His Enemy, His Friend

by John R. Tunis

  There it was, that quick, accurate flick to Bonnet, the burst of speed into open country ahead for the return. The young centre forward took a cross back, and the moment he stopped the ball made a sudden, unexpected flip to Carpentier, the inside right, just behind him. Again that roar rose: “France... France... France....” Once more they threatened.

  Carpentier charged in. Before the goal, Borkowski of Germany, one of the stoppers of the Munich defense, a great oak of a man, made a slashing slide tackle which jarred the ball loose. But in the full momentum of his drive the Frenchman was a truck with the brakes gone. What happened was partly, perhaps, resentment over the blow to Varin, but mostly explosive exasperation at the so-near-and-yet-so-far game that France had played all afternoon. Carpentier leaped into the air and collided with the baron.

  When the French go in they go in hard. Away flew the gray cap the baron wore. He fell to the ground as the referee raced over, blowing his whistle and pointing to Carpentier.

  First a hush. Then a half moan swept the German stands as they stared at their man stretched out on the ground. Without that goalie Germany would be helpless. Everyone knew it.

  Each spectator seemed to have felt the shock of that collision. Along the German side of the stadium they watched anxiously. The unvoiced thought hung in the air: if he is finished, we’re finished. We’re through if the baron has to leave the game. Every eye focused upon the knot of men around the figure at the goal line. The baron writhed on the turf as the trainer bent over him. He twisted and turned. His knees came up slowly. You could see the agony on his face.

  The men watched him solicitously. After a while they helped him up. He leaned over, straightened his body, staggered a little, shaken from his second blow of the afternoon. Cheers came from all over the stadium. He walked around unaided. The whole crowd burst into applause.

  Once or twice he half stumbled as he took his place, jogging back and forth along the goal line. Then he washed his neck and face with cold water, toweled himself, picked up his cap, and went back into the goal. The German banners waved triumphantly.

  This time the ball went to the far end with Germany getting a free kick. Otto Schoen stood ready. A free kick from close up is dangerous for the defense. Will it be a soft, lofted ball or a hard, swift kick? He kicked. The ball just cleared the crossbar above the goal. No score. A tremendous roar of joy exploded from French throats, an enormous groan from the German spectators.

  Aching all over, holding on to one goalpost, the baron watched a play developing at the far end. He saw no crowd, heard nothing, felt nothing but the danger ahead. Every instant his eyes under the old gray cap were fixed on that white balloon moving toward him in a kind of inexorable pattern.

  France was coming on the attack with Varin upon the ball. For a second he lost it in a welter of legs and feet at midfield. Then once again that graceful, moving athlete came up with the ball.

  “Look out, Sepp! Watch that winger, Horst! Watch him! Watch him, man, WATCH HIM....”

  Now it’s over to Varin... to Bonnet... stop him, Fritz, stop him... back to Varin... a cross to Garnier almost intercepted... no! Back to Varin, who is breaking through....

  The kick was low, hard, into the far corner of the goal. The baron jumped for it with all his great strength, his body parallel to the ground, touched the ball, missed it, and lay prone on the turf.

  Pandemonium! Horns. Cheers. Red-white-and-blue flags aflame in the sunshine. Cheers. Shouts. Yells. France! France! France!

  Jean-Paul turned and raced away, both arms high in the air. Skip-skip, leap-leap. He somersaulted on the grass in joy; as he came back he was surrounded by several teammates who hugged and kissed him. Others rushed up to embrace him. It was all his. After the shots missed, the kicks blocked, after those endless and hopeless assaults it was his own, his first goal in his first international match for France.

  Can happiness be greater?

  All the while the big German goalie lay flat on his stomach, pounding the turf in anguish with his bruised fists and knuckles. Helmut Herberger, the winger, young in years yet somehow old with insight and understanding, recognized the agony inside his captain. He raced over, knelt beside him, bent over and caressed the man’s shoulders.

  Finally the baron rose. The whistle of the referee sounded. Germany kicked off, a little push to the right. The game was practically over now, for only three minutes remained. The stadium was a cockpit of noise, nerves, passion. The thousands in the stands lived and died a hundred deaths. The delirious French shouted and screamed with joy. They even joined in as the baron coolly repulsed another thrust.

  “Ah, let’s admit it. He is a brave type, strong, stubborn. Un maître, a master. Un vrai champion.”

  But up in the press box the old hands all said, “Watch out, France. The game isn’t finished. Be careful. Any team that scores first and camps on a one-goal lead may find itself in trouble if it merely tries to defend.”

  Chapter 8

  FRANCE! FRANCE! FRANCE! FRANCE! A great, lusty, full-throated roar. The French felt victory ahead. It was over, done, almost through. Triumph was there for the taking.

  Jules Garnier, the captain and winger, and every man on the French team knew, however, that the Germans were still dangerous. Perhaps they knew it even better than those experts shaking their heads from side to side in the press box. Because they had lived through many games won and lost in the final minutes. They had often felt the inconsequence of fate dealing them an unexpected blow or turning disaster into sudden victory.

  Keep moving! Keep up the pressure, they urged each other. Whatever happens, don’t let down now.

  The soccer player needs the stamina of the long-distance runner, the reflexes of a boxer, and the concentration of a golfer. But it wasn’t so easy after ninety minutes of attacking football. France had been setting the pace; now legs ached, feet were leaden. To run required an effort of will, to race down the field was torture. Every French forward had lost a little drive, a tiny part of his reflexes. But they did not give in or let up. Those red jerseys still pressed forward around the German goal.

  As ever, the baron controlled the ball with that fluid beauty which was his alone. He seemed to wait until the last possible second before flinging his big frame at the white sphere. But he needed every inch of his height and every ounce of his power to reach those kicks, those punches from the feet and heads of the French forwards. Now it was a shot diverted to one side, now a ball that ricocheted off his chest. The French gave him no respite. They realized to a man that another goal would put the game on ice. Yet they could not hammer through.

  The contest was a football match no longer. It was war. It was nation against nation. It was those two eternal rivals, France and Germany. It was life and death in the afternoon. Play grew rougher as the seconds passed. Rough tactics begot rough tactics. Only one thing counted—victory before the final whistle blew.

  “France! France! France!” chanted the French spectators in unison. Only a minute and a half to go now. The Germans, backs against the wall, still fought stubbornly and savagely. They could not match the consummate artistry of Jean-Paul Varin. They simply had no forward in his class. But they were still a team and team play counts. They remained solid players, unshaken by misfortune, refusing to accept defeat until the whistle blew.

  A slow ball, a bobbler from thirty feet out, came bouncing irregularly toward the baron. He knew how often a mistimed shot can catch a goalie off balance. Carefully and deliberately he went down on one knee, watched the French forwards rushing toward him, then rose, stepped calmly aside, and booted the ball high in the air and far downfield.

  There was a mix-up before the French goal. Bosquier cleared the ball, but it rolled over the line and Germany received a corner kick. Nobody scores anymore on corner kicks, and the French defense loomed high and powerful.

  Schroeder’s kick went up, came down. As it did, Otto Schoen, the German winger, crashed in like an American tackle blocking a punt.
Short, square, Otto was the retriever, the uninspired but ever dependable man of the German team. He threw his compact frame into that wall of French defenders, squeezed through, and headed the ball at the goal.

  A French back headed it away. A German headed it back in. A Frenchman leaped up, a German hit it with his forehead. Ping... ping... ping... ping... the ball never touched the ground.

  Then Borkowski, the halfback, tall and powerful, leaped high in the air above everyone and caught it squarely on his blond, flat head. But the shot struck the crossbar, bounced back, bobbled dangerously along the ground before the goal. Three men were on it, but Sepp Obermeyer, following it up like a cat, was first. With one quick blow of his foot he hammered it home. The score was tied.

  Pandemonium shook the German stands, a kind of collective madness. Thousands of red-black-and-gold flags gyrated in the sunshine. Thousands of Bavarian hunting horns echoed in the air. Thousands of voices roared out his name.

  “Sepp... Sepp... Sepp....”

  Yes, and Otto, too, who started it, the man you never noticed on the field, the player you always took for granted, Otto, steady, unspectacular, always taking the weight off his teammates by his tackles and pass interceptions. Sepp had scored the goal, but it had been invented by Otto.

  Sepp. Otto. The Germans in the stands cheered them, jumped up and down in jubilation, and their teammates embraced the two men.

  The French stood silent. Less than a minute left in the final half. Now for the first time France felt the pressure. Big Garnier leaned over in exhaustion, utterly spent, shaking his head in agonized disappointment. Even young Varin felt like a coasting car, moving without the motor running. He was still dangerous, but worn down by his efforts all afternoon.

  Here the soundness of the baron’s tactics told. Now Germany, elated at having tied the score, began to control play with an insolent competence. The halfbacks, the bombers, sure-footed and disciplined, rolled into action, their passes accurate, their position play perfect, despite the chewed-up turf. Now the Germans were the ones who seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads, often sending the ball to a spot they could not see, knowing a teammate would be there at the exact moment to receive it.

  The unbearable tension increased. The stands were in an absolute frenzy. Each second was charged with electricity. The game was a fraction of a minute from the end.

  It all began so innocuously, so innocently. Horst Heppner came downfield with the ball and threaded a pass to Schwartz. Speed told, for the entire French defense was caught on the hop. A tiny mistake, a failure of anticipation or lack of concentration due to overfatigue, a defender two feet behind instead of two feet ahead, and Germany was off.

  Schwartz made a short, crisp pass to Heppner and received the ball back. Then, with the ball at his feet, he raced in a wide arc around two weary defenders. His speed was dazzling. Now he was in open territory and within twenty-five yards of the French net.

  He sighted the goal and let go with his left foot. The ball was moving away from Bosquier, who made a desperate stab, rolling over and over on the ground as it shot past him.

  An instant later the whistle blew. The game was over. Germany had won.

  Chapter 9

  DOWN ON THE FIELD one man stood out for everyone to see.

  Big Jules Garnier, the French captain, never shaved before an important match. Now his face was black with beard. Sweat poured from his forehead. His red jersey was filthy and torn. Panting, exhausted, he rushed up to Rudy Stampfli, still immaculate in his blue shorts, pointing at Heppner and arguing with what breath he had left.

  The French stands, silent, horror-struck after that unexpected goal, understood immediately. Suddenly everyone took up the refrain. “Faute! Faute! FAUTE!”

  Obviously Garnier was claiming offside on the last play. The Frenchman towered over the stocky little Swiss. Two, three, four French players, all equally positive and vehement, surrounded the referee as he stood with the ball under one arm.

  There he remained, listening impassively, holding his ground, feet apart. Finally he moved away, shaking his head firmly. Then someone caught his free arm and spun him around. He was face to face with Bosquier, the goalkeeper, a hot-headed Marseillais.

  “Nein... nein... nein....” Even from the press box you could see Rudy Stampfli’s expression and the set of his jaw.

  “NEIN!” There it was. The goal was good. No, there was no German offside on the play. The score stands. The game is over, done, lost, and won.

  By this time French troops had swarmed all over the field and were encircling the German players to protect them from an ugly, menacing crowd that had poured down from the stands.

  The enraged French fans, milling around on the turf shouted at the Germans and the referee. Good sense, fair play were not at the moment in them. To a man they honestly believed that France had been cheated.

  Look, they cried to one another, what can you expect? Rudy is from Zurich. I don’t trust the German-Swiss. Had he been from Geneva, from the Suisse Romande, things would have been different. You know, everyone claims he was a friend of the baron’s family, that he knew the von Kleinschrodts before the war. Besides he often played against him. It’s unfair. The referee should have been Dutch or English or Spanish or Portuguese or even a Macaroni.

  Why anyone could see that German halfback was plainly offside on that pass. Otherwise Jules would have caught him and cut him down. France was robbed by that second goal.

  Still Stampfli shook his head, pushing away the French players. Still the angry fans howled at the Germans and hurled imprecations at the referee. Soldiers formed a tight ring around Stampfli and the victorious team and forced a passage through the mob. So into a tunnel under the stands they went, past the back of the stadium where in improvised cubbyholes sportswriters were dictating copy to Berlin, Madrid, or Rome.

  “Ne coupez pas, mademoiselle, ne coupez pas!” screamed an agonized voice.

  “Und dann... Varin... nein, nein. Varin... V-A-R-I-N.”

  “Final score: Germany two, France one. Yes, that’s the final. Germany scored in the last second of the game.”

  The hot, sweaty, exhausted players and the Swiss referee, as emotionally drained as any of them, rushed by these reporters hard at work and were hustled over to a German bus that was standing and waiting, its engine running, a driver at the wheel.

  Beside the bus was a row of police cars and army jeeps. Helmeted soldiers sat in each jeep, cradling tommy guns on their knees. The players’ clothes, bags, and personal belongings had already been loaded, and one by one with Stampfli they filed aboard and sank into a seat. Soon the bus filled up. Behind it was a smaller vehicle a Volkswagen minibus. Into it piled five players who could not get into the larger bus: the baron, Otto Schoen, Sepp Obermeyer, Helmut Herberger, and young Schroeder, the centre forward.

  The troops formed a cordon around the two buses, letting nobody near. In three minutes they were off. All traffic was held up to let them get away. The buses swung out with their armed escort ahead and behind, crossed the Seine, and went down a long, straight avenue lined with poplar trees. For twenty minutes they rolled along at a good speed, the jeeps leading the way with honking horns, the police cars following. About fifteen miles from the city and well out into the countryside, they turned into a long driveway leading to a large hotel. Everybody climbed out. Clothes and bags were unloaded, and they all filed into the hotel where the manager passed out keys to rooms with baths on the upper floors.

  An hour later they piled back into the buses and the caravan set out again. They had been told to avoid the main roads and take the coastal highway to the frontier. So they rode for an hour through the radiant spring countryside, and when they reached the sea the jeeps and police car honked several times, pulled over, turned around, and left.

  Now the two buses went on alone, headed for Munich and its streets packed with thousands upon thousands of celebrating football fans.

  Chapter 10

&nbs
p; THE POINT OF PLAYING a game is to win. To fight hard, to play fairly, but to win. Otherwise, what on earth is the use? Defeat kills a great athlete. Defeat is numbing. It silences a dressing room after a game, renders everyone speechless. Defeat is humbling, obscene.

  But victory is sweet. When you also play well in a game it is sweeter. Every man in that minibus from young Helmut Herberger to the veteran Otto Schoen had played a part in the triumph. Each one was elated. Each one had given his best. Had they not beaten a better team, stopped young Varin and held him to a single goal?

  Inter of Milan couldn’t do that! Nor Real of Madrid, either!

  How quickly, when one wins, the aches and pains, the bone weariness, the bruises, and the hurts are forgotten. They sat there, not singing and cheering as their teammates were doing ahead in the larger bus, which was now almost lost on the horizon, but suffused in happiness. Each man savored the moments, remembering that pass, that stop, that last final team rush downfield. Yes, they were a team, by God; they had played as a team, won as a team. As they had done all year in Germany against the rest of the league, as they had done against Torpedo Dynamo of Moscow and Chelsea Bridge of London. The world was warm. The world always is when you want badly to win and finally do.

  They rode in silence: dependable Otto, Sepp Obermeyer, with a bruise across his forehead, Helmut Herberger, Schroeder, the centre forward, his blond hair standing straight up after the shower he had taken in the hotel, and the baron, exhausted, slumped in his seat. They were happy, relaxed, anxious only to get out of France and reach home. The straight road led along the coast as far as they could see, winding up and along the dunes and cliffs and headlands in the distance. The larger bus by this time was so far ahead it had vanished. They were alone.