“Strong emotional events truly burn themselves into our memories — both the good and the bad.”Maybe that quote from a professor of psychology at the Community College of Philadelphia goes some way to explaining why I can clearly recall watching Brazil play Italy in the 1982 World Cup at the age of six, but I couldn’t remember to take the laundry out of the washing machine yesterday.That’s not purely down to the mechanics of short and long-term memory (or being hopeless domestically); it’s much deeper than that. Actually, it’s much simpler than that: it’s about the magic of watching a World Cup as a kid – and there’s nothing quite like it.For many of us, the World Cup leaves a permanent timestamp on our lives but in particular our childhood, providing an instant reference point to years that would otherwise feel like they passed by in a blur.What was I doing at the age of five? No idea.What was I doing at the age of six? Discovering that Brazilian players only have one name and that a man called Falcao has a lot of veins in his arms.Falcao’s famous celebration (featuring veiny arms) against Spain in 1982 (FIFA)What was I doing at the age of nine? No idea.What was I doing at the age of 10? Waking up to the news that Gary Lineker had scored a hat-trick in Mexico, and crying in between cursing Diego Maradona, Peter Shilton and a Tunisian referee.What was I doing at the age of 13? No idea.What was I doing at the age of 14? Watching three Cameroon players trying to hack down a blond-haired forward by the name of Claudio Caniggia, and burying my head in my hands at the end of an England penalty shootout.Our minds, of course, can play tricks on us, especially when it’s such a long time ago and the footage has been watched so often over the years that the television commentary is as memorable as your favourite song lyrics.But coming home from primary school on a sunny afternoon in 1982, sitting in front of the television and being mesmerised by that wild Brazil-Italy game, which kicked off just as my dad was returning from work, is a childhood memory that I’ve never forgotten.Brazil had a special team. There was a wonderful mystique to the talent and identity of players such as Zico, Eder, Falcao and Socrates, as well as a total mystery around the awkward striker up front who looked like he’d turned up for the wrong game (sorry, Serginho).There was also another centre forward playing that day called Paolo Rossi, who completed his hat-trick with a goal that was as ugly to me as it was beautiful to Italy.Rossi scores the opening goal of the 1982 World Cup final against Brazil (Alessandro Sabattini/Getty Images)Rossi had just returned from a two-year ban for his part in a match-fixing scandal. But that news didn’t resonate with a six-year child, just like it wouldn’t have meant anything to me if the BBC commentator John Motson had mentioned through a crackly microphone that Brazil was being ruled by a military regime at the time. Leave that stuff to the adults.