The console is glowing.
The SCART jack emits benzopyrene.
Bits are trotting. All 8 of them.
The eyes are two hot balls embedded in the orbits.
West Germany has not been beaten yet.
The videogame that marked the childhood of the Nintendo Generation comes back.
Before the technique of offside and the first touch, that videogame has taught millions of little boys the subtle difference between tackle and tibia removal.
Flying between opponents aiming at the face is no longer a problem. If Nintendo World Cup doesn’t remind you much, maybe 熱血高校ドッジボール部サッカー編 will bring your memory back and make you swim into your best memories.
Blessed Japanese people, they always know how to warm hearts.
Politically Correct in 8-bit format.
Programmers could have put Portugal, Uruguay, Yugoslavia or the most tempting Suriname… but in the end they picked out the best solution.
In any case, this fair play initially met my most fierce indignation of educated child.
Is it possible – I was wondering – that for every nation they show landscapes and monuments, while for Cameroon just a sad land with two shacks?
By growing up, I mad some researches and found out that there is actually nothing in Cameroon.
Unlikely Cyclamen jersey for the Indomitable Lions.
Akbar, Axson, Bwogi, Dalai, Kwame, Mwai, Taha, Yemi.
Dalai. In Cameroon. Good start.
A honorable effort of modesty from the Japanese house.
If you think at it, facing the Rising Sun team in the final match – and reviving the Holly & Benji’s delusional utopia – would have been too much.
White jersey for the Imperial Merengues.
Hiro, Kenji, Koji, Kunio, Makoto, Masao, Riki, Susumu.
Susumu midfielder. And everybody back home.
For an Italian guy, seeing the eternal rivals dressed in green is too much.
Their burned appearance.
The intrepid look.
The ball played with first-touch.
Thank God Zinédine Zidane was still at college, otherwise we would have faced France in the semi-finals.
Inexplicably green jersey for damned transalpines.
André, Jan, Joel, Léon, Manuel, Michel, Pierru, Roné.
Pierru. Just say the word.
The Russians’ supershot infused terror.
The ball started glowing and sparked to the opposing goal, with the serious risk of breaking the television.
Mark Lenders, shut up and sit down.
Red fire jersey, Bolshevik as few, for one of my favorite teams.
Boris, Illia, Ivan, Pavel, Pyotr, Vagis, Volf, Yakov.
Pyotr unquestioned captain.
You have Argentina, Brazil and West Germany.
Nah. You persist in choosing a team.
Maybe for the penetrating indigo or the desire for glittering colors, anyway, the choice always goes on Spain.
The obsession for the Tesla Plates will come a few decades later.
Incredibly indigo jersey (caught by programmers who knows where) for lilac furies.
Carlos, Franco, Juan, Juan, Marco, Pablo, Toni, Tonto.
Tonto the only big love.
The 4th place at the Italy World Cup of 1990 has enshrined England’s entry into the 13 National Teams of Nintendo World Cup.
A tasteless England, which you would not hear about until the World Cup France 98.
Able just with shoves and tackles. Even the supershot was faint.
In those years blue was too mainstream: I doubt I’ve chosen to play with England just once.
Total blue jersey, as unusual as visionary, considering the recent restyling of the Three Lions.
Andrew, Arthur, George, Henry, James, Keith, Paul, Peter.
In my time, we blissfully ignored where Mexico was.
Maybe next to Spain. Maybe an island.
They make westerns there. Anyway, Mexicans were terribly serious.
They ran like damned, as if they were pursued by the tax office. Total orange jersey, just to highlight the concept of sand, dust and mites as large as peanuts.
Adolfo, Chico, Jolio, Luis, Maro, Miko, Niro, René.
Jolio. Yep, just like that.
At that time, the three tulips were very scaring.
All those flowers were positioned on purpose, to let you stretch your nerves and undergo 3 goals in a minute.
Never lower the guard against this Holland.
Orange jersey. Here programmers have made a moving effort of realism.
Jelle, Johan, Louis, Niels, Piet, Stefan, Victor, Willem.
Niels, the right compromise between the new Van Basten and an extinguisher.
The game begins to get hard.
The Italian disappointment of penalties against Cariocas will come four years later, but even spiral staircases know that Brazil is a tough bone.
Fast as the wind. Just one doubt: was it so difficult to draw Christ the Redeemer on the screen of the match? Why Brasilia’s suburbs?
Maybe programmers sympathized for Juscelino Kubitschek? Ocher yellow jersey: last time was during the Portuguese domination.
Alam, Bruno, Costa, Ellio, Janio, Joao, Silva, Thao.
Bruno, shoot. I can’t. Pass. Ok.
The jolly of the tournament.
If you choose Cameroon you’ll face USA at first match. If you choose Japan, you’ll face them at 2nd match. If you pick out the Austro-Hungaric Empire you fly straight to the final match.
Like England, I doubt I’ve ever chose US National Team. Even more unlikely my cousin did: he was already communist at the age of 8.
Paradisiacal blue jersey… against the infernal Soviet red. How nice was cold war. Brian, Terry, Dayv, Don, Fred, Mark, Phil, Tony.
Tony left wi… No, right wing.
Holy shit, how violent argentinians were!
As soon as you had the chance to touch the ball, they came to you in 5.
Fast as rockets, long passages, man-to-ma marking, easy insult, and that visionary masterpiece of supershot.
Never saw one catched by the goalkeeper.
Black jersey with purple details. Not a bad idea, even for the albicelestes of today too.
Arturo, Diego, Fan, Héctor, José, Jules, Nery, Oscar.
Héctor was the soccer. Style, technique and constantly pissed off.
As a good Italian, I have chose it… maybe a couple of times.
Not because of a lack of patriotism, Italia ’90 Magic Nights still resounded in my temples, but for the obvious difficulty in finding the real correspondent of each player.
Emilio… Perhaps the last Emilio who have played in Serie A maybe did it between the two world wars… And the vain trials floated definitively in front of that certain Petro, relegated every time on the bench for a kind of aversion to foreigners.
Petrol blue jersey with black details. Unpublished but, after all, to leave in the drawers of fantasy.
Aldo, Andrea, Emilio, Enrico, Enzo, Giulio, Mauro, Petro.
Petro. How dare we complain about Thiago Motta?
Western Germany players were aliens. If they hit you, they made you blast in pieces: faster than wind, precise passing, easy blasphemy.
All this, seasoned with eccentric and unstoppable supershot.
And the shocking pink hair increased our bewilderment.
Password 12800, memorized and typed thousands of times.
Olive green kit for the Italia ’90 World Champions.
Klaus, Frank, Hans, Jürgen, Jochom, Günter, Rudolf, Carl.
Jürgen. I remembered him differently.
Are you feeling a devouring nostalgia of good times?
What do you think about these 13 jerseys?
Shoot a comment just here! 😉