Читать книгу Geoff Hurst, the Hand of God and the Biggest Rows in World Football - Graham Poll - Страница 28

The 2006 World Cup Final in Berlin was the one I might have refereed and then became the one I didn't want to watch.

I certainly didn't expect to referee it, or even allow myself to hope I would, but I now know that, if I had not made my infamous mistake with three yellow cards, there was a strong possibility that I might have been selected for the Final. Instead, I was sent home before the quarterfinals and was in such terrible, black despair that I did not think I would watch any of the remaining games. I didn't think I would be able to bear watching. But people—friends and family—said, ‘You were there. You were part of that tournament. You've got no reason not to see how it finishes.’

And the day I got back from Germany to the safe harbour of my home in Tring, the very first telephone call I received was from David Beckham. The England captain was preparing for a World Cup quarterfinal but took time to telephone me, empathizing with me in my desperate unhappiness and reaching out in friendship to me and my family. So I decided I definitely wanted to see Becks and the boys in action against Portugal.

Having been in Germany, where the people had been fantastic and the atmosphere fabulous, I was conscious of an overriding sense that the Germans were going to win. The World Cup was a statement of nationhood for the united Germany, and winning it seemed to be their destiny. I decided I definitely wanted to see their quarterfinal against Argentina. Then I realized I wanted to watch Italy against Ukraine, because I've always loved Italian football. And of course I wanted to watch France against Brazil, because those countries have produced some of the best players to walk the earth.

So that was all the quarterfinals I had to watch, and by the time the Final came around, I was hooked on the beautiful game again and the great unscripted drama of the World Cup.