Switzerland: The Miracle of Bern
The Hungary squad of 1954 is one of the great might-have-beens of football history — a team so technically advanced they were operating a decade ahead of the tactical norm. Nándor Hidegkuti played as a deep-lying centre-forward before the position had been theorised; Sándor Kocsis and Zoltán Czibor provided goals from the flanks; and Ferenc Puskás, the Galloping Major, was the best player in the world. Hungary arrived in Switzerland having beaten England 6-3 at Wembley — the first ever home defeat for England against non-British opposition — and then 7-1 in Budapest. They were invincible, or seemed to be.
West Germany were beaten 8-3 by Hungary in the group stage. Sepp Herberger, the German coach, fielded a shadow team — deliberately, conservatively, preserving his best players for the knockout rounds. The strategy required enormous nerve: to lose by five goals in a World Cup group match and trust that the tournament would provide the opportunity for revenge. It did. The quarter-finals brought Austria; the semi-finals brought a depleted Austria side West Germany dismantled 6-1; the final brought Hungary back.
Puskás opened the scoring in the sixth minute. Czibor added a second. 2-0 to Hungary, the best team in the world, against a West German side that had lost to them by five goals three weeks earlier. Then something turned. Morlock and Rahn scored before half-time; Rahn scored a third with seven minutes remaining. Hungary pushed for the equaliser in the wet Wankdorf Stadium, the rain falling in a way that suited Germany's physical approach. A Puskás goal was disallowed for offside. The final whistle sounded and West Germany had won 3-2.
The political resonance of West Germany's victory — a nation still under Allied occupation, its democratic institutions barely six years old, standing on a football pitch with the world's trophy — cannot be disentangled from the sporting achievement. The Miracle of Bern became, for a generation of West Germans, the moment the republic found its footing. Fritz Walter lifted the Jules Rimet Trophy in the rain, and the crowd — Swiss, neutral, bewildered — applauded something it could not quite name.