Call it an awakening. The moment sport finally pierced the consciousness of a young mind.
Before, there had only been a haze. A montage of childhood moments. Nothing concrete, merely fleeting, illusive memories.
Now there was an explosion. Of colour. Of noise. Of the senses.
The World Cup in 1986 was where it began. When sport still held mystery, when even the mention of a player’s name evoked wonder.
The tournament began at the end of May that year in Mexico, running throughout June, and thus taking place when the schools were still open.
The names were there, too. Those magical names. Maradona, Platini, Zico, Socrates. Exotic. Exciting. Enduring.
Time stands still as Mexican midfielder Negrete unleashes his spectacular scissor-kick effort
Children danced around the playground, ball at their feet, boasting how they were an Argentine superstar, or even a Scottish centre-forward.
They barely knew them, had probably only heard their fathers talking about them, but it did not matter.
Yet, school days meant school nights, too, and live matches beamed from Central America were too often cut short by the demands of mothers anxious to retain some semblance of routine. It somehow added to the allure of the tournament, every stolen minute a gift, every second stalled and scolding look worth it to grab another glimpse of what unfolded.
For Scotland, after Gordon Strachan’s moment in the sun, it was to be a tournament of frustration, with another unnecessary exit after failing to see off ten-man Uruguay in their last group game for a place in the knockout stages.
Yet, that did not spell an end to the affair.
Maradona was yet to face England, the World Cup was not yet his, and the home nation was still beating the drum. Mexico had progressed impressively through their group, taking the scalp of a strong Belgium side in the process.
Now they faced Bulgaria in the Estadio Azteca in front of 114,580 supporters for a place in the last eight.
It took 34 minutes for it to happen.
An incredible 114,580 supporters watch as the ball sails into the net to put Mexico in front
Manuel Negrete was not a name on any schoolkid’s lips that Sunday night. By Monday morning, ‘Negrete!’ was being shouted up and down the country, in every playground and every park.
It was a remarkable thing, the scissor-kick he produced to send the watching world into raptures.
The stadium exploded, living rooms were awestruck, life was changed. The replays had to be seen for it to be believed. And for it to be recreated.
Indeed, a summer was spent trying to replicate such a wondrous goal. A passion was born. A light had been sparked.
For Negrete himself, it would be a career-defining moment.
The 27-year-old midfielder would play his final World Cup match in the quarter-final defeat to eventual finalists West Germany six days later.
After a goalless draw, he alone would net from the spot for his country as they exited on penalties to a German side containing the likes of Matthaus, Brehme and Rummenigge.
Negrete would soon depart for Europe, having brief spells in Portugal and Spain, for Sporting Lisbon and Sporting de Gijon, respectively, before returning home to see out his career. He retired in 1996 but his goal and his legacy has lived on.
Indeed, only seven years ago, it was voted as the ‘Best World Cup Goal Ever’ in a FIFA poll, held in a higher regard than those from Maradona, Pele and even Archie Gemmill.
For some, one moment of brilliance would not be enough to afford someone ‘hero’ status. However, sport has always been about the seminal. Every achievement is, after all, fleeting.
What Negrete did lifted the veil on a magical world. Where heroes dared and dreams came true. And yet, the curtain was to fall all too soon afterwards.
After Negrete, it was a flood. Moment after moment, sensation after sensation.
Negrete is hailed by his team-mates after his moment of magic in the Estadio Azteca
Hand in hand with a father and brother both similarly addicted, there was much to explore.
And we were not yet finished with Mexico ‘86. We watched Brazil take on France in the quarter-final, split down the middle on who to support.
Both enigmatic, brilliant sides and the first pangs of sporting anguish were felt when the French prevailed.
Those feelings were replicated when, a year later, Ivan Lendl would lose his second, and last, Wimbledon final, this time to Pat Cash. There was no explanation as to why the steely Czech was favoured. No reason as to why his failure should sting. But his loss resonated, his defeat mattered. Sport had taken hold.
In 1988, a sporting Disneyland opened in the shape of the Seoul Olympics. Never before had such delights been devoured.
Flo-Jo took centre stage on the athletics track, a truly remarkable sight. There was the Ben Johnson scandal and a lesson that all was not necessarily as it seemed in this world.
But then there was diving and Greg Louganis, hockey and Sean Kerly, swimming and Adrian Moorhouse. Drama and glory, history being written.
And, in the school playgrounds, the names kept coming, the successors to Negrete making their presence felt.
In ‘88, it was Van Basten, or Gullit, or Koeman, as the dazzling Dutch took centre stage at the European Championship.
And then, in 1989, it was ‘Super Mo’ as Maurice Johnston grabbed two goals against France at Hampden to help send Scotland towards Italia ‘90.
And then it wasn’t, at least for half the kids in Glasgow, after the former Celtic striker’s controversial transfer from Nantes to Rangers later that year.
Diego Maradona, pictured with Belgium’s Enzo Scifo was the sport’s biggest name in 1986
Unexpected highs would continue to come from unexpected sources, though.
Blessed with a father who would listen to a Test match on the radio while lying in bed in the early hours of the morning, cricket slowly crept on to the sporting rota.
Eddie Hemmings, stocky and in his late 30s, hitting four runs from the last ball to win the Benson and Hedges Cup Final for Nottinghamshire against Essex is a memory that, strangely, continues to linger.
Football and Italia ‘90 was the zenith, however. The excitement had been building, helped, of course, by Scotland’s involvement, for months beforehand.
Sticker collections were jealously guarded, stars from foreign climes still strangers in a time before saturation and TV removed some of the sparkle and mystery were talked about excitedly.
Vialli, Mancini, Baresi. Pavarotti? Does he play up front? No, he’s doing the song…
Of course, it would be Schillaci and Milla who would fulfil the role of Negrete that year, their goals, their celebrations, turning the tournament into a truly iconic affair.
It’s not always the winners who become the legends, of course.
Alas, the nadir must accompany the zenith. And the curtain was soon to fall. In 1991, Aberdeen would travel to Ibrox on the final day of the season, needing only to avoid defeat to Rangers to win the Scottish Premier Division title.
Negrete pictured in Mexico in 2019 on promotional duty for the 2022 World Cup in Qatar
It was May. In the February, I had lost my father to a heart attack.
A passionate Aberdeen supporter, he was not alive to see the Dons close the gap at the top after Graeme Souness had departed to Liverpool in April. He would not see Aberdeen travel to Glasgow that day on the cusp of something remarkable.
I remember someone saying to me that perhaps divine intervention would come from the heavens and grace the Dons. It was not be.
Mark Hateley emerged as the sporting hero that day. His was the name the kids would be shouting in the playground.
There was no injustice. Just a heavy dose of realism. And an acceptance that there is the world we want, and the world that is.
Now, I look back on the days of my sporting heroes with fondness. And, while a passion and love for sport remains, there is no little nostalgia for the days when Negrete lit up the world.
