Podcast Episode 2: Italy, 1934 A tournament played under the watchful eye of a very dangerous man. A
host
nation
willing
to
win
at
any
cost.
And
refereeing
decisions
that
still
raise
eyebrows
today.
This
is
football
under
pressure.
And
it
all
took
place
in
Italy…
in
1934.
Welcome to The World Cup Files! Are you ready to travel back in time and relive the greatest moments in football history? From dramatic finals to unbelievable goals, each episode tells the story of one World Cup — the
heroes,
the
villains,
and
the
moments
no
one
saw
coming.
So grab your boots… it’s time to kick off our journey through the World Cup! I’m Aileen, and this is The World Cup Files. Remember those European nations that watched the 1930 World Cup from afar and felt a
pang
of
regret? Well, they weren't prepared to make the same mistake four years later. In 1934, the World Cup came to Europe for the first time. To Italy. And Italy's leader — a man called Benito Mussolini — had decided that his country wasn't
just
going
to
host
the
World
Cup. Italy was going to win it.
If you haven't heard of Mussolini, you're probably thinking that's just the natural optimism
of
every
country
that
hosts
the
tournament.
Because
what
could
be
better
than
watching
your
team
lift
the
trophy
in
a
stadium
filled
with
home
fans? But Mussolini was used to getting his own way. He was a dictator. A man who had seized control of Italy and run it his way. No elections, no debate, no opposition. And to Mussolini, Italy winning the tournament would prove to the whole world that his Italy,
and
his
way
of
governing
it,
were
the
best. So he would do whatever it took to make that victory a reality. Sounding ominous? You bet it is. Welcome to File Two. Italy, 1934. Where football got political. LET'S TAKE A LOOK AT THE KEY FACTS Sixteen teams. Seventeen matches. Seventy goals. Winner: Italy — two goals to one against Czechoslovakia after extra time. Top scorer: Oldřich Nejedlý of Czechoslovakia, with five goals. THE CONTENDERS This time around, qualification wasn't a simple case of RSVP-ing "yes".
With only sixteen spaces available, teams would have to earn them. Out of the thirty-two that entered, sixteen would put in the work and not even get an invite. For qualification, teams were divided geographically. Twelve of the sixteen places were reserved
for
European
teams.
With
the
remaining
three
going
to
the
Americas
and
one
to
Africa. A fair distribution? What do you think? One team that didn't choose to attempt qualification was Uruguay. Still smarting from the snub of the poor turn-out for their tournament, the defending champions
refused
to
come. They refused to defend their title — something that has never happened since . Talk about
cutting
off
your
nose
to
spite
your
face. Argentina came, though their squad was a shadow of nineteen thirty. The Italian coach, Vittorio Pozzo [PRON: vit-OR-ee-oh POT-so], had seen to that. He had
actively
recruited
Argentinian
players
with
Italian
heritage,
and
successfully
got
four
onto
his
squad.
He had weakened one of his main rivals at the same time as strengthening his own team. What an evil genius! The format was knockout from the very first round.
Win or go home. No second chances. No group stage safety net. Every single match was its own final. And that suited Mussolini. Because in a straight knockout tournament, you don't necessarily
have
to
be
the
best
team
in
order
to
win.
You
just
need
to
beat
each
opponent
you
come
up
against.
One match at a time. By whatever means necessary. Mussolini had some interesting ideas about how to ensure those wins. Before matches, referees received visits from official-looking men who made it very clear
what
kind
of
decisions
Mussolini
would
appreciate . Decisions that should have gone against Italy, didn't. Decisions that shouldn't have gone Italy's
way,
sometimes
did. Was it cheating? Was it pressure? Was it just home advantage turned up to an extremely
uncomfortable
volume? Nobody can say for certain. But people noticed. HOW IT PLAYED OUT Italy's path to the final was not pretty. It started convincingly though.
In front of a packed stadium in Rome where the crowd included Mussolini and his son, they
beat
the
USA
seven — one. Three of their goals came in the first half within an eleven-minute window. Another three came
in
a
six-minute
period
in
the
second
half.
Can you imagine the excitement of those Italian fans? Their hearts just settling from one goal
when
the
net
rippled
with
the
next! Their quarter-final against Spain was less a football match and more a battle — a brutal, bruising
affair
that
left
players
on
both
sides
limping
off
the
pitch
at
the
final
whistle. The match was tied at one — one after a hundred and twenty minutes, so a replay was scheduled
for
the
following
day. But there was a problem. So many players were out of action with injuries sustained in the first leg, that the teams put
forward
for
the
second
were
almost
unrecognisable!
New faces, different names, barely the same squads at all. It was as if two entirely fresh sides had arrived to finish what the originals had started. Italy won the replay one-nil, but the Spanish players, and plenty of the watching journalists,
felt
that
the
referee
had
done
Italy
more
than
a
few
favours. Next up was Austria — widely considered the finest team in Europe at the time. Under normal
circumstances,
they
would
have
been
the
team
to
beat.
But these weren't normal circumstances. Italy edged them one-nil in a semi-final that was tense, scrappy, and once again, overshadowed
by
questions
about
the
fairness
of
the
officials. On the other side of the draw, something nobody had predicted was happening. Czechoslovakia were systematically dismantling their opposition. In their opening match, they beat Romania 2-1. In their quarter-final, they beat Switzerland
3-2.
And
in
their
semi-final,
they
beat
Germany
3-1. Three — one! Nobody had seen them coming. But there they were. Czechoslovakia — quiet, underestimated,
largely
written
off
before
a
ball
had
been
kicked — were
in
the
final
of
the
World
Cup. Waiting for them was Vittorio Pozzo's Italy. A side packed with talent, shaped by one of football's
great
tactical
minds,
and
backed — whether
the
players
liked
it
or
not — by
the
full
weight
of
a
fascist
government
that
absolutely
could
not
afford
to
lose. At the heart of the Italian side was Giuseppe Meazza. Quick, clever, ice-cool under pressure,
he
was
the
kind
of
centre-forward
who
made
the
impossible
look
routine. He'd grown up kicking rag-stuffed socks around the streets near his home and been rejected
by
AC
Milan,
who
claimed
he
was
too
small
to
make
it
in
professional
football.
Remind you of another GOAT? Now here he was, starting for his national team in a World Cup final.
Italy hadn't so much charmed their way there as pushed and shouldered, leaving a trail of
bruised
opponents
and
raised
eyebrows
behind
them. But in an era before VAR, the calls had been made and the scores had been recorded. The final was set. Italy would play Czechoslovakia. THE FINAL Rome. The tenth of June, nineteen thirty-four. The Stadio Nazionale was packed. An almost entirely Italian crowd had come to watch a coronation more than a contest. Mussolini watched on from his private box. Everything was against Czechoslovakia. But this was football. And football doesn't care. For a long time, it looked like the Czechs might just prove that. The first half came and went without a goal. Still nothing as the second half dragged on. Both teams were tense and wary. They seemed to be circling each other, neither wanting
to
be
the
side
that
made
the
mistake. And then, in the seventy-first minute, Antonín Puč [PRON: AN-ton-een POOCH] collected
the
ball
and
drove
it
past
the
Italian
goalkeeper.
One — nil to Czechoslovakia. The Italian crowd fell silent. Mussolini, sitting in his private box, did not look pleased. Could the Czechs really hold on? Over the following minutes, they did more than that. Two incredible opportunities at goal...
but
they
missed
them. As the clock ticked down towards a Czech victory, the Italians were desperate. Ten more minutes. Then nine. Italy needed something — anything. That something arrived in the eighty-first minute. Raimundo Orsi picked up the ball, dancing his way through the Czech defence. He faked
a
shot
with
his
left,
then
struck
full-force
with
his
right.
It
seemed
to
curve
as
it
flew
towards
the
goal.
The
Czech
keeper
barely
got
his
glove
to
it,
and
it
slammed
into
the
net
behind
him. 1-1. The crowd erupted back to life. But that was it. The clock kept ticking down with the score tied at 1-1. This, it turned out, would
be
the
first
World
Cup
final
to
need
extra
time. With momentum now behind them like a twelfth player, Italy didn't take long to strike.
In the ninety-fifth minute, Angelo Schiavio [PRON: an-JEL-oh skyah-VEE-oh] received a pass
from
Enrique
Guaita
[PRON:
en-REE-kay
gwah-EE-tah]. He struck it straight towards the left side of the goal. One touch. One chance. The net rippled. 2-1. The stadium shook with the roar of the crowd. Italy just had to hang on — hold the line, run down the clock. They did. But Schiavio didn't quite make it to the final whistle himself. Somewhere in those last desperate minutes — exhausted, carrying an injury, having just
scored
the
goal
that
won
the
World
Cup — he
fainted
on
the
pitch. He had given absolutely everything. And Italy were world champions. THE AFTERMATH Italy celebrated.
Mussolini declared it proof of his nation's greatness and plastered the victory across every
newspaper
in
the
country. The players were heroes. The tournament was a triumph. And the rest of the world looked on with a mixture of congratulations and unease. Because the world had noticed. They'd felt the pressure and registered the decisions that
hadn't
felt
quite
fair.
Everyone had watched a tournament that sometimes felt less like sport and more like a very
expensive
political
broadcast. Italy were champions. But it didn't feel the same as Uruguay four years before — that explosion
of
pure,
uncomplicated
joy. This tasted different. A little bitter. And yet, the World Cup had grown. Sixteen nations. Qualifying rounds. Huge crowds. The tournament that had started with thirteen teams scraping together the courage to cross
an
ocean,
was
now
something
the
whole
world
wanted
to
be
part
of. For better or worse. Now, how about some mind-blowing facts that you won't find in the main story? Fact one.
Italy are the only host nation in World Cup history who had to qualify for their own tournament.
Every
other
host
has
been
given
automatic
entry.
Fact two. Raimundo Orsi's swerving equaliser in the final is legendary, but wasn’t caught on camera.
The
morning
after
the
match,
photographers
asked
him
to
recreate
it.
He
tried
again
and
again
and
again.
Every
single
shot
sailed
wide.
Some
goals
are
just…
magic. Fact three The semi-final between Spain and Italy was one of the dirtiest matches in football history.
It
saw
more
than
30
fouls ,
several
players
knocked
unconscious
and
the
Spanish
goalie
nursing
two
broken
ribs
at
full
time! Fact four. Argentina's squad for the 1934 tournament contained not a single player from the side that
had
reached
the
final
in
1930.
Every
one
of
them
had
been
poached,
retired,
or
was
unavailable.
They
lost
their
first
match
and
went
home. Fact five Could be related to fact four? Four of the 12 goals scored by Italy in the tournament were
scored
by
Pozzo’s
poached
Argentinian
players.
Told
you,
evil
genius! Fact six The referee for the semi-final between Italy and Austria was accused of favouring the home
side
so
heavily
that
the
Austrian
players
nicknamed
him
“ The
Italian ”.
He
denied
it,
of
course.
Might
have
just
been
a
coincidence
that
he
had
dinner
with
Mussolini
the
night
before
the
match.
Yeah,
definitely
just
a
coincidence.
If you enjoyed this episode, make sure you’re following The World Cup Files — it’s the best
way
to
make
sure
you
don’t
miss
the
next
story.
Next time: France, 1938. The World Cup returns… but with tension rising across Europe,
football
is
about
to
be
played
under
a
very
different
shadow. I’ll see you there. File closed.