WORDS: LAYTH YOUSIF

The start of the infrequently aired second verse of the Netherlands national anthem runs: “I am a Prince of Orange, fearless, ever free”. They should think about using those lines more frequently, in honour of Marco van Basten, the man whose name has become synonymous with the perfectly struck volley…

Image: Peter Robinson (Press Association Images)

volley

Pronunciation: /ˈvɒli/

noun (plural volleys)

• (in sport, especially soccer) a strike or kick of the ball made before it touches the ground

Utrecht, located in the heart of the Netherlands, is an unprepossessing place with a strong artistic heritage.

Lonely Planet listed it in the world’s top 10 most unsung locations. Every Saturday a stonemason adds another letter to The Letters of Utrecht, an endless poem carved into cobblestones in the city. It is a place where creative expression is very much encouraged. Unsurprisingly then, it is also the birthplace of one of the best football players the world has ever seen.

21 years after the end of World War Two, Marco van Basten was born. As a football mad youngster there wasn’t much to do in Utrecht, in a drab late Sixties Netherlands still recovering from the jarring effects of war. So he played football. And the football he played honed his technique to perfection.

Where do you start with such a player? Let’s get the stats out of the way first. Van Basten won the Eredivisie three times, the KNVB Cup twice and the European Cup Winners’ Cup once. He was also the top scorer in the Dutch League on four occasions and won the Dutch Player of the Year in 1984/85 and the European Golden Boot in 1985/86. At AC Milan he won Serie A four times, the Champions League and the European Super Cup three times each and the Intercontinental Cup twice.

On an individual level, while in Rossoneri colours, he picked up European Player of the Year three times, top scored in Serie A twice, and achieved the same honour in Euro ’88, with five goals to his name. In total, he scored 276 goals from 373 club appearances with a further 24 goals from 58 caps for Holland. In 1992, he was named FIFA World Player of the Year.

Does that do him justice?

No – for he was forced to retire at his peak. At the age of 28.

To put that in perspective, if Pele had retired at 28, he wouldn’t have been there to roll that ball to Carlos Alberto in Mexico City. If Bobby Charlton had retired at 28, he wouldn’t have been able to weep tears of joy and respect in remembrance of his fallen colleagues, clad in all blue on the sapping Wembley turf, 10 years after the Munich air disaster.

28 is no age at all to wake up and wonder what you are going to do for the rest of your life. Now that your body has finally succumbed to the continual foul play of cumbersome defenders scared of being made to look foolish by men like van Basten. Yet his legacy was the beautiful goals he bequeathed to us; studies in gracefulness and control, powered by a killer instinct.

It seems fitting that his Ajax debut, against NEC as a spindly 17-year-old, was as a substitute for Johan Cryuff, when he scored 10 minutes after coming on in a 5-0 win in April 1982.

10 years later, in the early part of his final season in 1992/93 – the year football was invented according to some – we saw a player at the peak of his sublime powers. In a tumultuous 5-4 win for Milan at Pescara in September 1992, his hat-trick goal saw him imparting the ball with backspin, lifting it gloriously over an onrushing keeper as deftly as a sand wedge.

Against Atalanta a short while later, a header across the box from Frank Rijkaard forced van Basten to contort his body in order to give himself the best shape possible to perfectly hit a reluctantly falling ball into the net. It was that intuitive grasp of physics that transcended play and formed something closer to art.

Then, in a ridiculous 7-3 win at Fiorentina in October 1992, van Basten, having been fed the ball as he ran onto the edge of the area, teed it up and attacked it with such trickery and power it practically swerved through the keeper.

The four goals that van Basten scored against IFK Gothenberg, and their record capped Swedish goalkeeper Thomas Ravelli, in the Champions League also stand out. His hat-trick goal, at a cold, misty and packed San Siro in November 1992, comes close to being my favourite MvB moment. His bicycle kick was technically perfect and aesthetically pleasing. It was executed with a lightness as lithe as an acrobat, producing an action that looked as simple as the mechanics behind it were difficult. He was always good at volleys was Marco.

The fourth, as he danced round a dazed Ravelli, saw him as nimble and effortless on his toes as a ballerina. But he was already 28 by then. A month later he had ankle surgery. He returned to play against the controversial Marseille of Bernard Tapie in the Champions League final of 1993. It was to be his last game of professional football. After two full years on the sidelines, he retired in August 1995. Who knows what other triumphs he could have achieved? Who knows what other stunning goals he could have scored?

When a sportsman is forced to retire through injury you feel sad for him. Of course you do. But when a world class sportsman is forced to retire you also feel cheated and resentful. You feel you have been denied further outbursts of joy, of magic: of special moments.

Marco van Basten’s defining special moment was the 1988 European Championships.

A Brazilian journalist called the total football that the Dutch national team, the Oranjie, carries in their DNA, ‘organised disorganisation’. Over the years people have also called the Oranje ‘Clockwork Orange’. In South America and Southern Europe they were known as ‘La Maquina Narana’ (‘The Orange Machine’). Never have nicknames been so less apt, for they imply a mechanical automation, which belies the fantasy of tactical shapes indulging in continuous and ceaseless swaps, adjustments and amendments of personnel, pounding the opposition in waves of incessant attacking.

At Euro ’88, apart from a hiccup in their first group match against the USSR, Holland progressed serenely through to the final. They also gained a modicum of revenge for their forebears, the much lauded and loved Dutch team of the mid Seventies as they beat West Germany in the semi-final on the same pitch where Cruyff’s total football team forgot to score a second goal in the 1974 World Cup final.

Van Basten scored the winner in a tight game this time around. He also scored a hat-trick against England in a group game which sent the Three Lions home and fuelled the Dutch.

The final saw the Netherlands play the USSR at the Olympiastadion, Munich in front of 62,308 fans – the majority of which were orange-clad Dutchmen and women praying for their first International tournament win. (The Berlin Wall had yet to fall and the Soviet Union was still a deeply suspicious one-party state in which travel restrictions were the norm for ordinary citizens). Did the legendary Valeriy Lobanovskyi get his tactics slightly wrong in choosing Sergei Aleinikov, primarily a midfielder, to mark van Basten after Kuznetzov’s suspension? Even Rinat Dasayev, captain and loyal Lobanovskyi lieutenant admitted, ‘He didn’t get the defensive side quite right that day’.

32 minutes into the final, Erwin Koeman, Holland’s left winger, crosses into the box. The ball is headed back by van Basten to Gullit, who marshals the extraordinary latent force in his neck muscles to power a header over Dasayev with far more venom than many players muster in a shot. Orange waves come crashing forward in delight on the steep terraces around the Olympiastadion, but the players, mindful of the oversight of 1974, know the job is not done. After the game the Soviet team will recount Lobanovskyi telling them during the half-time interval to attack early in the second period in an attempt to put the Dutch under pressure.

Marco van Basten has other ideas, however, and at 4.39pm on 25 June 1988, he produces an iconic moment; a career defining moment. For as long football is played his goal will be talked about – and for as long as art can be said to enthuse and arouse the emotions then this goal will certainly be classed as art.

Arnold Murhen plays the ball into the box. Its arc of trajectory looks way too high for it to be effective. For those of us watching on television, the elevated ball actually disappears from the camera’s view before it drops – at one stage, neither ball nor van Basten is in shot. You wonder whether the defender will head it off for a corner; you almost look away thinking there is no danger. But you don’t. Because you know van Basten hasn’t given up and is running onto it. (As a youngster his dad threatened to kick a young Marco’s backside all the along a local canal if he didn’t persevere during one particularly tough game). Yet the angle is so impossible as to render the notion of a shot ridiculous.

The ball drops back into view, and with astonishment and a not inconsiderable amount of joy, you suddenly realise that the Dutchman has decided to volley it. You think he hasn’t a chance of connecting properly, let alone score, but you watch anyway, mesmerised at the impudence of him even trying. Van Basten has made up his mind early, far earlier than the idea of understanding exactly what the player wants to execute has even occurred to the viewer. Marco has his eyes firmly focused on the ball as he gets into the line of flight. Fearlessly he judges where the ball will arrive and strikes his foot through it as cleanly as he will ever hit a ball in his life. Dasayev, who had previously been on the verge of giving his defenders workaday instructions to keep their shape, has also abruptly realised Marco is about to shoot. As he tenses himself waiting for a shot that may never reach him, he is blown away by the power and the accuracy of the volley. The ball has powered and looped over the Russian keeper and into the roof of the net.

As Marco wheels away in delight, he doesn’t even look surprised.

A typically modest Murhen later said, ‘I think Marco made my cross into a good one as I didn’t hit it well.’ An equally modest van Basten added, ‘I noticed I was losing energy so I decided to hit the ball first time and see what happened’.

It was left to an incredulous Ruud Gullit to pay homage to the goal, stating that his team-mate could have taken that shot a million more times and never scored. Frank Rijkard, full of admiration and deep respect for his friend and team mate simply pointed out that ‘it wasn’t a lucky goal because he scored it’.

The start of the infrequently aired second verse of the Netherlands national anthem runs: “Een Prins van Oranje/ben ik, vrij onverveerd” - “I am a Prince of Orange, fearless, ever free”.

They should think about using those lines more frequently, in honour of Marco van Basten, Dutch football’s very own Prinse van Oranje.

You can follow Layth on Twitter @laythy29

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WORDS: DOMINIC BLISS

In 1998, Chelsea reached a major European final for the first time in 27 years when they sent Italian surprise package Vicenza packing in the Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final at Stamford Bridge. However, it took a comeback of epic proportions to secure a victory that Blues fans will never forget…

In recent years, Chelsea have welcomed most of Italy’s grand clubs on prestigious European nights at Stamford Bridge. AC Milan were the Blues’ first-ever Champions League opponents in 1999 and, since then, Lazio, Juventus, Roma and Inter have all visited west London in football’s premier club competition.

But it is the name of another Italian side – not one of the traditional greats – that lives on in Chelsea folklore as the opponent on one of their greatest European nights yet.

That team is Vicenza, who showed up at the Bridge in April 1998 for a European Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final with a 1-0 advantage from the first leg at their Stadio Romeo Menti.  Oddly, both clubs were wearing their away colours: Chelsea in yellow; Vicenza in grey.

Just over half an hour into the return leg, the team from the Veneto appeared to have sealed their place in the Stockholm final when Pasquale Luiso struck to make it 2-0 on aggregate to the Italians, who boasted an away goal too. Chelsea needed three goals in order to overcome the deficit – not even a draw would be enough to spare them.

Their plight was symbolised by a gesture from the goalscorer. More than a mere celebration, Luiso made clear what he believed he had achieved for his club as he raised a single finger to his lips, suggesting that his goal would silence the excitable Chelsea support.

Whatever Luiso thought, he was wrong. The goal – and the celebration – roused the crowd to double the noise level inside Stamford Bridge. Graeme Le Saux once spokeof how the place “rocked” to the sound of Chelsea chanting on those European nights in the late Nineties, but on no other occasion did it reach the decibel level registered as Vicenza fell to an epic wave of self-belief from the stands.

Three minutes after Luiso’s opening act, Gus Poyet pounced on the rebound after Gianfranco Zola’s shot was spilled by Pierluigi Brivio and forced the ball home to level the scores on the night. As the Uruguayan carried the ball back to the halfway line and whipped up the crowd in the half-completed West Stand, there was a sense that something special might be on the cards.

Half-time was a nervous waste of 15 minutes – the only thing anyone wanted was the whistle to begin the second half and a famous comeback.

Then, six minutes after the restart and the two most famous Italians on the pitch combined to score a second – for the English team. Recently appointed player-manager Gianluca Vialli supplied the assist and little Zola arrived at the back post, unmarked, to thump home a rare headed goal. One more goal would do it now for Chelsea.

20 minutes remained when the sight of Mark Hughes on the side of the pitch, preparing to enter the fray, brought a sense of reassurance to the home support. The experienced Welsh striker’s hair was fast turning the same colour as Vicenza’s silver away shirts and he probably thought he had seen it all in his impressive career, but even he cannot have expected what would happen nine minutes later.

A long kick forward from goalkeeper Ed de Goey, at a time when Chelsea fans were beginning to feel desperate for the clinching goal, was won in the air by Hughes, who landed and turned in one movement. He burst towards the Vicenza penalty area as his own flick-on dropped out of the sky and struck the ball on the bounce, unleashing a sublime left-footed effort that flew across the Italian goalkeeper and into the net.

One of the greatest goals in Chelsea history had completed one of the greatest games. The shouts, the bouncing fans in the stands, the players piling on top of one another in front of them – all of it is ingrained in the memory of those who were there.

Future Milan star Massimo Ambrosini was shown a red card two minutes from time to further cheers from the Blues support and, when the final whistle blew, reserves and coaching staff flooded the pitch – Chelsea were in their first European final for 27 years and the emotion among those present was tangible.

Vicenza. It’s the name of a city to most, even a football club to some, but Chelsea supporters use it as a byword for the evening when their club returned to the big time, on the continental stage.

Thursday 16 April, 1998:

Chelsea 3 Vicenza 1 (Agg: 3-2)
Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final (2nd leg)
Stamford Bridge

Chelsea: De Goey; Newton (Charvet 70), Clarke, Leboeuf, Duberry, Le Saux; Wise, Morris (Hughes 70), Poyet; Vialli, Zola (Myers 81)

Vicenza: Brivio; Mendez, Belotti, Stovini (Dicara 62); Viviani; Schenardi (Di Napoli 82), Di Carlo (Otero 82), Ambrosini, Ambrosetti; Zauli; Luiso

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WORDS: BRYAN DAVIES

As we celebrate the immense durability of Ryan Giggs and Kevin Phillips, and the dash and daring of Gareth Bale, lest we forget it is 20 years since the man who inspired them hung up his boots. We recall the playing career of a man who helped footballers reevaluate what was physically possible…

“An athlete cannot run with money in his pockets. He must run with hope in his heart and dreams in his head.”
-Emil Zatopek

20 March 1993: a date when mechanical failure ended the most enduring and romantic playing career the game has seen, depriving the world of The Rocket.

When Roy Race – traveling to scout a player – lost control of his helicopter, time stood still. Race survived, but his famous left foot was amputated, drawing the curtain on a career spanning 38 seasons – longevity MilanLab can only dream of.

The Race legend is secure, yet his is a name often overlooked when pundits and pub patrons debate the greatest ever. It’s an impossible question, but Race deserves a place in the highest echelons of historical footballing royalty. The sheer decoration alone is staggering – Race won every major club trophy available, amassing a haul of 33 medals which included 10 Division One titles, nine FA Cups and three European Cups.

Race debuted for Melchester Rovers against Elbury Wanderers in 1955, bagging a brace in a 3-3 thriller. It set the tone for a career in which records were broken at every turn, including Chippy Croker’s long-standing total of domestic goals. Slovenly record keeping early in Race’s career deprives us of a complete statistical picture, but Opta figures point to well over 500 strikes for club and country.

A boyhood fan whose grandfather Billy had played for the club, Race was the ideal talisman for a prolonged period of Rovers dominance. The first league title of the Race era came in 1957/58. With Race the player, captain and on/off player-manager, Rovers collected trophies with almost arrogant regularity. European and intercontinental success was commonplace, as Rovers dispatched cynical yet technically excellent opponents with a classically British blend of heart, desire and fair play. Race shone in major finals, memorably grabbing braces in the World Club Cup triumphs over South American giants Bagota and Sao Madro Nacional.

International honours eluded Race, but his England career was prestigious, appearing in the Mexico World Cup of 1970 and the 1975 European Nations Cup. He presided over a 5-1 thumping of the Netherlands as caretaker player-manager in 1978, and was player-manager of England B in a four-nation tournament featuring the USA, Italy and Segovia. After injury prematurely ended his involvement at the 1987 European Championship, Race undertook a tour of goodwill across the Netherlands, Germany and France at the request of the Prime Minister – a reaction to the bruising England’s reputation was taking following the ban on English clubs in European competition.

Fiercely anti-hooliganism, Race was the obvious choice for such a tour. Competitive yet impeccably mannered, he never once committed a foul, swore or questioned a refereeing decision. With loyalty to match his temperament, Race spent his entire career in the iconic red and yellow jerseys, save for a brief spell as player-manager of Walford Rovers after board interference became untenable. Race rejected some lucrative offers in his time: £85,000 to join Stadia Batori; £1m to coach the Basran national team; $8m to coach the USA ahead of their home World Cup in 1994.

There were low moments, of course. In 1975 Rovers lost 2-1 to non-league Sleeford Town, a result which still ranks as the greatest FA Cup shock of all-time. More absurdly, Rovers were relegated in 1981 – setting the tone for a tempestuous decade.

Rovers won Division Two at the first time of asking, but 1981/82 was marred when Race was gunned down by a mystery assassin, as life imitated art. A year after Dallas and JR and all that, five suspects were identified by police amidst a media frenzy. The assailant was eventually revealed to be Elton Blake – an actor who had been sacked from playing Race in a TV soap about Rovers. With Race in a coma, Rovers were temporarily managed by Sir Alf Ramsey. Race regained consciousness during a league record 14-0 win over Keysborough, listening to the game on his ward radio.

Rovers made some eyebrow-raising appointments in the 1980s – acknowledged as inspiring Luciano Gaucci’s presidency at Perugia. Test Cricketer Geoffrey Boycott briefly served as club chairman, and 1985/86 saw the acquisitions of Emlyn Hughes, Bob Wilson and Spandau Ballet pair Martin Kemp and Steve Norman. Wilson helped Rovers to a record 12 consecutive clean sheets, while the New Romantics scored crucial goals en route to League Cup success.

Tragedy struck in 1986. On an ill-advised tour to war-torn Basran, Rovers were kidnapped and held captive by rebel forces during a military coup. An SAS unit rescued the players, still in full match kit, but as they were taken to safety their team coach was involved in a crash with a car packed with explosives – the driver on his way to commit a bombing. The bungled act of terrorism killed eight Rovers players. Noel Baxter, Vic Guthrie, Steve Naylor, Carl Hunt, Neville Jones, Kenny Logan, Jimmy Slade and Trevor Cassidy lost their lives. Finding solace in football, the indefatigable Race rebuilt Rovers and led the side to a League Cup triumph, defeating Stambridge City in the final.

Disaster befell Mel Park, Britain’s first all-seater stadium, 10 minutes into the 1988/89 season. An earthquake – caused by the collapse of old mining tunnels following the extension of Melchester’s underground system – hit, opening up the pitch and swallowing the goalposts into the earth. Miraculously there were only a few minor injuries, but the famous old ground was decimated. Whilst the stadium was restored, Rovers played home matches at Wembley, long before Arsenal had a similar idea.

Mel Park was the reception venue for Race’s wedding, and Rovers have been intrinsically linked with Race’s private life. He married Penny Laine – secretary to general manager Ben Galloway – on the same day as Rovers lost the FA Cup final to Oldfield, and the couple soon had twins, Roy Jr and Melinda (the former would become a legendary club forward himself). A third child, Diana, arrived in 1982 – the name inspired by the Race family’s trip to the Royal Wedding the year before. Before Hello!, WAGs Boutique and super-injunctions changed the picture, the Races were pin-ups for all that was good about wholesome family life in Britain.

Adored throughout the game, Race treated the notoriously talkative Rovers fans to feats more akin to comic book fare, routinely imposing his personality on matches and dragging misfiring Rovers to improbable victories. Race never shirked, producing the goods on cold, wet and windy Tuesday nights at Carford City. He owned the original wand of a left foot, and could strike a ball like nobody else, save for “Hot Shot” Hamish Balfour. Direct but cultured, he wore nine but also displayed many of the attributes of a classic 10. Younger fans who only have video footage of Race to enjoy should imagine a combination of Edinson Cavani, Robin van Persie and Francesco Totti. A complete footballer.

A man of champagne talent but lemonade ego, Race was a player of a bygone era – successful and charismatic yet humble and rooted in reality. Few of his ilk remain, so we should celebrate the likes of Xavi Hernandez as links to the game’s past – a past rich in the charm and accessibility of working class heroes: Gordon Stewart’s safe hands; Andy Steel’s playmaking; Kevin Mouse’s spectacles. A past of Blackie Gray, Merv Wallace and Andy Styles; Jumbo Trudgeon, Johnny Dexter and Paco Diaz.

Football has changed immeasurably in the 20 years since Race took that fateful journey to watch Darren Lewis play for Weltech Sports in the Bexley Homes League. The game is frequently cynical and clinical, with balance sheets and pragmatism too often prioritised over romance. The Race name lives on within the game, but the playing career of the man nicknamed Roy of The Rovers was truly a halcyon period. As scandal sweeps across the sporting spectrum on an almost weekly basis, it’s a fitting time to reflect on the genius of Roy Race – a sumptuous player, but primarily an inherently decent and dignified man who has enriched our lives, and changed the way we look at football, sport, and each other.

Egmont have launched the first five Roy of the Rovers strips as e-comics under their Classic Comics imprint. Available for £1.99 each, you can find them here. Meanwhile, all those 1970s schoolboys who dreamed of joining Melchester Rovers can now join the line-up as Roy Race’s new team-mate in a Roy of the Rovers personalised book, available for £14.99 here.

Bryan Davies has also written a fine One Love feature for TheInsideLeft about supporting Crystal Palace and selected the best five young talents to emerge from Selhurst Park in My Five: Palace Youth Products

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WORDS: LAYTH YOUSIF

This is a story about a man who not only survived the Second World War, but who played the game of his life in order to save his life in a prisoner-of-war camp. Nine years after Fritz Walter’s ability had saved him from near-certain death in a Siberian gulag, he would go on to win the World Cup…

In 2004, to celebrate its Golden Jubilee, UEFA asked each national Football Association to nominate a single player who was deemed to be their most outstanding talent of the previous 50 years.

England chose Bobby Moore, Scotland picked Denis Law, Johan Cruyff was the Dutch choice and Dino Zoff represented the Italians.

But who did the Germans select? Seeler? Muller? Netzer? Breitner? Beckenbauer? Rummenigge? Matthaeus? Klinsmann? No. The player the Germans elected was Fritz Walter. You might be forgiven if you haven’t heard of him.

Walter was born in Kaiserslautern, in the south-west of Germany, in 1920. It is fitting that the coat of arms of the city of Kaiserslautern bears a fish on it, for no German footballer has been so influenced by wasser, and rain in particular, as Fritz. But more on that later.

The renowned football writer Ulrich Hesse-Lichtenberger stated: “German football history [cannot] be written without a large dose of grief.”  So we must start, as most German stories from the 1940s must, with the war. As the Bletchley Park code-breakers were deciphering Adolf Hitler’s plans for the Battle of Britain in July 1940, a 19 year-old Walter was making his debut as centre-forward for the German national team against Romania. They won 9-3, with young Fritz scoring a hat-trick, and their hoary old manager, Sepp Herberger, told him: “You didn’t disappoint me. You can come again.”

However, as Germany incessantly attacked Europe, Walter was called up for the Reich’s armed forces, the Wehrmacht. Throughout the next two years, from 1940-42, Walter marched through France and various islands in the Mediterranean. It was during one such trip that he contracted malaria, a debilitating disease that could have led to death if not treated quickly. Fritz received treatment but, curiously, the aftershocks of the malarial trauma, which rendered him highly vulnerable to muscular fatigue and pain, only struck during hot weather.

Fritz continued to play for the German national side, while the wily manager, Herberger, as his biographer stated, “feinted, wooed and plotted to guarantee some sort of shelter for the protection and nurturing of the football genius [Walter] amid the increasingly menacing turmoil of war.”

Called back from the front in May 1942, the lad from Kaiserslautern played the game of his life in more ways than one. Although many of the matches the Germans played were meaningless, against frightened players of occupied nations, and were only useful for war propaganda purposes, to lose was seen as a public relations disaster. To a country that was fighting on two fronts, every available man was needed: the repercussions of a loss may have had fatal consequences for those involved in an unexpected defeat.

So it was that, at half-time in Budapest on May 3rd 1942, Germany, with Fritz at centre-forward, were losing 3-1 to their allies Hungary. “Don’t let this become a catastrophe”, a visibly shaken Herberger cautioned his team during the break. With Fritz leading the way, Germany eventually won the game 5-3. Thankfully for Walter that day, at least one Hungarian in the crowd would never forget his performance.

Walter spent 1943/44 playing for the football team of the Red Fighter Pilots, led by the enigmatic Major Herman Graf, a Luftwaffe ace (Graf, at great risk to himself, also helped Jews escape to neutral Switzerland as a pre-war clerk). It is worth noting that, as a football-mad teenager, Graf was also coached by Herberger. Were strings pulled by their manager and mutual friend so that Fritz could survive, and once again play for Germany after their forthcoming defeat?

Whatever the machinations, by January 1945, the Russian Red Army were on the march towards Berlin. Walter recalled later that he thought Major Graf was going to abandon his boys and leave them to an uncertain fate against the men from the East. Yet, Graf stood by his troops, proclaiming, “We will destroy the planes that are left, and we’ll all be taken prisoner together.” Walter never forgot Graf’s bravery. It was just as well; he needed some for himself.

40,000 German prisoners of war were captured by the Russians at the start of 1945 (including Walter and Graf). They were headed to Siberia and what was likely to be a pitiful death in sub-zero temperatures.

However, the people of Kaiserslautern and its environs are known in Germany to be particularly phlegmatic. Walter was no exception. He must have known that he was facing impending death, yet through his obsession with football he still looked for opportunities to play. Then, during a stop-off on the way to Siberia, Walter watched the guards kicking a ball around.

Budapest 1942 had been, until that moment, the game of Walter’s life. But the game between the Guards and the Prisoners in Maramarossziget, Romania, amidst the freezing winter of 1945, was to prove the most important football match he would ever play in. Unsure of what to do, Walter watched the initial stages of the game, helpless, from the touchline. Was it fate that the ball was hoofed towards him? Quickly he passed the ball back, and sensing a fellow football lover, the Prisoners team asked him if he wanted to play. He agreed.

What happened next was simply extraordinary as, during the half-time break, one of the Hungarian guards on the opposition side whispered in Fritz’s ear: “I know you.”

Fritz froze, fearing the worst, and then the guard spoke again: “Hungary v Germany in Budapest, 1942. You won 5-3.”

The next day, Walter’s name had mysteriously vanished from the list heading to the Siberian death camp. Football had saved his life.

Walter eventually returned home to his beloved but war-ravaged Kaiserslautern. With the conflict over, he spearheaded his hometown team to their first German Championship in 1951, and then to another in 1953, before achieving two second-place finishes in 1954 and 1955. He was so influential that the team became known as Walter’s XI. In 1985, Kaiserslautern’s stadium was renamed Fritz Walter Stadion in veneration.

But his story doesn’t end there.

In the decade after they were defeated, Germany was still recovering from the damage and distress of fighting a losing war. Yet the West Germans managed to qualify for the 1954 World Cup, to be held in Switzerland, where they would be led by the indestructible Herberger. The clear favourites were the Mighty Magyars of Hungary, captained by Ferenc Puskas. So dominant were they at the start of the tournament that they actually thrashed West Germany 8-3 in the group stages.

Somehow, Walter and his team battled their way through to the final, where they would once again meet the Hungarians, in Berne, the Swiss capital.

It is dawn on Sunday, 4th July – the day of the 1954 World Cup Final. Walter draws his curtains and looks out. To his utter consternation, it is clear and bright, intimating a hot day. The 34-year-old veteran sadly shuts them, and returns to bed concerned about the forthcoming heat precipitating muscle fatigue from the malaria he suffered. He is inconsolable.

However, at noon he is woken by his teammates cheerfully shouting, “It’s raining, it’s raining!” For, as everyone knows, when it rains Fritz Walter plays well.

Walter does indeed play well. Just not at first. After eight minutes, the Germans find themselves 2-0 down, but recalling how he fought back against the Hungarians in 1943, Fritz rallies his team. At 2-2, with six minutes left to play, Helmut ‘Der Boss’ Rahn volleys the ball into the net and West German radio commentator, Herbert Zimmermann, screams a line that will become every bit as famous in Germany as Kenneth Wolstenholme’s 1966 punchline would in England.

“Tor! Tor! Tor! Tor!” he proclaims, repeating the German word for ‘goal’ over and over. “Germany leads 3-2… call me mad, call me crazy!”

Some people will date the start of the German Economic Miracle to this day, forever known as the ‘Miracle of Berne’. The new Germany finally has something to be proud of. Nine years on from playing for his life, Fritz Walter – the ‘Hero of Berne’ – has won the World Cup.

Walter would always become emotional about 1954. On his 80th birthday, German TV broadcast the match in tribute. Walter cried unashamedly, saying: “I still have goose-bumps watching it.”

To this day, steady rain in Germany is known as ‘Fritz Walter Weather’ in his honour.

Postscript: Fritz Walter died, aged 81, in June 2002. His greatest wish had been to see a World Cup match played at his beloved Kaiserslautern’s ground at the 2006 World Cup. On the fourth anniversary of his death, a minute’s silence was held with the deepest respect, at the Fritz Walter Stadion, ahead of Italy v USA at the 2006 World Cup. He would have smiled at the irony of the game being played in a heatwave.

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WORDS: JOHN HYNES

Twice in the Sixties, Bill Shankly’s Liverpool secured the league title and on both occasions the Football League trophy was absent on the day of triumph. With the Reds players waiting to celebrate, the fans in the Kop produced a makeshift cup of their own, which has gone down in Anfield folklore…

Waking up on the day your team could become champions of England must bring all kinds of thoughts to mind, and perhaps some nervous activity in the stomach area too.

In the mid-1960s Liverpool twice successfully negotiated such occasions. The first of those triumphs arrived in 1964, courtesy of a 5-0 home win over Arsenal. Two years later London opposition, in the shape of Chelsea, were again overcome by Bill Shankly’s team as they took the title.

In the two decades that followed such victories would almost become the norm at Anfield but back then they were greeted with great fanfare. After all, the club had only recently ended an eight-year spell in the Second Division. However, among the joyous celebrations in front of the Kop one significant part of the usual celebration scene was missing on each occasion: the league championship trophy.

Grainy video footage of the ’64 success clearly shows the squad embarking on a lap of honour with a rather unusual looking cup being held aloft instead of the traditional silverware and the alternative prize is again clearly visible in images from the dressing room, perched on a table as Ian St. John, Ron Yeats, Ian Callaghan, Roger Hunt and Co get stuck in to the champagne.

In 1966, a point for Shankly’s outfit would have been enough to open an unassailable advantage over a Leeds side that still had games in hand. Clearly the men from Stamford Bridge, who provided the opposition on that occasion, were in no doubt about who would be champions as they afforded the Anfielders a guard of honour before kick-off.

Those in the stands were also certain that their heroes would produce the necessary. The Liverpool Echo reported that, prior to the action, “a fan emerged from the packed Kop and went to the centre of the field, where he planted a replica of the Championship trophy on the centre spot”.

It was the same cup that had been used in the ’64 celebrations. And 90 minutes later it was again being paraded around the field in front of a delirious crowd thanks to a 2-1 victory.

But what was this cup? Well, the origins of the unusual object that took centre stage as history was made are fairly simple. A football-mad Scouse family – the Curletts – had created the trophy from an old vase their mother had planned to discard and, naturally, they chose to paint it red and white (it was only in the mid-60s that LFC changed to all red, before then the kit consisted of red shirts and white shorts and socks with a red trim). If you look closely at the cup, you will notice that newspaper pictures of their heroes were also carefully pasted onto the sides.

The youngsters took the “Curlett Cup” to Anfield for the Arsenal game and, when the players were saluting the crowd after the final whistle, it was handed to skipper Ron Yeats. So, with the official league trophy absent, the Scottish centre-half fully embraced the unfamiliar object.

And, when Liverpool edged closer to regaining their title 24 months later, the Curletts again brought their home-made piece of ‘silverware’ to the ground and Yeats again raised it aloft, although he almost broke the base when he vigorously slammed it down amidst the celebrations!

Nowadays the LFC Museum is the location of the homemade cup that twice marked the club’s crowning as champions. In case you are wondering, the real League trophy eventually arrived at Anfield a few days later, on both occasions. Why it was not present immediately after the title-clinching games is unclear, but cynics might suggest the fact that Everton and Man United league triumphs had preceded Liverpool’s brace of successes had something to do with it!

John Hynes writes for Liverpool FC monthly magazine, as well as the club’s matchday programme. He is also author of The Irish Kop and Alright Aldo and you can follow him on Twitter @HynesJohn

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