I remember watching it. We had got a colour telly for the World Cup, given that Scotland had actually qualified, and were about to invent a new way of going out of the World Cup, undefeated on goal difference. Part of that was our stonking 0-0 gubbing of the World Champions, Brazil. The matches were on early and mid evening during the week, and if I was serving mass as an altar boy (it was a very long time ago), then I would miss the first 5-10 minutes or so of the later game dependent on how quick the priest was at saying mass. I had 3 years previously gone to the cinema on my own to watch the film of the 70 World Cup, something that for a small boy growing up in the West of Scotland in the 70s burned with colours never seen. The greenest grass, the Azzurri, the shimmering mythic gold of Brazil.
The 74 World Cup arrived with Scotland in the same group as Brazil. We had a useful side but we dreamed of playing our part in some new high scoring match, perhaps 12-11 to Brazil with a last minute goal, and all the players swapping shirts in embraces that mirrored Pele and Moore from four years before. But this was not the fabled Brazilians, though still with Rivelino and Jairzinho, this was a side aware of its fall from the heights. Still capable of individual skill, but leaning on thuggery and cynicism.
As they disappointed, and the dreams were replaced with an exit and a wonder at whether the colours of beautiful game would be replaced by that particular shade of 70s beige. Onto to that exploded the Dutch, already known about via Ajax but playing the football of Pele, of Garrincha, in a vibrant orange that even in rain soaked Germany looked like beach football. And the turn epitomised it, happening so that both defender and spectators went the wrong way, baffled at the sheer simple guile, the ball gone as in a shell game.
I have still never managed to do a decent Cruyff Turn.
