It was the home World Cup. The first one organised in Spain, with 24 teams for the first time, fourteen stadiums and a mascot that ended up becoming the symbol of an entire generation. It went badly on the pitch and yet left more stories than almost any other.

25 June 1982, El Molinón. West Germany against Austria, final matchday of Group 2. The maths was already done and everyone knew it, because Algeria had already played their match the day before: if Germany won by one or two goals, both they and Austria would go through and Algeria would be out.
Hrubesch scored on ten minutes. And from there the two teams stopped playing football. Eighty minutes of backwards passes, balls out to the wing, nobody venturing into the opposition box. Not a single shot on goal. The stadium started whistling and never stopped.
The Algerian fans were waving banknotes from the stands. The German television commentator refused to carry on commentating the match. The Austrian television commentator asked his viewers to turn their sets off. And Algeria, who on their debut had beaten West Germany, the reigning European champions, 2-1 — one of the greatest World Cup shocks ever — went home.
FIFA rejected Algeria's protest and annulled nothing. But from the next World Cup onwards, they changed the rule: the final matchday of the group phase is played simultaneously in all matches. That rule, which seems like common sense today, was born at El Molinón.

It was a huge letdown for the national team. With José Santamaría on the bench and the whole country breathing down their neck, Spain drew 1-1 with Honduras in their opening game in Valencia, beat Yugoslavia 2-1 thanks to a retaken penalty amid protests — and let's be clear, that penalty call went Spain's way — and lost 1-0 to Northern Ireland.
They scraped through to the second phase by the skin of their teeth, where they were drawn with West Germany and England at the Bernabéu: 1-2 against Germany and 0-0 with England. Knocked out.
A World Cup at home, with sky-high expectations, settled with one win in five matches. They'd have to wait until 2010 to wash away that bitter taste.
8 July, Sánchez Pizjuán. West Germany against France in the semi-finals. For a lot of people, it's the greatest World Cup match ever played: 1-1 after 90 minutes, France went 3-1 up in extra time, Germany equalised at 3-3 and it ended up being decided by the first penalty shootout in World Cup history.
But what's remembered from that night isn't a goal. On 57 minutes, Frenchman Patrick Battiston broke free and was through on goal when German keeper Harald Schumacher came out leading with his hip and took him out completely. Battiston was knocked unconscious, lost two teeth and suffered a fractured vertebra. They had to carry him off on a stretcher and for a while there were fears for his life.
The Dutch referee didn't even blow for a foul. Goal kick. Schumacher stayed on the pitch, saved two penalties in the shootout and Germany made it to the final.
Five days earlier, at the old Sarrià stadium in Barcelona, another match had been played that everyone who saw it still remembers. That Brazil side with Sócrates, Zico, Falcão and Éder is the most frequently nominated candidate for best team ever to not win a World Cup. A draw would have done them.
And then they ran into Paolo Rossi, who hadn't scored all tournament and that afternoon netted three goals. Italy won 3-2, Brazil went home, and that Brazilian style of football went with them.


That the two teams agreed beforehand to leave Algeria out. In Germany it's known as the «non-aggression pact of Gijón».
That nobody disputes what happened on the pitch — eighty minutes of dead football, the stadium whistling and two national broadcasters refusing to commentate — but a prior explicit agreement has never been proven. Both teams always denied it and no witness or document has ever emerged to prove it. You don't need a pact for two teams who know what result suits them to stop attacking: all it takes is for neither to have any interest in scoring. FIFA didn't consider it proven either; what they did do was change the rule, which is the most eloquent way of siding with those who were whistling.
That Rossi was coming back from a ban for match-fixing and they still took him to the World Cup.
That the ban is real: two years for the Totonero betting scandal, which he served just before the tournament, and manager Bearzot selected him anyway amid fierce criticism. What's worth adding is that Rossi always maintained his innocence, his initial sentence was reduced and the case was full of grey areas. He arrived at the World Cup short of match fitness, went through the group stage without scoring — and finished with six goals, the Ballon d'Or and the trophy.
That Naranjito was a success and the most beloved mascot in World Cup history.
That in 1982 large parts of the country hated it: accused of being saccharine, childish and representing nothing. What happened is that the cartoon series, the merchandise and above all the passage of time turned it into a generational icon. Today nostalgia has won by a landslide, but the idea that it was beloved from day one is a rewritten memory.
July 11th, Bernabéu, 90,000 people. Italy 3-1 West Germany: Rossi, Tardelli and Altobelli, with Breitner's consolation.
The second goal left one of football's most iconic images: Marco Tardelli running towards the bench with a contorted face, screaming and crying at the same time. They call it «Tardelli's roar» and he himself has said he's not entirely sure what came over him.
The Italian captain, Dino Zoff, was 40 years old: he remains the oldest player ever to win a World Cup.

What remained was a new rule born in Gijón. The penalty shootout remained, which made its debut here and has since decided four finals. Naranjito remained. And there remained that very Spanish feeling of having thrown a massive party and watched it from the outside.
In A Coruña there's a statue that remembers that World Cup. It's one of the few physical things still standing from all of that.

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