The match ended 2-1. Soviet victory.
But Yashin had always been different. In 1956, he had revolutionized the position by coming off his line to sweep through balls, by using his hands to start attacks, by shouting orders to defenders like a general on a burning hill. Old-timers called him mad. He called them “statues waiting for a pigeon to land on their heads.” lev yashin
Yashin removed a pack of cigarettes from his soaked shorts—they were somehow still dry. He lit one, inhaled, and let the smoke mix with the stadium steam. The match ended 2-1
Yashin’s laugh was a low, gravelly sound, like stones settling in a river. “They lie. I see it after it leaves. Then I catch it before my body remembers it’s old.” In 1956, he had revolutionized the position by
“Reflexes die,” he said. “But the game is not played with reflexes. It is played with the mind. And the mind, signore, does not age. It just learns to smoke more.”