USA 1 ENGLAND 0 AND IT WAS SIXTY YEARS AGO

It was almost exactly 60 years ago when the US and England last met in a World Cup match, and the result, a 1-0 win for the Americans, remains one of the great upsets in football history. Yet for years, it was merely a bit of trivia, dismissed as a meaningless aberration. The match was played 29 June 1950, in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, before a crowd of only 10,151. And it went virtually unnoticed in both countries.

In England it was overshadowed by the fact that no one really considered the World Cup very important; England were the kings of world soccer and no match against Johnny Foreigner was going to change that self-delusion; this was the first time they had deigned to participate in what previously they had considered a sort of losers' repechage. When the score came over the wires, English papers assumed 1-0 was a misprint, and that England must have won 10-0, or 10-1. It also happened to be the same day the West Indies, for the first time, beat England in a cricket test match in England, which was in 1950 both a far more important story to the press and far more immediate news.

England had qualified for the World Cup by winning the home internationals. Scotland also qualified under the Euro-friendly system of that time, or any time, but they decided it was too expensive to travel to Brazil, and France, offered their spot, also declined the invitation. The US qualified only because the travel problem had seen FIFA award a second spot to North America; the Americans squeaked past Cuba to join perennial group-winners Mexico.

In America, of course, soccer was not a big deal. The team was made up mostly of guys who might flatteringly be called semi-pros, and the only reporter covering the game, the euphoniously-titled Dent McSkimming of the St Louis Post-Dispatch, had been forced to take his vacation to do so.

The English often claim their team was under-strength, though if that were true, it was only because they believed the Yanks were no challenge, which would have been understandable. The fact is they chose the same squad that had already beaten Chile 2-0, preferring to leave Stanley Matthews in the stands (there were no substitutes in those days) watching. Indeed, Matthews had joined a separate England team in New York, a team led by Nat Lofthouse that had toured Canada, and they beat the US by only 1-0 in the Americans' second and last warm-up (in the first they had lost 5-0 in St Louis to the Turkish side Beksitas).

This was the English team: G: Bert Williams (Wolves) RFB: Alf Ramsey (Spurs) LFB: John Ashton (Man U) RHB: Billy Wright (Wolves, capt), CHB: Laurie Hughes (Liverpool), LHB: Jimmy Dickinson (Portsmouth) IL:: Wilf Mannion (Middlesboro), OR: Tom Finney (Preston North End), OL: Jimmy Mullen (Wolves) , IR: Stan Mortensen (Blackpool), CF: Roy Bentley (Chelsea). Hardly a team of spares. The manager was Walter Winterbottom, and there is some conflict over whether he, or the selection committee (which consisted of Walter Drewry and no one else) picked the starting XI. Most likely Drewry indicated his preference for keeping the winning side intact, and Winterbottom didn't argue.

The US team was G: Frank Longhi (Simkins Ford) FB: Harry Keough (McMahon Pontiac) FB: Joe Maca (Brooklyn Hispano) LHB: Walter Bahr (Philadelphia Nationals) CHB: Ed McIlvenny (Phil. Nationals) RHB: Charlie Columbo (Simkins) OL:Frank 'Pee Wee' Wallace (Simkins) IL: Gino Pariani (Simkins) CF: Joe Gaetjens (Brookhatten), IR: John Souza (Fall River Ponta Delgado) OR: Ed Souza (Ponta Delgado). Their manager was William Jeffrey, a Scot who had emigrated to the US and was the coach at Penn State. His big tactical move was to switch Wallace and Pariani, who usually played on the right, to the left side, which nearly paid off in a second-half goal. The three non-Americans, McIlvenny, Maca, and Gaetjens were all residents who indicated they would become US citizens, which qualified them under the rules of the day.

Simkins Ford and McMahon Pontiac were sponsored by local car dealers in the St. Louis Major League. In 1950 Simkins were the US Open Cup champions. The Simkins players had all grown up in what is now called 'The Hill' section of St. Louis, but was then known as 'Dago Hill', the same Italian neighbourhood that produced Yogi Berra and Joe Garagiola. Wallace was born Frank Valicenti; he and Pariani lived on the same street, with Borghi just around the corner. Longhi's family ran a funeral parlour, which is where the 'hearse driver' often mentioned playing for the US comes from.

Philadelphia Nationals, Brooklyn Hispano, and Brookhatten were teams in the American Soccer League, generally considered the strongest in the country, but not as powerful as its original version had been in the 1920s. Maca had played third division soccer in Belgium; McIlvenny was a Scot who had played for the Welsh club Wrexham in the English league. Gaetjens was a Haitian who won a scholarship to Columbia University; he washed dishes to earn extra money, which is where the 'dishwasher' part of the story comes from.

Bahr, considered the US's best player, was supposedly told after the New York game against the English XI that he was up to first division standard. He was normally the team's captain, but on the day Jeffrey made his fellow Scot McIlvanny captain, hoping he'd be able to pass on his passion for beating the auld enemy. When Disney made a film, The Game Of Their Lives (2005, later called The Miracle Match) about the match, they handed the captaincy back to Bahr. In a more serious twisting of the facts, they also portrayed the English team as sneering toffs, which would probably have amused Williams, Mullen, Finney et al. Interestingly, in the film, McIlvanny was played by the former USA star John Harkes, whose skills resembled Bahr's, and who was the first American to play in the English Premier League.

The two Souzas were not related, but there was a large Portugese community in Fall River, Massachusetts. Fall River Ponta Delgado played in the National Soccer League of New England, and won the US Amateur Cup six times between 1946 and 1953, including 1950. That year they were also runners-up in the National Challenge Cup. In 1951 they would join the ASL.

England came out dominating, getting six shots on goal in the first 12 minutes; one hit the woodwork and Borghi made two fine saves on the others. Then, as now, the US could produce good keepers. Borghi's first love had been baseball, and he had even played two seasons of minor league professional ball. He was tall, with huge hands, and could throw the ball far downfield. Which was good, because he couldn't kick it; he never took goal kicks.

Longhi had made another fine save, off a Finney header, just before the US got their goal in the 37th minute, on a long shot by Bahr that Gaetjens deflected past Williams with his head. It was their second shot on goal. The local crowd, aware of England's position as the 'Kings Of Football' exploded in joy. The Americans nearly made it 2-0 early in the second half when Pariani sent Wallace free, but Williams was forced into making a superb save. Five minutes later, Borghi stopped a free kick from Mortensen, and from then on the play was all in one direction. In the 82nd minute Columbo brought down Mortensen with a diving gridiron tackle, and with the English players looking for a penalty, the Italian referee awarded a free kick just outside the box. Off the kick, Jimmy Mullen headed a ball that Borghi, diving, reached behind to tip over the bar. Mullen was already celebrating, and had Borghi not been a yard off his line, the ball would have been a goal. The match ended 1-0, and the Brazilian fans carried the Americans off on their shoulders.

Neither team advanced to the next round. England lost their final match 1-0 to Spain, who went through. In their opening match the US had actually led the Spanish 1-0 after 80 minutes before wearing out and losing 3-1. It was even worse in their final match against Chile. Down 2-0 at the half, they fought back to tie the match 2-2 with two goals in the first three minutes of the second half, before the halftime rest wore off, the Recife heat got to them and they lost 5-2. Remember, these were guys who played on weekends during their season, worked full-time jobs, and trained when they could.

The match prompted no boom in US soccer; in fact it would be another 40 years before the US qualified again, although they have now played in six tournaments in a row, and in 2006 even qualified ahead of Mexico in their group (which didn't stop FIFA from seeding them in the bottom tier, with Mexico in the top, which put the US into a 'group of death'; not that greater attraction of the tournament on Televisa had anything to do with that). John Souza, whom most sources credit with the second, penalty goal against Chile, was selected to the tournament all-star team by Mundo Esportivo; no American would be similarly honoured until Claudio Reyna in 2002.

Bahr would go on to coach at Penn State, and father two sons, Chris and Matt, who played pro soccer (Chris was NASL rookie of the year in 1975). Both also had long careers in the NFL, and kicked American footballs in Super Bowls. Keough wound up the coach at St Louis University; his son Ty played professionally and for the USA.

Of the three non-Americans on the team, only Maca became a citizen and he too had a son who played pro in the NASL. The other two benefitted briefly from the US success. McIlvanny was signed by Manchester United, and Gaetjens by Racing Club Paris; neither returned to the US. McIlvanny made no impact at Man U, and went on to play for Waterford in Ireland. Gaetjens injured his knee at Racing Club, moved to lower division play at Olympique Ales, and played once for Haiti in 1953.He retired in 1954, returned to Haiti and went into business, sponsoring and coaching youth teams as well.

The Gaetjens were a prominent family, dating back to Joe's German grandfather. In a moment of stereotyping fiction, the Disney film decided to show Gaetjens practicing voodoo, shades of Pedro Cerrano in Major League; in fact, he didn't. Gaetjens' family supported the opposition to Papa Doc Duvalier; when Duvalier was elected in 1964, they began to flee the country. They begged Joe to leave, or at least accept the US citizenship he's been offered in 1950. As an American citizen, he'd be safe from Duvalier's miltia, the Ton Ton Macoute. Joe refused: he wasn't political, he was popular, his friends included the chief of police.

But on 8 July 1964, just one day after Duvalier declared himself president for life, the Ton Ton Macoute came for Joe, and he was taken to the notorious Fort Dimanche. For weeks the family tried to work through lawyers, to bribe officicals, to appeal to his friends, including the chief of police. Nothing worked.  One morning they went to Fort Dimanche expecting to finally see Joe. Instead they were told he was dead. Some say Papa Doc killed him personally.

England wore blue away jerseys for the match in 1950; legend says they were never worn again but in fact they were, in 1959, and then retired permanently after a loss to Peru. They will be wearing white tonight, though the Americans will again have a Haitian-born player in their lineup. Perhaps voodoo can work again. But this time around, many of the Yanks have played in the same Premier League as their opponents, if anything they know them too well. And it's unlikely Fabio Capello will keep Wayne Rooney watching in the stands. But even though it might still be considered an upset, an American win would be nothing like the shocker it was, or perhaps should have been, in 1950.

BORN IN THE USA, JUST BECOME BRIT: MY WORLD CUP DILEMMA

I was born an American. I call football soccer. Every time I get told, condescendingly, about 'the sport you call soccer' I am mighty tired of saying, 'no it's the sport YOU call soccer.' I want to whip out my copy of the BBC Soccer Annual, edited by my ex-boss Peter Dimmock and say, 'do you think the BBC is American?' The same people who called rugby 'rugger' and Brian Johnson 'Johnners' called Association Football 'soccer' and thought they were being very clever. Because logically, it should have been 'Asser' which would have been a hell of a lot more appropriate. Then again, if Mean Joe Greene had been English, his nickname would have been Greeners.

The 'soccer' bludgeon has nothing to do with reality, and lots to do with class and inverse snobbery. In the wake of Nick Hornsby's football nostalgia boom, which followed by a few years the similar one for baseball in America (the one during which fantasy sport was invented), there arose a sort of universal dream world, when all these middle class boys who grew up in the 1950s and 1960s calling football soccer reinvented themselves as 'classless' cool Brittania. Using that middle-class terminology, which implied that soccer was somehow less legitimate than rugger or cricket, became declasse in the extreme. It was also a way, in the face of a football Premier League adapting NFL-style formats (all-seater stadia, squad numbers, Monday Night Football et al.) that had made televised gridiron so popular in Britain during soccer's Heysel and Hillsborough dog days, of reclaiming soccer's own intrinsic entertainment value.

Even understanding this, I want to ask why I never hear Brits talk condescendingly to Australians about 'the sport you call soccer', even though their national team is actually called 'The Socceroos' and has never outperformed the US. And I'm still waiting for the first English reporter to ask Fabio Capello about 'the sport you Italians call 'kick'.

For 33 years I have lived in England and suffered the assaults of soccer zombies and their 'beautiful game'. When I arrived in Britain in 1977 no one called soccer 'the beautiful game'. It was the ugly game you took your life into your hands to watch in person. Some 2,000 fans have died watching soccer matches since 1946, which says something about the sophistication of its fan base.

Soccer zombies may claim it as the world's favourite sport, but there are huge swaths of the planet where it is not, including the world's three largest countries and the majority of the former British Empire. In 1994, I was producing the host coverage of the World Cup from Chicago. A radio 5 reporter interviewed me, and asked how the groundskeeper could cut the grass in circles on the pitch at Soldier Field. 'It's easy,' I said, 'first he cuts clockwise, then he cuts counter (or anti) clockwise'. 'But won't the players get dizzy?' he asked. 'Only the ones more than thirty feet tall,' I replied. 'But isn't this just symptomatic of giving the World Cup to the one country in the world where football isn't the number one sport?' 'Son,' I said, even though he was probably my age, 'have you never been to Ireland?' He looked puzzled and I went on to list the countries where football wasn't the favourite sport. Then I stopped. 'This won't make air, will it?'

Say football in Dublin and you will be assumed to mean Gaelic. In Australia, Aussie Rules. In New Zealand, rugby. In Canada, American (or Canadian) football. In such tiny and insignificant countries as India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka cricket dominates totally. In Japan it is sumo or baseball. Soccer is not the number one sport in Venezuela, Cuba, Indonesia, Israel, Phillipines, Lithuania, Taiwan, or the Dominican Republic. Even in Greece basketball makes a strong case. China is still up for grabs, but basketball is probably number two behind ping pong. And there are any number of countries in the near and far east where football makes no impact at all. So shut up about the 'sport you Yanks call soccer', OK?

If these arguments sound well-rehearsed, it's because they damn-well are; I've been practising them for years in pubs and on TV. But now, I've got the chance to change my tune.

Last week I became a British citizen. Bad timing, for sure. Only ten days after I sang 'God Save The Queen' at the end of my naturalisation ceremony, I have to decide how to define myself when the USA and England go head to head in the 2010 World Cup finals. For the first time, according to my fellow dads in my son's schoolyard, I have to choose sides.

Who will I support? It's odd to even ask such a question after enduring a British election campaign in which all parties rushed to demonise immigrants like me. I could start with Norman Tebbit's 'cricket test' of Britishness—if one supported the West Indies, for example, against England at cricket, one couldn't be British. But of course the illogic of being 'British' depending on supporting England has been better defined by the BNP leader Nick Griffin, who noted the difference between the 'indigenous' peoples of Britain, and immigrant outsiders like me. According to the BNP, I couldn't support England even if I wanted to. They'd prefer I take the easy way out, like a Scot, and root for Anybody But England. And that's only because the Picts don't get their own soccer 'nation'.

The reality is that, absent birth's blind loyalty, for the past 33 years, I have enjoyed the privilege of shifting allegiance the way American 'franchises' switch cities. I can pick and choose the national side I feel more comfortable with. In rugby I support England only against those countries, namely Wales and New Zealand, to whom the contest appears to mean too much, be linked too overwhelmingly to their national sense of self, to allow no bounds beyond which they cannot go in order to win. Those countries and Australia, whom I find almost impossible to support in any circumstances, since the above criterion appears to apply to them in ALL sports! Thus in football, I have supported England against Argentina, Germany, Italy, and so on. I faced a real dilemma in the old England-Scotland Home International match at Wembley, when Scottish supporters laid siege to the entire city of London, killed themselves celebrating by diving into empty fountains, and generally terrorised me into realising the game meant far too much to them. Despite America's fondness for the Braveheart image of Scotland, reality turns out to be far more like Mel Gibson's drunken rants to California highway patrolmen than his stirring speeches as William Wallace.

Obviously, my identity as a Yank isn't caught up in beating England at football the way a Scot's Scottishness is. And as an expat I hope I am not caught up in the narrowness of the stereotypically (but not totally unjustifiable) American world-view, nor the assumption of America as the best in the world at everything, including, and sometimes especially, war. I say this out of self-interest, because if England win I will have to bear for the foreseeable future the gloating of every English supporter I know, and a great many I don't know from Adam Ant. But seriously, assuming I can assume the mantle, can England actually offer anything positive to draw me in? Apart, of course, from being the only one of the home nations actually in South Africa.

Like most of my countrymen, but unlike the middle-aged guys in suits who run FIFA, I seem immune to the dubious charms of David Beckham (or his cobra-faced missus). I do love following the progress of John Terry through his teammates' Wags. I do appreciate that English football songs are so simple even the players can remember the words, all as easy as 'God Save The Queen'. Though I've always found it odd that 'When The Saints Go Marching In' and 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot' are both actually American.

But here is a countrywhich, based on one World Cup win, and that playing at home and on a dubious disputed goal, assumes they should be automatic favourites when every tournament rolls around. Their press hypes them up unbelievably, while tearing them down at every opportunity. My countryman Brendan Hunt, in his blog The Unlikely Fan (you can link to the whole piece here), identified for Yanks a domestic sports team equivalent to each World Cup country. England, living on the unlikely glory of the 60s, incapable of surviving the pressure of expectation and inevitably succumbing to the weight of both history and reality, turn out to be the gridiron New York Jets.

If you've followed me presenting the NFL, on Five or the BBC, you'll know I hold the Jets and the New York media in a special place of ignominy. So Brendan has made my choice easier, even if he does equate the US, equally accurately, to the NFL's Houston Texans, a bland team forever expected to do surprisingly well, but never getting over the hump.

Despite being American, I do prefer an underdog. I chose life as an expat at least in part to escape flag waving; I shudder as cars stagger past me with St George cross flags flapping in the cold wet summer breeze. Having chosen to live here, and become British, I am less impressed by the passions of those lucky enough to have been born in the country they love so much. So, in the end, it won't be a surprise after only a week to find myself abandoning my new identity and enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune once again as a Yank. The prospect of being outnumbered in the pub Saturday, brings to mind a strange inversion of the image of Michael Caine drinking with the Zulus. I shudder now, and apologise in advance. I may be British now, but that only validates my position in the (almost) Anyone But England camp.

Bring back the glories of Belo Horizonte, 29 June 1950! USA 1 England 0. Like my Wesleyan University football team, who are unbeaten against Michigan based on one win in the 1880s, they haven't beaten us (in a World Cup) yet.

It maybe hard for me, but pity my son. Born in London, raised in England, with an American father and a Kiwi mother and three passports of his own. Please don't ask him to make a choice; he's only six. And one of his godfathers is head of the US bid committee. But he has had one piece of good luck. Stuck with passports from three potential World Cup losers, he's drawn Holland in his class pool. Though now he's got to explain to his teacher, who is English, that there is no country called Holland in the World Cup.