Ferenc Puskas and I

Since I am moving I have been packing, going through a lot of old documents, and came across a small football memory that involved none other than the legendary Ferenc Puskas, one of the best football players of all time; all-time topscorer of Europe and captain of the legendary Hungarian national team of the 1950s, that broke many records: the first team ever to defeat England at Wembley, they didn’t lose a game for three years, until the 1954 World Cup final in Switzerland, where they nevertheless ended up as the most scoring team per match of all time (ironically, they had defeated Germany 8-3 in the first round, but lost the legendary final 3-2 after being up 2-0!). 

Hungarian football has not been the same since 1956 (even though they have participated in many tournaments, but without much distinction) when the legendary team fell apart after the Hungarian uprising against the USSR. Many of the players were dispersed all over Europe – many went to Spain, for instance Sandor Koscic (the topscorer of the 1954 World Cup), but also Ferenc Puskas, who went to become a player of one of the most legendary teams of all time: Real Madrid. This was the real “galactico” Real Madrid, with some of the best players of all time: Alfredo Di Stefano, Raymond Kopa, Francisco Gento, José Santamaría… Still, Puskas stood out: four pichichis and winning five European Championships. 

In 1993 I went to watch Hungary play against Denmark in a friendly match in Parken in Copenhagen. Denmark won 3-1 (and Michael Laudrup scored after his recent return to the national team), but that was not the special thing about the match. I was with some friends from the boarding school in Birkerød, which I attended back then. Some ten meters behind me I saw a large fat man with sleazy combed back hair, and immediately I recognized him: this was Ferenc Puskas, and I told one of my friends who knew who I was referring to: this was one of the most legendary players of all time (Pelé, Maradona, Cruyff, Beckenbauer, Puskas)! We wanted an autograph from this legend, and approached the old large man. “Puskas!”, and waved at him. He waved back, casually and signalling that he was not going to sign any autograph, but I thought I sensed a certain pride that he had been recognized by two Danish teenagers. We kept waving,: “Autograph, Puskas!”, but he ignored us, until I then said in Spanish: “Vamos, para un hincha del Madrid!” (I am not proud that I pretended to be a fan of Real Madrid…), which at least made him turn towards me: “Yo estoy aquí como Húngaro!”, he said and I didn’t get an autograph. 

Seems Mr. Puskas, like me, had different identities for different contexts: One day Hungarian, other days Spanish, other days Madrid. 

Mr. Puskas passed away in 2006, was given a state funeral in Hungary, and well, I could remember my little encounter with a legend.