Twilight of the Gods

It was billed as "The Match' of the Half-Century." Hungary's soccer squad, Olympic champions, came to England with a record of 25 international games without a defeat. The British, celebrating the goth anniversary of a game they had exported all over the world, also had quite a record: no invading team had ever won an international match on English soil.

The Hungarian squad, dark, lithe and husky, was cordially received. Escorted by a couple of stocky "assistant trainers" who were unmistakably Iron Curtain cops and by Hungary's Vice Minister for Sport Gustav Sebec. the players were taken to a West End show for their first night in London. The object, said Vice Minister Sebec. was "to improve our English." He chose a revue called Pardon My French, advertised as "A Bust and Belly Epic . . . Girls with Sequins and Girls Without." ' Planned Initiative. Next day the Hungarians formally and proudly introduced their stars: shock-haired Joseph Bozsik, 28, the squad's right halfback, who is a member of the Hungarian Parliament, and Captain Ferenc Puskas. 26, the inside right, who announced briefly and grimly: "We will win." English-language handouts explained that in Hungary "the pre-1945 sporting era of private enterprise and uncertainty of the morrow has given way to an era of planned initiative ensured by the people's democratic state."

But planned initiative did not convince even London's Daily Worker. Predicted the Worker: "England to win--but it should be close." "England can beat Hungary inside ten minutes." prophesied the Daily Express with deeper assurance. Crowed the Sunday Express: "[The British team will] rock those magical Magyars back on their heels right from the opening whistle."

No Alibis. Within one minute of the opening whistle, a shocked crowd of 100,000 Britons in Wembley Stadium were reading the handwriting on the wall. A combined move by Member of Parliament Bozsik, his left half and his center forward brought the center 20 yards from the English goal with the ball at his feet. He faked a left-footed kick, then drove the ball home with a hard-rising shot from his right boot. England's Goalie Gil Merrick dived like a swallow to block it, but it shot past him. By half time, Hungary led 4-2, and the Britons, who ordinarily muddle around midfield but can be counted on for hard kicking at the goal mouth, had obviously met their match.

Fog closed in during the second half, and the huddled crowd had difficulty following the white ball--but not the score. They sat silent--as if at a national funeral. The magical Magyars won, 6-3, and at the very end, the stands rose as one in thunderous, generous applause for the Hungarians. The British press made no alibis. The Times wrote: "The Hungarians shot with the accuracy of archers. It was Agincourt in reverse." The tabloid Daily Mirror and the good grey Times both had the same thought: "It was the twilight of the Gods." With wry humor the Express also noted a consolation: "England came back victoriously last night. Her pingpong players beat a Hungarian team 5-4."

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