I was on a week long leave from the army, the first of just three, and they had allowed us a free flight back to wherever our home address was. My parents were abroad in the far east during that time, but I stayed in our house at Nesodden alone while I was on leave. It was pretty much a week long party, and we ended up at Ridderhallen just about every night. Monday night I hear my friend from Company 1- 34-Mjønes that had been on leave with me in Oslo. All the officers used our assigned army number and our surnames, so it became a habit that we all also used only the surnames when we talked to each other, even if we were good friend. I hear Mjønes’ familiar loud voice behind me: “Johnsen, what do you say to driving back to Setermoen with me on Friday Morning?”
“Mjønes, why the hell would I do that? And by the way where did you get a car?”
“Well I have had this old Toyota Corolla, but didn’t bring it up back in April when we arrived. Now I am taking it up and I am leaving Friday Morning”
“That’s probably several days to get up there, with all the shitty roads and all, give me one good reason why I wouldn’t just fly on the Hercules tomorrow? I know you love me and all, no offense, but the flight is just a few hours long and spending a couple of days in a car with Mjønes surely didn’t seem appealing to me at all.
“Well, we could go out again tomorrow night, instead of going back to that shithole Setermoen, have an extra night of fun here in and well take off Friday morning instead. One more night of fun man”
“Ok, Mjønes, I am in.” Suddenly it sounded like a better plan. Who cared if it was a couple of days in a car, we could go out again tomorrow night instead of going back to the base. “Where do you live by the way? I am staying at my parents’ house, but I can probably stay somewhere here I town tomorrow night.”
“Let’s leave early OK? I’ll see you tomorrow night here right? I’ll be staying at my parents as well, but if you call me I can meet you somewhere here I town, or I can meet you somewhere on Karl Johan in the morning”
“Sounds like a plan Mjønes. Who knows where I will be spending the night .but I’ll bring my bags and put in a locker at the Vestbanen train station so well pick it up if I don’t go home”
We didn’t have much of a plan, but we had somewhat of a plan. Tuesday afternoon I brought my bags and left it in the locker before I went out again. My friends and I ended of course up ad Ridderhallen again, and I saw Mjønes there drunk with some of his buddies from Oslo, and as always he was busy with trying to pick up some girls in the band area. I went in to the disco and didn’t see him again. We were drinking heavily, just beer, but way too many as usual, and I was dizzy and pretty drunk as I went to catch my jacket in the cloak room. The cloak room was as always busy, it actually was the easiest place to meet a girl, as it was late and maybe everyone there felt the same level of desperation of not having met anyone interesting. Now, in the Cloakroom 5 minutes before closing time, everyone looked interesting. Not surprisingly I found myself walking out of there with a girl and we quickly caught a cab outside.
I woke up early the next morning in the single bed with the girl naked, half way over me and no idea where the hell I was. I look over, and realized that shit I don’t even remember her name. I try not to wake her up and sneak around on the floor to try to find my clothes. She was pretty, shoulder long blond hair, blue eyes, a few freckles that looked really cute, but I think that even if she would wake up she would be as hung over as I was. I hop around on the floor as quietly as I could as I’m putting my socks on and at the same time looking for other items of clothing. I find my underwear hanging from the edge of the bed, under the cover. I find it all and quickly throw my clothes on and find my jacket on the door just by the door in the hallway. It’s a small studio, with a kitchen in the corner of the room. I suddenly remembered that she was a nurse and that I ended up in her apartment supplied for the nurses at Ulleval Hospital. Shit, I got to get my ass down to the train station where my stuff is, before Mjønes leaves me. He wouldn’t do that I told myself and finally had all my clothes on. He couldn’t leave me behind I told myself and look at the girl I have just had sex with, pretty much all night. She was dead asleep, so no reason to wake her up I told myself sheepishly- too complicated and I probably wouldn’t see her again I tried to reason with myself before I closed the door behind me. I got a sudden feeling of guild that I didn’t leave my number or anything, then I felt even more guilty when I realized that I didn’t even remember her name. She probably didn’t remember mine either I told myself, but I am not too convincing. I looked at my watch, Fuck, it was eight thirty already- I hurried down the street and found the station, got lucky (again) and got on the tram that arrived immediately going towards town I had big hopes that that Mjønes wouldn’t leave without me.
Mjønes waited outside of Vestbanen, and I got in the car for the long trip north. If you could put a nail in Oslo and turn the country around, the North portion of Norway would hit Italy. It’s a long country, with only five million people so in my- 1982 opinion- Norway is basically just a bunch of rocks in between all the woods. I wasn’t much of a nature enthusiast back in those days and without one big exception the trip north went pretty uneventful. I was tired from the nightly escapades during my week off, and slept through the most of mid-Norway. We arrived in Trondheim, and went out for a couple of beers, but us Oslogutter didn’t think very highly of people from Trondheim, mustaches, hockey hair and Åge Aleksandersen and all, so we turned in early. The exception I mentioned was something that happened out of the blue, and an event, if it was filmed by an advertising agency, I think it could make a great and very funny commercial. 1982 was a World Cup Football year and the finals were played in Spain. It was not one out the two times that Norway- through the qualifications,-screwed up for England, and made sure that our biggest heroes from the British Isles didn’t get through. England never likes to play Norway; we are never as skilled, we love English football and we watch games from England growing up and know everything there is to know about the players and the leagues, but when we play them, it is almost like we have something to prove and we play harder than against any other opponent. The 82 World Cup was however the year were the technical brilliance and skills of teams the French and Brazilian teams shined, but were the physical and ugly play from thugs like Gentile from Italy and Schumacher from the West German team eventually progressed through to an anticlimactic final. The Brazilian team in 1982 was, maybe apart from the Dutch team in 74 arguably the best team to not win the World Cup. They should have won the World Cup and I will never be more disappointed than when they lost in the semifinals against Italy in a shootout that looked like they couldn’t care less about. . They had players like Eder, Zico, and Socrates -a heavy smoker by the way-but my favorite on the Brazil team –they played brilliant attractive offensive football, but when Socrates walked up and just kicked the ball, and missed in the shootout I was crying. My hero had given the spot in the finals to the damn Italians.
The French wasn’t far behind the Brazilians. They were led by the great Michel Platini and had great coverage all over the pitch with players like Tresor, Giresse and Tigana, and they were among the great teams of the eighties. I was, always the romantic-and like most other fans of the beautiful game rooting for the French and my beloved Brazilians. They were the representatives of the beautiful game and played football the way football was supposed to be played-with style. The Italians had the old keeper legend Zoff, but was not going anywhere in my mind. The Italians were like the Germans; nothing but thugs, defense mindedly led by the hard tackling Gentile and the legendary defender Bergomi. The Germans didn’t even deserve to be in the Semi’s. The European champions had lost in their opener to Algeria and in the last group game Algeria beat Chile before West Germany was playing Austria they had to beat the Austrians 1-0 and both the Austrians and the Germans would go through to the next level. Well after a furious first ten minutes were the Germans finally scored the goal they needed, both teams strolled through the remainder of the game passing the ball sideways and backwards without either teams taking one meaningful shot. Nobody liked the West German team, and with names like Schumacher, Rumenigge, Stieleke, and Hrubesh it an easy team to hate. The French had romantic names like Platini, Rocheteau, Tresor and Giresse and played just like they sounded, with flair and style. It was Thursday and it was getting late when Mjønes and I we were driving through the middle of nowhere somewhere in between Trondheim and Bodø, when we realized that at nine, in about an hour the Semifinal between Germany and France was going to be played. We were stressing like crazy when we looked at the map and saw that it was nothing but mountains and a road for miles and it didn’t look like it was any towns where we could stop and maybe catch a place to see the game. Mjønes was driving frantically, but it was getting late and at 8:40, we started to lose faith until I saw the house. Mjønes was going about 110 kilometers per hour, on the curvy roads, and I had a hard time holding on to not bang my head on the window every time he through the tired Corolla in to a right turn. It was a rocky landscape like most terrains in the Nordland region, if it was further south were there actually are threes I might have missed it, but there, up to the left, I noticed a farm. Not a big house, but it had some sheep outside below in the fenced area and I scream to my friend and travel partner: “There Mjønes, look, it’s a house!”
Mjønes slammed on the breaks, and the car slid a little sideways before he hit the gas again going up the long straight dirt road up towards the house.
I saw an old lady behind the curtains in the window, and I walked up to the door before knocking a couple of times. She disappeared from the window and came to the door which she opened slightly and peaked out at me. Mjønes was right behind me.
“Good afternoon mam, my name is Hasse Johnsen and this is my friend Mjønes”
“Good afternoon young man. What are you two young boys doing out here at night?”
“Well, we are coming all the way from Oslo and we are going to Setermoen in Troms. We are proudly serving our country in the Army, here is my army papers” I took my draft book out of my pocket and handed it to the old sweet lady in the door.
“We are in a bind, and we was wondering of you could help us out?’
“What kind of bind are you boys in? But come on in, it is no reason to stand there in the doorway”
I waved at Mjønes behind me and he hurried up the stairs, looking at his wristwatch as he stepped inside the hallway. He looked at me and his eyes were desperate, as to telling me that I had to get this going. It was just about 9 and the game was coming on in a minute.
“Well mam. Here is the deal. My army friend Mjønes here and I happen to be big football fans and it is an important game on television now. We were wondering if by any chance we could watch the game here with you and your husband. “I had seen the husband in the chair, sitting puffing on a pipe, but carefully looking up at us at the door.
“A football game? She asks. What kind of football game Mr. Johnsen?”
“I am sure you have been watching the World Cup, and right now, the Semifinals happen to be coming on, at around one minute or so. And this being a very important game, we are just so sad if we wouldn’t be able to watch it.”
“Well, my husband and I don’t watch much football, but I am sure you boys can watch your game here with us.” She looked over at her husband that was sitting in a chair facing the TV. He looked over at us, checking us out but he didn’t object at all.
“Sure Martha, let the boys come in and watch their game”
The game comes on and we had a fantastic time watching one of the most memorable games in the history of the world cup with the wonderful old couple in their house there in the middle of nowhere in Norway. The first of the two semifinals in the 1982 World Cup is categorized by many as the best game ever played in a world cup, Or at least the most memorable. It had everything, including ups and downs, great hope, great disappointments and fantastic play. The young Litbarski opens with a great goal at the 17th minute. This time the Germans don’t stop playing but continue to play with speed and accuracy. The French team is starting to connect with their passes, and one of the greatest midfield crew ever to be assembled on a team start making things happen for the team. Giresse, Platini, Tigana Giresse and Tresor are playing with a purpose and are starting to create changes after chances. Rocheteau is taken down in the box and Platini puts the equalizer with ease from the spot behind Schumacher in the West German goal.
Then Battiston is taken down by Schumacher in what is categorized as one of the worst tackles in the history of football, and it leaves Battiston down for the count and he is carried out on a stretcher. The Tackle is shown over and over again, on the TV and even Mrs. Olsen is gasping as she has stated to watch the game with us. Schumacher , was actually a great goalie, but he will forever be remembered for the ugly hit on Battiston where he actually has knocked out a couple of the poor Frenchman’s teeth, broken a vertebrae and broken several ribs, something we find out later. We are in shock, but it’s still just a fabulous game.
At half time Mrs. Olsen whips up some meat load and the four of us are suddenly sitting around the coffee table eating and discussing the game together. We have the old couple hooked, as always, as Mjønes and I have been cheering and screaming at the television set as we are taking in the game. Second half goes scoreless, and the teams are substituting the two allowed players. Then to overtime and the great play continues. The French score with goals from Tresor and Giresse in the 92nd and 98th minutes. The Olsen’s Mjønes and I are standing cheering for the French Team and Justice has finally been made. The French has gotten their revenge for the ugly tackle on Battiston, and the game is surely won. Then, in the 102nd minute the sub Rumenigge scores and only six minutes later Fischer score and ties it up. It goes to penalty shootout. I don’t think anyone outside of West Germany is going for the Germans, and all the sympathy is for the French that has been knocked down, raised up, surpassed the Germans and find themselves tied again after a tough and crazy game. As the penalty shootout is about to start, Mr. Olsen is standing in front of his old chair. Mrs. Olsen is hugging Mjønes, but can’t watch and walks to the kitchen. She peaks around the corner because are all four scared of what can happen in a shootout.
I have to explain the rules of the shootout to Mrs. Olson in the kitchen, but I don’t think she needs the rules; all she needs to know is that the French needs to kick the ball in the net and the Germans needs to miss. We watch as it all unfolds. Giresse, Kaltz, Amoros, Breitner and Rocheteau all score. Uli Stielike shot weakly, Ettori easily saved. Stielike collapsed, curled up on the ground. Eventually, as if his body had doubled in weight, he dragged himself up and stumbled back towards his colleagues in the center, bent head in hands, weeping. Littbarski comes to meet him, and escorts him back, arm around the older man’s shoulders. But then, we don’t see it , because the cameras is on Stielike that is devastated for missing his shot-Didier Six shot softly to Schumacher’s right, for an easy save, and Littbarski evens things up at 3-3. Platini and Rumenigge scores, of course. Next up come Maxime Bossis. He strikes his penalty to Schumacher’s right, and watches as the goalkeeper dives the same way: although the shot was a half-decent one, the save was easy enough. Horst Hrubesch now lumbered up, and shot low and hard for the winning penalty. West Germany was through to the final. The Germans are in ecstasy, but the rest of the world, including Mrs. Olsen and 69 Johnsen are crying. Football is the most beautiful game in the world, but Football is and will always be unfair, and once in a while because of the result, my beloved game just sucks. Germany vs. France in 82’ is the best football match I have ever seen, Period. To this day it is, for all the obvious reasons, the match was the most memorable game in history. I don’t remember the result any more, only the excitement and the thrill of the suspense played for all us lovers of football.
Mrs. and Mr. Olsen give us a hug out on the porch as we wave farewell. They had no knowledge of the beautiful game, but I am sure they watched many games after our quick visit and the, from what we have determined was, the best football game ever to have been played. Maybe Mjønes and I brought them the love of football; we surely showed them that the game of football is universal and something that will bring people of all ages together. I never saw the Olsen couple again, and to this date I am sure that they also I tell the story of the semifinals between Germany and France that July night in 1982.
