billy Bond (sic), the captain of West Ham, whom after greeting she who on this occasion represented the Queen Elizabeth II, turned round and lifted the Cup, looking at the multitude which exploded with an extreme roar in the middle of a scene of great emotion, which nobody could extract themselves from.
The winning players hurled themselves on Bond, and kissed the Cup.
Then, heads down, the men of Arsenal received a plaque for having reached the final, while those of West Ham returned to the field, and danced a wild type of dance while doing something similar to the classic Olympic lap of honour, and all this without anybody encroaching onto the pitch.
To tell the story of the return journey would be to repeat the same story narrated previously, though this time the attitude of the public, at least as far as this correspondent could see, was more peaceful, up to the point that on various occasions one could observe both sets of supporters crossing each other without producing even a minor altercation.
And so concluded an unusual fiesta, of magnificent colour, and in this England of changeable climate, there was another surprising ally, a day of splendid sun. For those who lived it, surely it will stay recorded for always not only in the memory, but also in the heart.