’8. Civil unrest, terrorist bombings and assassinations, economic chaos, and
a lack of facility preparedness were the constant themes used in the growing
swell of Argentina bashing. Garcia remained mute and out of the public
spotlight once his season ended in early May. Nevertheless, the international
drama continued to be played out in the committee rooms, and especially in
the media. Shaking an angry fist into a television camera, Catalonia boss Rayo
Vallencaro proclaimed that his new star would travel to Argentina “over his
dead body!”
Thus ensued a high-level tug-of-war for the services of Nicodemo Garcia.
Pressure from the Argentine FA was relentless and effective. The powers of FIFA
came down on Señor Vallencaro to release his player for the World Cup. In the
end, he would acquiesce rather than face stiff sanctions. But from the moment
that Garcia stood before the press to announce his immediate departure for
Argentina, sanity seemed to take a siesta. The player was stalked by a small
fringe element of Catalonia supporters. His taxi was run off the road en route to
Barcelona airport, and Nico Garcia became a victim of terror tactics not in his
unstable homeland, but in the very country where Señor Vallencaro had assured
him he would remain safe and unharassed. The irony was unmistakable.
For three days the kidnappers had eluded the most intense search and
rescue operation ever seen in the region. The only clue relating to the crime
had been found in the abandoned taxi, pinned to the shirt of the bullet-riddled
corpse of the driver. A handwritten note informed authorities that Nicodemo
Garcia would not be harmed. He would, however, be kept in detention until
both he and FIFA agreed that under no circumstances would the player leave
Spain. When the perpetrators and their prize tried to change hideouts on
the third night of the crisis, they were betrayed by an informer. Surrounded
by police, the fugitives panicked and were somehow blown to oblivion by
their own hand. It would be ‘the dead body’ of Nicodemo Garcia, not Señor
Vallencaro, who thousands of people would grieve over as it made its way home
to Argentina.
A national day of mourning was declared in the land of the River Plate
once their fallen hero arrived home. People wept openly over the casket as
Nicodemo Garcia lay in state at center field of La Bombonera, his old home
stadium with the Boca Juniors. What was to be the nation’s finest hour was
turning out to be its darkest moment. Grief and shock were supplanted by
anger and despair when the size of void left by Garcia’s absence was finally
comprehended.
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The one man who bore the brunt of the tragedy more than any other
was the National Team manager Octavio Suarez. All of his preparations had
focused on the prolific marksman being in the lineup. No one could take his
place, no one could even come close to filling his shoes. It would be necessary
for Suarez to devise a totally new strategy.
Everyone had an opinion as to what should be done. The press was
often extremely negative, saying that there was now no hope of winning the
championship. The recurring message seemed to be that “The Team’s one goal
should be to avoid embarrassing the nation.”
Those that chose to be positive focused on the National Team’s warm-
up match record, as well as the talents of the new ‘Señor Gol,’ Migel Cruz.
The cocky center half ate up the attention, saying on national television that
“Although I am saddened by Nico Garcia’s cruel death, it gives the true patriots
of Argentina, those players who chose to stay and develop their skills in their
native land instead of chasing the almighty peso, a chance to show their
enormous talent to the world.” As if this overt slight to the departed national
icon was not enough, the arrogant Independiente player went on to proclaim,
“I, Miguel Cruz, the new ‘Señor Gol,’ will make the people of Argentina
forget about Nicodemo Garcia very quickly.”
Now, under a dark, early winter sky, seventy-five thousand people filled
River Plate Stadium to overflowing. They were there to watch and to be given
reason to forget.
At seven-fifteen p.m. sharp, the Portuguese referee raised his arm, blew
his whistle, and pointed to Hungarian center forward Tibor Torok.
Words could not describe the atmosphere. The earth stood still for that
moment, all eyes upon the mystic sphere. How could one solitary object bring
so much joy and yet so much anguish? How could it have caused wars and split
families, been responsible for suicides, and yes, even births?
The ticker tape that had cascaded down on the would-be national heroes
had ceased. The multitude of patriotic singers and flag wavers stood inanimate
on the terraces. Collective breathes were held for that fleeting instant. Then,
with an ever so slight tap of his right foot, Tibor Torok raised the curtain on
ninety minutes of nail-biting mayhem.
The Argentine National Team fielded by Octavio Suarez for this critical
opening match contained several surprises in its lineup. Junior Calix had
outlasted a strong challenge from Angel Martinez and was playing a vocal,
confident style in goal.
There were no changes to the starting back four in Calderone, Suazo,
Chacon, and Bennett. It was the half back line that had the most drastic
overhaul.
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‘Señor Gol,’ Miguel Cruz, patrolled his familiar center half territory, but
due to the loss of Carlos Castillo in Montevideo and the glaring ineptitude
of his replacement, Leopoldo Anariba, Suarez had decided to make wholesale
changes. He sat down the defensive-minded Humberto Valasquez in favor of
an all-Independiente half line.
B squad halves Ricardo Arzu and Francis Argueta, both 25, both from
Independiente, were inserted into the A squad’s roster immediately after the
final warm-up match. Things worked well initially, the two new additions
being used to working with Cruz on a regular basis with their club team. But
there was dissension among the non-Independiente players over this perceived
favoritism. The matter was made worse by the fear of Juan Chacon and his
more arrogant than ever club-mates overhearing the disenchanted and taking
personal retribution.
Daniele Bennett, the rock-solid fullback with Italian and English roots,
had been appointed team captain by Octavio Suarez, but there was no doubting
the fact that ugly Juan Chacon was the man to whom everyone in the locker
room deferred. He ran the clubhouse as if it were his personal fiefdom and had
his underlings from Independiente create whatever distraction or amusement
for which he felt in the mood. Sometimes it was unyielding heckling of a
National Team member that had made a bad play or had done something off
the field that could be used against him. The Anariba twins were a constant
source of low humor.
While Juan Chacon derived several hearty bouts of laughter at his
unfortunate teammate’s expense, the undercurrent of hatred and contempt
felt
by those not of his ilk was tearing the team apart.
Octavio Suarez was aware of the problem that the Independiente group
was creating, but his job was to produce a World Championship team, not
to babysit a bunch of whiners. He would let Chacon and his band have the
limelight on the night of the opening match, but if any of them failed to
perform, they would find themselves watching the contest from the pine rail.
Finally, the forward line, the place where Nicodemo Garcia would have
worked his magic . . . if only! Goal scorer Ruben Gitares was a staple on the
right wing, while Independiente ’ s Enrique Rios retained his training camp
center forward position by default. Newcomer Ramon Vida patrolled the left
wing, which was a change of position for the confident shooter, but one Suarez
felt was necessary to generate some of the lost offensive punch of which Garcia’s
death had deprived them.
Nicolas Pastor, the incumbent winger, had seemed like a fish out of water
after his primary feeder and club-mate Castillo went down. Ramon Vida was
given an opening during one practice scrimmage, scored three times, and never
left the A squad. His presence in the lineup did not thrill the Independiente
men, for Vida still carried a huge grudge over his friend Renaldo’s misfortune.
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The Boca Juniors player would mouth off at Chacon and company at every
opportunity. He had pummeled Francis Argueta in a locker room dustup that
saw him gain considerable respect, as well as distance, from his antagonists.
“Loco,” was how Argueta described his vicious assailant. Vida could very
easily have taken the Independiente’s man’s life, so savage was his display of
temper. Rumors of ‘The Loco One’ having a .357 magnum handgun in his
possession at the training facility further deterred any thoughts of settling
accounts on the part of Argueta’s cronies.
Ramon Vida’s reputation as a Boca gang leader and street fighter had been
picked up by the press during the course of his meteoric ride into the national
spotlight. The other members of the Argentine National Team had read the
stories as well, and they all knew that if there was one person on the team that
was not going to take any nonsense from Chacon and his lackeys, it was their
recently promoted left wing forward.
But the hour was at hand to put aside all the petty jealousy and childish
games. It was only ‘The Game’ that mattered now!
The eleven men who had stood moist-eyed through a stirring rendition
of the Argentine national anthem were about to cast aside their powder-blue
warm-up jackets and step over the threshold into either ecstasy or agony. All of
Argentina had waited years for this very moment, and these were the men who
held the nation’s pride at their feet.
The starting lineup for the National Team of Argentina was as follows on
the night of June 2, 1978:
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The Hungarians had shown flashes of brilliance in the qualifying rounds
to get to Buenos Aires, defeating both Bolivia and the Soviet Union. It was
said that they did not travel well and tended to be individualistic rather than
a unified team. That assessment was the furthest thing from the truth during
the opening ten minutes of the game.
The Hungarians sent four-man waves to attack the Argentine goal from
the opening whistle. Torok was set loose up the middle on three different
occasions by the precise foot of Attila Nagy. This lanky center half controlled
the midfield to such a degree in the early going that Octavio Suarez thought
that his side must be short one man.
Sandor Kovacs and Jozsef Laszlo on the red-shirted Hungarian’s wings
were a constant threat to pound home a rebound, and first blood was drawn
by halfback Zoltan Kaiser utilizing that exact scenario. A half parried save
by Junior Calix at the ten-minute mark found the attacking Kaiser with the
ball at his feet and a wide-open net. He made certain of his shot and gave his
countrymen the lead, 1-0.
Seventy-five thousand hearts sank, their voices no longer shrill, their
banners and flags limp. What was happening? The powder-blue and white
team had barely made it over the midfield stripe and had recorded no shots to
their credit. Ricardo Arzu had been directly victimized by the goal, for Kaiser
was his mark. The wily Torok had also left him clutching air on two occasions.
Miguel Cruz had not touched the ball as yet, and what was worse, the constant
pressure on the back line had led to finger-pointing and derogatory shouts of
blame among the Argentine players. To slow the fleet Magyars down, the halves
and defenders were constantly resorting to rough tackles, sweater grabbing, and
in Juan Chacon’s case, a few well-placed elbows. Free kicks were the Hungarians
reward for their inhospitable treatment, and by the time Kaiser’s blast entered
the net, the home side was thoroughly dazed and confused.
Octavio Suarez was a patient man, however, and he realized that the
tremendous pressure his charges were playing under would be certain to
unnerve them initially. The manager would wait to make any changes. It was
still too early to act.
Unfortunately, the remaining thirty-five minutes of the first half did
nothing to reinforce that theory. The men of Argentina were dismal! It was
only the acrobatic skills of Junior Calix that closed the door on disaster. There
was no coordination between the backs and halves, no precise clearing passes,
no stylish football, just bumbling miscues.
The Hungarians were everywhere, throwing even their sweeper, Ferenc
Doza, forward into the attack on several occasions. A post and a crossbar came
to Calix’s aid on two occasions. Had it not been for the off-line clearing of six-
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foot, four-inch Ignacio Suazo and the brutal punishment being dealt out by
‘Killer’ Juan Chacon, the score could have reached double figures.
There seemed to be no help from the midfield whatsoever. In fact, they
remained totally invisible, except when left prone on the ground after being
beaten to the ball by a fleet red-shirt, or being reprimanded by the referee for
an obstruction or a foul. Not one of the three Argentine forwards had touched
the ball in the entire first half of play, a happenstance that Octavio Suarez
had never encountered before. There was no flow, no rhythm, no attack. The
manager was permitted only two substitutions, and he knew that the outcome
of the game and perhaps his team’s fate in the entire tournament rested on how
wisely those selections were made.
It was clear that Independiente halfback Ricardo Arzu was out of his
element on this night, and in his place, Suarez called upon defensive specialist
Humberto Velasquez to stem the Hungarian offensive tide. His options were
much more limited for the second substitution. How could he take out a
forward when none of them had been tested yet? The back line was holding
up well under severe pressure, so the only alternative was to add another new
halfback.
Migu
el Cruz had to stay in the game, for he was their leading goal scorer
and a potential catalyst to ignite the offense. ‘Señor Gol’ had to produce in the
second half, there was no doubt about that. The other wing half spot, currently
occupied by Francis Argueta, had to be the second change. But who would go
in to replace him? A look around the somber dressing room stopped at the
player wearing number seventeen on his tracksuit.
That could be it! Brilliant, brilliant! thought Suarez as he called the
player to his side. “If only that foot holds up, this might be our spark,” Suarez
commented under his breath.
“De Seta! Get over here!”
The occupant of seats 1 & 2, row 8, field level section 365, raised the
field glasses he was holding to his eyes. It was fortunate that he had been
able to persuade the army captain in charge of security in this section of the
stadium that the metal armrest between his two seats should be removed in
the interest of national security. He was, after all, a high-ranking colonel in the
army reserves, with direct links to the president and the junta.
He had insisted the previous day that the armrest be removed, indicating
that he would take full responsibility. The young captain had no recourse other
than to oblige the colonel’s request. Looking at the resplendently dressed tub of
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lard in all his finest military regalia conjured up images of his enormous girth
blocking the escape route in an emergency. It also occurred to the captain that
he would have to deal with this windbag for the entire tournament. It might be
best to take heed of him in order to make the experience bearable.
That discussion had taken place on the afternoon of June first, just over
twenty-four hours earlier. When the boisterous colonel and his entourage
arrived to take their seats for the opening ceremonies and initial match of the
1978 World Cup, it was found that his militarily clad bulk would not fit into
the newly renovated seats.
The colonel claimed that this was an outrage, that these same seats had
been in his family for many years, and that there had been nothing wrong with
the continual bench-style seat that had always been there. He had personally
sat in seat numbers 1 and 2, right on the aisle, since the days of his youth.
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