English

Pozzo was more than the team manager — he was the player’s inspiration. He refused to mix soeeer with polities

FOOTBALLERS
DEFIED
THE DICTATOR

VITTORIO POZZO walked slowly up the marble steps of the Palazzo Venezia. He was a small, stocky, grey-haired, brown-eyed man.
Judged by his manner and appearance, he could have been many things ... a university professor, visiting diplomat, great musician or maybe even a sea captain.
Certainly he didn't look much like a man who would defy a dictator . . . make the supreme gamble with life as the stake.
Yet on this the eve of the 1934 World Cup, Vittorio Pozzo was treading a path as dangerous as any ever found on the mountain-side.
He was the manager, the coach, the major domo of the Italian team, the great hope of a Fascist regime.
Mussolini saw the team as a symbol of national supremacy, final proof of a master race.
Pozzo, strange fellow, saw it simply as a football team, nothingmore, and had no intention what-soever of becoming a pawn on the chessboard of European politics.

Today, Benito Mussolini sat on an overstuffed pink divan, a Roman emperor with the dreams of a Caesar.
“Ah, Pozzo,” he said, “Marshal Balbo will be taking the salute at the march-past on Friday. I want the Italian team to be there in the parade . . . and you too, of course.

“I want to honour them for their services to the country.”
Slowly, gently, Pozzo shook his head. “It wouldn’t be very wise,” he said.
The smile on the face of the Duce began to fade.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “I said that I very much wished them to be there.”
“Well, then,” said Pozzo, “1 would remind you that you also wish them to win the World Cup . . . and that one wish would com-promise the other.
“For success, they need rest and quiet and the chance to dedicate themselves to the struggle ahead.”
By now, Mussolini’s smile was quite gone.
“Suppose,” he said, “I com¬mand it.”
“In that case,” replied Pozzo, gentle voiced as ever, “I’ve no doubt that they would be there. But they would be needing a new manager for the World Cup. I only manage what I can control.”
Mussolini’s big palm slapped against his knee. Anger flickered in his eyes.
“All right, it’s true,” he growled, “that you have the responsibility for success. But may God help you, Senor Pozzo, if you fail.”

The icy hand of fear touched the manager. Should Italy fail, he had no illusions about his fate.
To date, only one thing had saved Pozzo. He was indispens-able. If there had been another half as good, Pozzo would have been replaced long before now.
But there wasn’t. Pozzo was not only the greatest manager in Italy, he was the greatest in all the world, an incredible man, a genius.
He was a tactical supremo, a master planner, a great reader of the minds of men.
Perhaps even more important, he had the ability to inspire.
Pozzo was nothing if not daring.
Italian football of the early thirties had three great idols . . . the classical pair of full-backs, Rosetta and Caligaris, and the equally classical centre-half, Fulvio Bernardini.
Pozzo dropped the lot.
Bernardini was left out, because Pozzo wanted a despatcher, and not a carrier.
He replaced him with Muisito Monti who had played for Argen-tina in the previous World Cup series, but was now a Juventus star.
The full-back berths were taken over by the rugged partners, Monzeglio and Allemandi.
It was explosive material. Monti was perhaps the most rug¬ged, most fiery centre- half to ever play in the World Cup. Allem¬andi had previously been banned for life and Monzeglio was no angel.
When one adds to these the names of those fiery wing-halves Ferraris IV and Bertolini, not to mention the temperamental winger Orsi, one begins to realise the size of the self-imposed problems that confronted Pozzo . . .
The reason why the feud with Mussolini was a luxury he could ill afford.
He had no illusions about the men under his command. They were a good team, maybe a great team, but they had no real claim to world supremacy.
In the final analysis, it really depended on just how much in-spiration Pozzo could breathe into this team of his.

They came through the semi-final on a wing and a prayer . . . 1—0 against Austria.
Now, ■ only the Czechs barred the road to total victory.
The stage was set for this final proof of the master race.
Fascist flags flutter¬ed against the sky . . . steel-helmeted troops lined the arena... and just before the start of the game, Mussolini made his triumphal entry.
But, alas, the Czechs wouldn’t co-operate. They came on to the field with the air of conquerors, and they played that way too.
Soon, the Italians were fighting, as though for their lives. The rugged Monti was the giant of their defence and, in goal, Combi as acrobatic as ever.
If the competition was to be won, the team would need to fight as they had never fought before.
Yet nothing, it seemed, could turn back the tide. A Czech goal just had to come.
After 70 minutes, it came. Puc, the Czech left-winger beat the unsighted Combi.

An awed silence fell over the Italian crowd. And Pozzo could almost hear the seconds racing away.
Now it was as though the players were battling for him and him alone.
Fifteen, minutes -to go . . . twelve, ten, eight. And then sud-denly Orsi, the Italian left-winger broke through the Czech defence, feinted with his left foot and hit an incredible shot with his right.
The ball swerved bewilderingly in mid-air to beat the clutching, desperate fingers of Planicka in the Czech goal.
Behind the netting, Pozzo threw his arms into the air and danced his delight.
Somehow, after that, you knew that Italy would win. They had been reprieved at the eleventh hour and they were beginning to feel immortal.
In the seventh minute of extra time, the Italian centre-forward Schiavio scored the winning goal . . . and now their supremacy was unquestioned.
As the game ended, the military bands began to play. A smiling Mussolini presented Combi with the Cup.
And the Duce’s troops formed up for the victory parade. They planned to go once around the stadium, led by the massed bands and with the Italian team march¬ing in their midst.
An officer was already asking the players to take up their positions.
They started to move towards the serried ranks, then suddenly stopped and turned away.
They were remembering the architect of their victory.
Without a word, they hoisted Vittorio Pozzo on to their should-ers and sprinted round the pitch.
Once again, the smile had gone from the face of Mussolini.
But Pozzo, up there on the shoulders of his team, knew finally that the gamble had been won.
He was king in his own domain. Not even Mussolini and all his armies could harm him now.