France 98 - Dispatch report from Bogota, Colombia

It is never a good sign when your team's goalkeeper is crowned the star of the tournament, and when Colombia's weepy No 1 Farid Mondragon was elevated to hero status after the team's first game - their 1-0 defeat against Romania - it seemed Colombians were already preparing themselves psychologically for the inevitability of a first-round exit.  Something at least had been learned from USA 94.  Their certainty that they would win the 1994 World Cup was a quaint reminder of Latin American patria, the unswerving conviction that nothing could be better, no team could be stronger than Colombia, that no result was more certain or more fitting than glorious victory for the Republic.  It was also a horrific reminder of the danger of living a cycle of impossible hopes.  As Colombia reeled from its undignified defeat, Ricardo Munoz confronted Andres Escobar in a car park outside a disco in the city of Medellin.  He congratulated the 27-year-old defender on his own goal against the US, which had sealed Colombia's sorry fate, and then fired six bullets into his chest.  Helped by a ban on the sale of alcohol in the 24 hours either side of Colombia's matches, fans in 1998 learnt to be humble and soberly realistic about their team's prospects.

But as kick-off time approached, no amount of level-headedness could prevent fans at home from whipping themselves into a feverish excitement.  For a couple of hours before the game, Bogota was brought to a standstill by massive horn-blowing, flag-waving traffic jams, before a deserted hush fell over the city, and the excitement moved indoors.  In fashionable north Bogota, offices and shopping centres erected video screens for their employees and customers, which attracted the largest crowds.  In the city centre, small-time emerald dealers and shopkeepers shut up their businesses and jostled for space outside TV shops with street urchins and heavily armed policemen.  The prospect of 90 minutes with a semi-automatic pressed in the ribs did nothing to dampen expectations and excitement on the street.

In the end, the country's radio and TV commentators could not resist a last minute burst of over-optimism.  Five minutes before kick-off, they were well into their usual pre-match ritual.  This consists largely of picking the other team apart until they are ready to be devoured by Colombia.  The opposing team is made up of ageing veterans long past it, whippersnappers with no experience, and mediocre tacticians.  Imagine the shock, then, when bang on 45 minutes this motley bunch of Romanian amateurs took the lead.  The commentators managed only their weakest rendition of their traditional long-drawn out goool and then fell silent with the rest of the country. Even their relished half time massacre of the referee was downbeat.  By the end of the game, Mondragon's saves were getting louder cheers than the team's stumbling efforts towards Romania's penalty area.  A certain acceptance was already settling in.

The final whistle was greeted, as is often the case, by a remarkable switch in the opinions of the commentators.  Colombia had put up a sterling fight, faced as they had been by a team of ruthlessly trained European football machines who were well on their way to the final.  Back in Bogota, subdued and tearful crowds made their way home.  Among those with their cheeks streaked in mascara was the reigning Miss Bogota, Karen Guaqueta.  "I just adore Tino," she told reporters through her tears.  "It was very wrong of Dario Gomez to take him off with only five minutes to go."

Romania celebrate near Colombia's Freddy Rincon 

The next day, Miss Bogota proved she either had a hotline to Faustino Asprilla or could read his mind.  "I was victimized when I was substituted and there is favoritism within the squad," Tino the Octopus (as he is known, for his flailing gait) told a Colombian radio reporter on a shopping trip to Paris.  Asprilla and his coach have had their fair share of fall-outs, and in the interests of team unity, Gomez sent the former Newcaslte United striker packing.  Back home, the press launched an offensive, and Gomez came out fighting.  "I'm leaving at the end of the tournament, and if you've got a replacement lined up, send him right now," he blustered.

With arguably their biggest star out of the team and divided loyalties within the squad, it was no surprise that Colombia were not exactly at their best against Tunisia.  By now other old-timers were under attack at home.  Even the saint-like figure of Carlos Valderrama came in for some gentle rebuffs.  The team's insipid 1-0 victory over Tunisia was good enough reason for a brief burst of wild celebration among Colombia's goal-starved followers at home.  Some face had been saved, and there was always the possibility that they might just beat England.

If the team was respectfully wary of the encounter, Colombian fans were by all accounts terrified by "los ooliganes."  My efforts to point out that not every English fan in the stadium was a mindless thug were greeted with great amusement.  "Aha, now the boot's on the other foot," they laughed.  "It's not nice to be branded a nation of violent brutes.  And, of course, we are all drug traffickers too."  They have a point.

When Mondragon shouldered away Paul Scholes' shot in only the second minute, my adversaries in front of the telly crossed themselves frantically.  There was an anguished howl when Anderton hammered home England's first after 20 minutes, and another which seemed to echo round Bogota, nine minutes later, when the Colombian wall flinched, allowing Beckham's curling free kick to fly past Mondragon's outstretched hand.  From then on, the scene was set - Valderrama and his flaccid crew were on their way home.  But Colombian fans still found one last reason to celebrate the acrobatics of their keeper.  Farid Mondragon did indeed prevent an English romp, and when the final whistle blew he collapsed in the goalmouth and wept.  Back home, millions shed tears with him and warmed to the sight of first Michael Owen and then David Seaman trying to comfort their new hero.

David Beckham's free kick seals victory for England

The papers the next day paid homage to the valiant Mondragon and bade a series of farewells, not only to France 98, but to a ten-year era in Colombian football, and to the team built by the ebullient Francisco Maturana.  Invited to give an international lecture, Maturana once promised to show his audience a video which contained all the secrets of great football.  After playing 20 minutes of a classical concert, the former national coach got up and walked off, pausing only briefly to declare: "Gentlemen, football is a feeling, and those who don't live with the same intensity of passion as you see in those musicians will never make it."

Francisco Maturana

The World Cup was always obliged to share centre-stage with politics in Colombia, where presidential elections fall at the end of June.  Comparison between the fate of the football team and the state of the nation were inevitable, and this time around they are particularly apt.  Colombia is in a mess, with an escalating civil war and crumbling economy.  The country's new president Andres Pastrana was elected on his "back to the drawing board" reform proposals to put the country on the rails, and the press is convinced their football team needs the same treatment.  Pastrana promises to end political corruption, and here too football commentators see a parallel.  Gone are the days when drug barons picked Colombian teams in return for their sizable patronage, but many still complain that the national team's legitimate sponsors, not the coaching staff, run the show.  Fans and critics alike echo Tino and Miss Bogota's observations that old allegiances have led to favoritism in the squad, and all seem to agree that new blood on the pitch and a foreign coach is the only way to clean up and revitalize the Colombian game in preparation for 2002.

(Extracts from Changing of the Guard by  Jeremy Lennard, in the book Back Home: How the world watched France 98)