Soccer in Sun and Shadow

by Eduardo Galeano

  The teams may lose money, but that does not matter as long as they project a good image for their corporate proprietors. That’s why their ownership is no secret: soccer helps advertise the companies and in all the world there is no greater public relations tool. When Silvio Berlusconi bought Milan, which was in bankruptcy, he launched a new chapter in the club’s life with all the choreography of a major advertising campaign. That afternoon in 1987, Milan’s eleven players descended slowly from a helicopter hovering above the center of the field while loudspeakers blared Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” Bernard Tapie, another specialist in his own protagonism, liked to celebrate Olympique’s victories with huge parties glowing with fireworks and laser beams, where top rock groups performed.

  Soccer, the fountain of so much passion, also generates fame and power. The teams that enjoy some autonomy, because they do not depend directly on other companies, are often run by shady businessmen or second-rate politicians who use the game as a prestigious platform to catapult themselves into the public eye. There are also rare cases where just the opposite is true: men who put their well-earned fame at the service of soccer, like the English singer Elton John, who took over Watford, the team he loved, or the movie director Francisco Lombardi, who runs Peru’s Sporting Cristal.

  [As tends to happen in the cutthroat business of professional sports, a number of teams have changed hands and some of the companies have gone belly up since this book was first published in 1995. Parma, Sampdoria, Fiorentina, Paris Saint-Germain, Uerdingen, and Tottenham are all owned by different corporate behemoths. And ISL Marketing collapsed without warning in 2001, at which point the International Olympic Committee discovered it could sell TV rights very well on its own, thank you. But the essence of the story remains unchanged: few hands own the ball that captivates the world.]

  Jesus

  In the middle of 1969, a large hall for weddings, baptisms, and conventions opened in Spain’s Guadarrama Mountains. While the grand opening banquet was in full swing, the floor collapsed, the roof fell in, and the guests were buried in rubble. Fifty-two people died. The hall had been built with public funds, but without proper authorization, a building permit, or an architect in charge.

  The owner and builder of the ephemeral edifice, Jesus Gil y Gil, went to jail. He got two years, three months, and two weeks behind bars for each death, but was eventually pardoned by Generalissimo Franco. As soon as he stepped out of prison, Jesus was back to serve the progress of the fatherland once again in the construction industry.

  Some time later, this businessman became the owner of a soccer team, Atlético of Madrid. Thanks to soccer, which turned him into a popular television personality, this Jesus was able to launch a political career. In 1991 he was elected mayor of Marbella, winning more votes than anyone else in the country. During his election campaign he promised to clear pickpockets, drunks, and drug addicts off the streets of this tourist town reserved for the amusement of Arab sheiks and foreign gangsters specializing in gunrunning and drug trafficking.

  Atlético of Madrid remains the foundation of his power and prestige, even though the team loses all too frequently. Managers do not last more than a few weeks. Jesus Gil y Gil seeks advice from his horse Imperioso, a snow-white and very sentimental stallion: “Imperioso, we lost.”

  “I know, Gil.”

  “Whose fault is it?”

  “I don’t know, Gil.”

  “Yes you do, Imperioso. It’s the manager’s fault.”

  “So, fire him.”

  The 1978 World Cup

  In Germany the popular Volkswagen Beetle was dying, in England the first test tube baby was being born, in Italy abortion was being legalized. The first victims of AIDS, a disease not yet called that, were succumbing. The Red Brigades were killing Aldo Moro, and the United States was promising to give Panama back the canal it had stolen at the beginning of the century. Well-informed sources in Miami were announcing the imminent fall of Fidel Castro, it was only a matter of hours. In Nicaragua the Somoza dynasty was teetering, as was the Shah’s in Iran. The Guatemalan military was machine-gunning a crowd of peasants in the town of Panzós. Domitila Barrios and four other women from tin-mining communities were launching a hunger strike against Bolivia’s military dictatorship, and soon all Bolivia would be on a hunger strike: the dictatorship was falling. The Argentine military dictatorship, in contrast, was enjoying good health and, to prove it, was playing host to the eleventh World Cup.

  Ten European countries, four from the Americas, plus Iran and Tunisia took part. The Pope sent his blessings from Rome. To the strains of a military march, General Videla pinned a medal on Havelange during the opening ceremonies in Buenos Aires’s Monumental Stadium. A few steps away, Argentina’s Auschwitz, the torture and extermination camp at the Navy School of Mechanics, was operating at full speed. A few miles beyond that, prisoners were being thrown alive from airplanes into the sea.

  “At last the world can see the true face of Argentina,” crowed the president of FIFA to the TV cameras. Special guest Henry Kissinger predicted, “This country has a great future in all ways.” And the captain of the German team, Berti Vogts, who made the first kickoff, declared a few days later, “Argentina is a country where order reigns. I haven’t seen a single political prisoner.”

  The home team won a few matches, but lost to Italy and drew with Brazil. To reach the final against the Netherlands, they had to drown Peru in a flood of goals. Argentina got more than they needed, but the massacre, 6–0, sowed doubt among skeptical fans and magnanimous ones alike. The Peruvians were stoned on their return to Lima.

  The final between Argentina and the Netherlands was decided in extra time. The Argentines won 3–1 and in a way their victory was due to the patriotism of the post that saved the Argentine net in injury time. That post, which stopped a resounding blast by Rensenbrink, was never given military honors only because of the nature of human ingratitude. In any case, more important than the post, as it turned out, were the goals of Mario Kempes, an unbreakable bronco who liked to gallop over the grass carpeted in a snowfall of confetti, his shaggy mane flying in the wind.

  When they handed out the trophies, the Dutch players refused to salute the leaders of the Argentine dictatorship. Third place went to Brazil, fourth to Italy.

  Kempes was voted best player in the Cup and was also the leading scorer with six goals. Behind him came the Peruvian Cubillas and Rensenbrink of the Netherlands with five apiece.

  Happiness

  Five thousand journalists from all over the world, a sumptuous media center, impeccable stadiums, gleaming new airports: Argentina was a model of efficiency. Veteran German reporters confessed that the ’78 World Cup reminded them of the ’36 Olympics in Berlin when Hitler pulled out all the stops.

  The cost was a state secret. Many millions of dollars were spent and lost—how many, it was never known—so that the smiles of a happy country under military tutelage would be broadcast to the four corners of the earth. Meanwhile, the top brass who organized the World Cup carried on with their plan of extermination, for reasons of war or just to be sure. “The final solution,” as they called it, murdered thousands of Argentines without leaving a trace—how many, it was never known. Anyone who tried to find out was swallowed up by the earth. Curiosity, like dissent, like any question, was absolute proof of subversion. The president of the Argentine Rural Society, Celedonio Pereda, declared that thanks to soccer, “there will be no more of the defamation that certain well-known Argentines have spread through the Western media with the proceeds from their robberies and kidnappings.” You could not criticize the players, not even the manager. The Argentine team stumbled a few times in the championship, but local commentators were obliged to do nothing but applaud.

  To make over its international image, the dictatorship paid an American public relations firm half a million dollars. The report from the experts at Burson-Marsteller was titled What Is True for Products Is Also True for Countries. Admiral Carlos
Alberto Lacoste, the strongman of the World Cup, explained in an interview: “If I go to Europe or to the United States, what will impress me most? Tall buildings, huge airports, terrific cars, fancy candies…”

  The Admiral, an illusionist skilled at making dollars evaporate and sudden fortunes appear, took the reins of the World Cup after the previous officer in charge was mysteriously assassinated. Lacoste managed immense sums of money without any oversight, and because he wasn’t paying close attention, it seems he ended up keeping some of the change. Even the dictatorship’s own finance minister, Juan Alemann, took note of the squandering of public funds and asked a few inconvenient questions. The Admiral had the habit of warning: “Don’t complain if later on somebody plants a bomb…”

  A bomb did explode in Alemann’s house at the very moment when Argentineans were celebrating their fourth goal against Peru.

  When the Cup was over, in gratitude for his hard work, Admiral Lacoste was named vice president of FIFA.

  Goal by Gemmill

  It happened at the World Cup in 1978. The Netherlands, which was doing well, was playing Scotland, which was doing poorly.

  Scottish player Archibald Gemmill got the ball from his countryman Hartford and kindly asked the Dutch to dance to the tune of a lone bagpiper.

  Wildschut was the first to fall, his head spinning, at Gemmill’s feet. Then Gemmill left Suurbier reeling in the dust. Krol had it worse: Gemmill put it between his legs. And when the keeper Jongbloed came at him, the Scot lobbed the ball over his head.

  Goal by Bettega

  It also happened at the ’78 World Cup. Italy defeated the home team 1–0.

  The play that set up Italy’s goal drew a perfect triangle on the playing field: inside, the Argentine defenders were left as lost as blind men in a shootout. Antognoni slid the ball over to Bettega, who slapped it toward Rossi, who had his back to him. Rossi returned it with a backheel while Bettega infiltrated the box. Bettega then overpowered two players and beat the keeper Fillol with a tremendous left.

  Though no one knew it then, the Italian team had already begun to win the World Cup that would take place four years later.

  Goal by Sunderland

  It was 1979. At Wembley Stadium, Arsenal and Manchester United were battling the final of the English FA Cup.

  A good match, but nothing aroused suspicions that this would turn on a dime into the most electric final in the Cup’s long history since 1871. Arsenal was ahead 2–0 and time was running out. The match was essentially decided and people began to leave the stadium. A sudden cloudburst of goals, three in two minutes: a sure shot by McQueen was followed by a pretty penetration by McIlroy, who eluded two defenders and the keeper, giving Manchester the equalizers in the 86th and 87th minutes. And before the 88th minute was over, Arsenal had regained the lead. Liam Brady, who was as usual the outstanding player of the match, put together the final play, and Alan Sunderland took a clean shot to make it 3–2.

  The 1982 World Cup

  Mephisto by István Szabó, a masterpiece on art and betrayal, was winning an Oscar in Hollywood, while in Germany the life of the tormented and talented movie director Fassbinder was being snuffed out early. Romy Schneider was committing suicide and Sophia Loren was being imprisoned for tax evasion. In Poland, union leader Lech Walesa was on his way to jail.

  García Márquez was accepting the Nobel Prize in the name of the poets, beggars, musicians, prophets, warriors, and rascals of Latin America. In a village in El Salvador, a hail of army bullets was killing more than seven hundred peasants, half of them children. In order to expand the butchery of Indians, in Guatemala General Ríos Montt was taking power by force, proclaiming that God had given him the country’s reins and announcing that the Holy Spirit would direct his secret service.

  Egypt was recovering the Sinai Peninsula, occupied by Israel since the Six-Day War. The first artificial heart was beating in someone’s breast. Well-informed sources in Miami were announcing the imminent fall of Fidel Castro, it was only a matter of hours. In Italy the Pope was surviving a second assassination attempt. In Spain the officers who had organized the attack on Congress were getting thirty years and Felipe González was launching his unerring race for the presidency, while in Barcelona the twelfth World Cup was getting under way.

  Twenty-four countries took part, eight more than in the previous Cup, but the Americas did not gain a larger quota: there were fourteen teams from Europe, six from the Americas, and two from Africa, plus Kuwait and New Zealand.

  On the first day in Barcelona, world champion Argentina went down to defeat. A few hours later, very far from there, off in the Falkland Islands, the Argentine generals were routed in their war against England. These ferocious fighters, who over several years of dictatorship had won the war against their own countrymen, surrendered like lambs to the British. The image was broadcast on television: navy officer Alfredo Astiz, violator of every human right, hung his head and signed the humiliating surrender.

  During the days that followed, TV showed images of the ’82 Cup: the billowing tunic of Sheik Fahad Al-Ahmed Al-Jaber Al-Sabah, who ran onto the field to protest a goal by France against Kuwait; the goal by Englishman Bryan Robson after half a minute, the quickest in World Cup history; the indifference of German keeper Schumacher, who once was a blacksmith, after he knocked out French striker Battiston with his knee.

  Europe won the top spots in the tournament, although Brazil played the best soccer on the feet of Zico, Falcão, and Sócrates. Luck was not with the Brazilians, but they delighted the crowd and Zico, who had just won the title of best player in South America, justified once again the “Zicomania” in the stands.

  The Cup went to Italy. The Italian team started off badly, stumbling from draw to draw, but finally took flight, thanks to its overall cohesion and the opportune machine-gun blasts of Paolo Rossi. In the final against Germany, Italy won 3–1.

  Poland, guided by Boniek’s fine music, took third place. Fourth went to France, which deserved better for the European effectiveness and African joy of its memorable midfield.

  The Italian Rossi led the list of scorers with six goals, followed by the German Rummenigge, who scored five and set the team on fire.

  Pears from an Elm

  Alain Giresse, along with Platini, Tigana, and Genghini, made up the most spectacular midfield of the ’82 Cup and in the entire history of French soccer. Giresse was so small that on the TV screen he always appeared to be far away.

  The Hungarian Puskás was short and fat like the German Seeler. The Dutchman Cruyff and the Italian Gianni Rivera were skinny. Pelé had flat feet, as did Néstor Rossi, Argentina’s solid center half. The Brazilian Rivelino scored worst on the Cooper test, but on the field no one could catch him. His countryman Sócrates had the body of a heron, long bony legs and small feet that tired easily, but he was such a master of the backheel he even used it for penalty kicks.

  Whoever believes physical size and tests of speed or strength have anything to do with a soccer player’s prowess is sorely mistaken. Just as mistaken as those who believe that IQ tests have anything to do with talent or that there is a relationship between penis size and sexual pleasure. Good soccer players need not be titans sculpted by Michelangelo. In soccer, ability is much more important than shape, and in many cases skill is the art of turning limitations into virtues.

  The Colombian Carlos Valderrama has warped feet, and the curvature helps him hide the ball. It’s the same story with Garrincha’s twisted feet. Where is the ball? In his ear? Inside his shoe? Where did it go? The Uruguayan “Cococho” Alvarez, who walked with a limp, had one foot pointing toward the other, and he was one of the few defenders who could stop Pelé without punching or kicking him.

  Two short, chubby players, Romario and Maradona, were the stars of the ’94 World Cup. And two Uruguayan strikers who later on became stars in Italy, Ruben Sosa and Carlos Aguilera, have a similar physique. Thanks to their diminutive size, the Brazilian Leônidas, the Englishman Kevi
n Keegan, the Irishman George Best, and the Dane Allan Simonsen, known as “The Flea,” all managed to slip through impenetrable defenses and scurry easily by huge fullbacks who hit them with all they had but could not stop them. Also tiny but well armored was Félix Loustau, left winger for River Plate’s “Machine.” They called him “The Ventilator” because he was the one who allowed the rest of the squad to catch their breath by making the opposing players chase him. Lilliputians can change speed and accelerate brusquely without falling because they aren’t built like skyscrapers.

  Platini

  Michel Platini did not have an athlete’s physique either. In 1972 the club Metz doctor told Platini he was suffering from “a weak heart and poor respiratory capacity.” The report was enough for Metz to reject this aspiring player, even though the doctor failed to notice that Platini’s ankles were stiff and easily fractured and that he tended to put on weight due to his passion for pasta. In any case, ten years later, shortly before the World Cup in Spain, this defective reject got his revenge: his team, Saint Étienne, beat Metz 9–2.

  Platini was the synthesis of the best of French soccer: he had the aim of Justo Fontaine, who in the ’58 World Cup scored thirteen goals, a record never beaten, along with the speed and smarts of Raymond Kopa. In each match Platini not only put on a magic show of goals, ones that could not possibly be real, he also lit up the crowd with the way he organized the team’s plays. Under his leadership, the French team played a harmonious soccer, fashioned and relished step by step as each play grew organically: precisely the opposite of center to the box, all-out stampede or God have mercy.