Starostin Recounts the Re-play

Nikolai Starostin, Football through the Years (1989)

Nikolai Starostin watched the replay from a low bench behind his own goal, tearing grass by the handful. Decades later, he remembered each pass. He also remembered a winter afternoon on the Patriarch's Ponds when Beria, leaning in close, recalled a forgotten match in Tiflis — and let him know he had not forgotten.

Original Source: Nikolai Starostin, Futbol skvoz' gody, (Moscow, Sovetskaia Rossiia, 1989), 41-57.

The game began with feverish attacks by the Tbilisi side, who understood that Spartak's reshuffled defense couldn't be given time to settle. The calculation was right, but standing in the Muscovites' goal was Akimov. He parried the hail of shots with his customary ease and confidence.

The storm continued. And then Paichadze struck for the right upper corner. Such balls aren't saved, unless by some miracle the keeper happens to be drawn into that very corner. Anatolii was there. The visitors had reason to be shaken. Every army's strength lies in its rear — and here was this devil in the Spartak goal…

The atmosphere grew tense. The stands, nine-tenths packed with Muscovites, were behind their own. I was sitting on a low bench behind our goal next to Zhmel'kov. Vladislav looked over sympathetically as I, nerves on edge, tore the grass out from under the bench in whole fistfuls.

Things were boiling in the souls of those out on the pitch as well. The Spartakovtsy had come out to defend their right to the Cup. The Tbilisi men had come to fight for justice; formalities and behind-the-scenes maneuvering held little interest for them. They were soldiers; their task was to give everything, to stand to the last for their home club. That's why there were no poor players on the pitch — all twenty-two were doing more than anyone had expected of them.

I don't believe in tactical subtleties worked out in advance. But there's some basic counsel you can and should give a player. There's little point in teaching a footballer what he ought to do on the field. More practical is to advise him what to avoid.

We knew that the left-half Chelidze often broke forward, and we'd told our inside-right Georgii Glazkov not to chase him, as was then customary, but to stay up on the front line of the attack: the Georgian half-back couldn't threaten the opposite goal to the same degree as Glazkov, the Spartak striker with his magnificent shot.

Tactical hints are something of a lottery. But this time the ticket paid out. In the course of one of the Tbilisi attacks, Zhorzh, staying back at the center of the field, received the ball. For an instant the road to goal opened up; the rest was a matter of composure and technique. With the chase right on his heels, he struck the moment he entered the penalty area, and the ball, like a great pike, thrashed into the net by the far post.

Instead of pausing to work out why this had happened, the southerners — with that impatience characteristic of them — hurled themselves straight into trying to equalize. Again the defenders and Zhmel'kov were put through a stern examination. And again they answered superbly, every paper they were handed in football's curriculum. A pass to Glazkov, and there he was again, racing down the familiar lane toward Dorokhov's goal, and striking faultlessly.

I stop tearing at the grass. Surely, I think, there isn't a team in this country right now capable of beating Spartak after going down 0–2. And as it turned out, I was very nearly wrong. The Tbilisi coach Mikhail Pavlovich Butusov appeared behind his goal and shouted something loud and pointed to Chelidze, jabbing a finger toward Zhorzh. I understood: our bet on Glazkov would, from here on, be off the table. As one would expect, the Georgians went va banque — and finally collected their own winnings in this game of chance. The ball flew into our goal after two Spartak defenders, in their agitation, both went for it and got in each other's way. A delicate pass followed instantly, and after a strike from Boris Paichadze the ball was in the net.

By the break, the score was 2–1, which meant the deck was being reshuffled.

What to do? Bolt the door, try to hold the slim lead? No — we decide to storm. Everyone in the dressing room agrees: veteran old hands, coaches, and, crucially, the players themselves. We have no doubt the Tbilisi side will throw themselves forward too.

We adjust our tactics a little: we decide to attack on the wings; they're fresher, and the opponent will be expecting more through the middle.

The squeeze comes from both ends at once. But the hot-blooded visitors play with more risk and seize the midfield.

At first glance this is good for us, but the danger hidden in it is that they'll slip past our exposed lines. V. Stepanov sees it. Putting everything into his strike, hard and precise, he sends the ball to our left winger, Pavel Kornilov. Now everything will be decided by pace, and in pace the splendidly built Kornilov has no rivals. My heart stops as I watch him win the first sprint past Shavgulidze and, knocking the ball infield, race against Gagua. There — the second defender is behind him too. Before Kornilov, only the goalkeeper. I see Dorokhov rushing out at him, but Pavel rounds the southerners' last line of defense. With no other option, Dorokhov dives flat and grabs the Spartakovets by the leg, bringing him down.

The whistle. Usov points to the penalty spot. Kornilov is still on the ground — putting on, just in case, a final demonstration that the supreme penalty is just.

To the ball walks the same Glazkov — at the time, our unmatched penalty-taker. I can hear Butusov shouting to Dorokhov:

— Glazkov hits to the right side!

Georgii takes his run-up but at the moment of contact scuffs his foot in the turf, and the astonished stadium sees Dorokhov flying full-stretch into the right corner, a divot of sod flying into the left, and the ball calmly rolling into the net straight through the middle. That's it.

I shift my gaze from the scoreboard to the central tribune. Beria gets up, hurls his chair down in fury, walks out of the box, and leaves the stadium.

And the Dinamo men go back to working our nerves. Their energy is inexhaustible. If only these accursed crawling minutes would go faster! Butusov, I imagine, feels that time is racing.

The Tbilisi side attack desperately; their whole team is in the Spartak half. But ours is all there too.

The last quarter of an hour. Everything has collapsed into a single scrum. Tactics are forgotten; at moments, so is technique. On one side, a pile-on; on the other, scrambling clearances. The forward Stepanov is fighting just behind our center-half Malinin, right by our own goal. The Dinamo backs are attacking ahead of their own forwards.

Usually such a muddle yields nothing. But in this historic match, fate herself wanted to be evenhanded and just. For Dorokhov's mistake at the penalty, she repaid us with a mistake from one of our own. The unfortunate fellow carelessly stopped the ball inside the six-yard box, and in an instant he was bundled into the goal along with the ball. The scorer was Berezhnoi. On top of which Akimov is injured and carried from the field.

3–2 — and a few minutes to the final whistle. To me it seems — ah, plenty; to Butusov, oh, too few. He was right — it turned out to be too few. First, because our opponents were just as exhausted as we were, and in football's time-trouble it's always easier to defend than to declare check on the king. Second, the Georgian footballers had been worn down by the psychological blows. It's no easy thing to be constantly clawing back, and from two goals down at that.

But finally Usov gives the closing whistle. Spartak emerges, for the second time, into the final it had already won.

Nearly thirty years have passed since that improper showdown, but its details remain fresh and vivid in my memory. And if, before it, we used to say of a worthy footballer: "He played against the Basques" — then now the highest praise became: "He took part in the replay against Tbilisi."

What would have been if Spartak had lost — that we'll never know.