Magical Heartbreak

School was an impossibility. The bus didn't reach home in time for kick off. There was really only one thing for it. A sad looking face, spluttering cough sounds and big sad skivers eyes. This was no ordinary game of soccer, this was Brasil versus Italy. This was Falcao, Junior, Socrates and Eder, the player who possessed so much magic in his left foot I was spellbound.

I still am.

In the weeks leading up to the Spain '82 FIFA World Cup I took a large roll of wallpaper, laid it out and turned it over onto the non facing side. Carefully and with the sort of precision only a nine year old fanatic can manage every player from every squad was drawn onto the paper underneath the badge of their country. Next to him were placed their key stats and my prediction for their performance in Spain.

At this stage 'Brasil' was a rumour. The Ladybird Spain '82 book hinted that they were pretty special, but England were my favourites, could they be any better? Eder was the last player drawn on the Brasil section. He was just a name to me, but prophetically I wrote "Will be superb" which contrasts slightly with my prediction for Trevor Brooking which guaranteed "Will be the best player ever apart from Kevin Keegan". This assumption must surely have been based on the fact that he had well defined eyebrows because I had never seen him play live.

Brooking managed only a few minutes on the pitch, Eder has stuck with me for a lifetime.

Brasil played their first group game, the opposition could have been anyone. The magical, strutting pull of the yellow, blue and white took hold of my footballing soul from the moment the referee's whistle blew. Players so cool you wouldn't have been surprised if they had worn shades glided around the pitch swapping passes with the flourish of artists. Socrates, the coolest of them all commanded the most attention. His Che Guevarra beard and cold stare, shirt hanging out and swagger created intoxicating levels of adrenalin for the nine year old soccer nut.

Then came the goal which formed this life's love. Eder, tall, elegant and ice cool, unleashed a left footed shot into the net from what looked like 25 yards. It was a strike so magnificent that for about fifteen minutes my mind was blank. This moment was like being struck by lightning. The power of the shot, the flick, the bend, the downright arrogant cool - I was gone. I had found the beautiful game.

Next up Scotland were on the receiving end of another glorious Eder goal. This proved beyond doubt my playground theory that this supreme magician was the best player ever. He shaped to whack the ball, but instead floated the ball over the stranded Scotland goalkeeper, Alan Rough, with the sort of graceful balletic aplomb normally associated with orchestral conductors. Hours and hours were then spent in the field behind our house perfecting the sort of shots which earned him the nickname "Cannon". Cannon never seemed to fit. Yes, his goals were thunderbolts, but it was the silky smooth close control and outrageous tricks which made him much more than a simple cannon.

Brasil went through. I was in a haze. They were going to win the World Cup, this was guaranteed. Who could beat this team of artists, who could beat Eder?

Erm, Italy, like the waking edge of a beautiful dream. How could a sport that had only given love be so cruel? Paolo Rossi was the main culprit. His goals were devastating. Brasil couldn't quite manage to claw their way back at 3-2 down and the game was lost. Tears welled in my eyes, my stomach ached. Eder played well, the whole team did, but Italy dominated their more skilful opposition with endeavour and toil. The taunting celebrations of Italy were more than I could bear.

Spain '82 had become confusing and painful. How could the beautiful game be so distressing? As if to compound the shock England were dumped out with Kevin Keegan only playing a small role against Spain. If only.

Many say this was the greatest match ever played. I would agree now, but not on that hazy, skiving summers afternoon. School was an impossibility that day, but I had learned the hardest lesson of all in ninety excruciating minutes. Life was never the same again, but a passion was born that burns stronger than ever thanks to yellow, blue, white and a player who was more than simply superb, he was the very essence of magic.