Gitares back-healed the ball to Miguel Cruz, who was making a parallel run,
ten yards to the winger’s left. Cruz gathered in the orb and strode straight
towards the goal. Two defenders and the keeper converged on the center half,
the keeper diving at Cruz’ feet in an attempt to steal away the cherished object.
Unfortunately for Toth, the ball once again squirted loose as he and Cruz
tumbled to the ground in a heap. Only a few feet from this tangle of opposing
players stood Jorge Calderone. The sphere was his and his alone. It was as if this
one play was his reward for a stellar performance. With a gaping net twenty
yards away, he made no mistake. 2-1 Argentina!
‘Thunderstruck,’ was the only word to describe the feeling that swept over
Renaldo De Seta as the ball entered the net. The piercing burst of hysteria that
enveloped those on the pitch was beyond imagination. Once again, the white
streamers and confetti rained down from the heavens. The lengthy roar was
eventually transformed into the bravado-induced chant “Argentina! Argentina!
Argentina!” The initial outburst had actually startled Renaldo, for he had never
before played the game at a time when so much was at stake.
The Hungarians would not roll over and allow the partisan fans to
continue their celebration, however. Approximately six minutes remained until
time, and the Magyars went for the equalizer with a bloody vengeance.
Possession of the ball became the battle cry, and the Europeans stretched
the limits of fair play to make sure that it remained on their feet. Señor Garando,
the Portuguese referee, was all over the field trying to calm tempers and keep
play moving.
Torok and Nagy created several anxious moments in front of Junior Calix,
for those two in particular would not be denied the ball. As a result, they found
themselves in the thick of the rough-and-tumble play, and that meant having
to deal with the ever-abrasive Juan Chacon.
It was the brave Torok that dared to defy the monster at the gate with a
bold charge straight for the goal. The Hungarian center forward had gathered
in a pass on the full run as he crossed the half line and was bearing down on
number seventeen in powder-blue and white. In a split second, Renaldo had
to decide whether to go after the streaking red-shirt or fall back and cover his
opposing winger.
At that moment, Miguel Cruz buzzed into the picture and took a shot
at disarming Torok. The Hungarian neatly slipped by the attempted tackle,
but he was temporarily distracted. It was just the break that Renaldo figured
he needed. The rookie Argentine set out after the Magyar, allowing Daniele
Bennett to cover his mark. He worried about his heel for perhaps half a stride,
then instinct took over.
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The boy loved chasing down opponents and disarming them. He found
it even more exhilarating than scoring goals, if the truth be known. Torok
was thirty-five yards out when Renaldo left his feet. The hulking form of Juan
Chacon loomed ahead. Torok had to either shoot or feint away from Chacon.
The Ugly One was now advancing full speed at the intruder. A slight deke to
his right brought the red-shirt one step closer to the outstretched right foot of
number seventeen. That was all that was necessary.
The ball skittered harmlessly away after making contact with Renaldo’s
laces, and Torok, Renaldo, and of course, Juan Chacon, ended up in a three-
man love-in on the turf. Surprisingly, Chacon’s forearm seemed to find the
Hungarian’s chin somewhere in the entanglement, and in retaliation, Torok’s
elbow seemed to find Renaldo’s nose.
Totally unexpected, the blow brought tears of pain to the boy’s eyes as he
sprawled on his back holding his broken, bleeding, proboscis. Fortunately, the
referee had witnessed only the retaliatory act by the visitor. Once again, Juan
Chacon’s timing had been perfect. The red card was shown without hesitation
to Torok, and his fervent argument that he was only defending himself fell on
deaf ears.
The Hungarians, to a man, were irate. They swarmed referee Garando.
He was cool enough to ignore their protestations as the training staff attended
to the downed Argentine. As the two trainers knelt beside Renaldo, wiping
away the blood, Juan Chacon stood directly over the boy offering kind words
of sympathy.
“Get up, you little crybaby. The whole fucking world is watching you lay
there getting your diaper changed. This is a man’s sport. If you want to play
with the big boys, you better be ready to take that shit. Now either get off the
field or stand up and play!”
“I’ll play, don’t worry about me,” was the boy’s calm response as he pushed
away the trainers and rose to his feet. The bleeding had not altogether stopped,
and he was forced to wipe the stream of blood with his jersey. Ramon Vida was
at his side now.
“Hey, man, you look great. Really nails. Those Hunkies won’t come near
you now! Your face is almost as scary as Chacon’s! Let’s go, tough guy.”
Renaldo could always count on his flippant friend to make him laugh,
even in the bleakest situations.
Less than two minutes remained until the final whistle, and despite
having to play with only ten men, the Hungarians again pressed the attack.
Unfortunately for the visitors, the tackling and interference by both sides was
so vicious that no sustained offensive thrust could be mounted.
Under one minute remained when an exchange at midfield between
Nagy and Cruz sent Señor Garando to his shirt pocket once more. In this case,
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it was a matter of well-misplaced kicks to each other’s shins that saw both
players shown the red card. The fact that the Hungarian had struck the first
blow incensed the crowd, but Cruz’s retaliatory offering was done with blatant
attempt to injure, giving the referee no alternative. That did not mean that the
volatile Cruz would depart in a gentlemanly fashion. He had several choice
words for Señor Garando before Octavio Suarez ordered him off the field from
the sideline.
The dilemma for Suarez was immediate. Because of his expulsion, Cruz
had to sit out Argentina’s next match against France. As the final whistle
sounded, ringing in Argentina’s initial victory in their quest for world football
supremacy, Octavio Suarez was a worried man. He knew that the four days
of preparation that his depleted team was afforded before battling the French
was not nearly enough time to put the pieces together. There was no time for
retrospection, and there was no time for savoring this victory. The future was
all that mattered!
France had lost to Italy in a heartbreaking 2-1 game at Mar del Plata that
afternoon. To avoid elimination, the French had to beat Argentina. Suarez knew
that his charges would face a tenacious, determined opponent. Thoughts of
Napoleon’s gallant armies marching to victory after victory filled the manager’s
mind with anxiety. Luckily, the boss was able to conjure up the one thought
that finally erased the
scene from existence. It was the fact that there had been
one Waterloo for the French already. Hopefully, the contest at the River Plate
battlefield would be the second.
The eleven names that illuminated the giant scoreboard under the
host country’s name on the evening of June sixth provided ample cause for
speculation. The starting lineup for this decisive match against France had
been the best kept secret in Argentina. All press and visitors had been barred
from the practice pitch, which had been shrouded in a twelve-foot high, solid
wood fence. No one, players, coaches, or the manager himself, was allowed to
discuss strategy during the inevitable interviews decreed by FIFA. The starting
lineup tended to give credence to a rumor that had been circulating freely
in the press. There was talk of a falling out between Octavio Suarez and his
Independiente players, and the resultant purge by the manager had left only
one of their number on the starting roster.
That player, the indomitable and irreplaceable Juan Chacon, had given
veiled hints of his dissatisfaction with the player selection in an interview the
day before the French contest. The real story had Chacon and Suarez almost
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coming to blows over the replacement of Arzu, Argueta, and now even Enrique
Rios from the A squad. With Miguel Cruz’s suspension, the number of
Independiente players that started the tournament’s second game for the home
side fell to one. Five had started the previous game. Juan Chacon interpreted
the action of the National Team manager as an affront to his club-mates and
himself, and confronted Suarez in his office. Rumors abounded that ‘The Ugly
One’ had to be physically restrained from attacking Suarez by coach Estes
Santos.
The answers that the Gallery Gods were waiting for were about to be
revealed as the Swiss referee blew his whistle and pointed to Ramon Vida. The
young center forward was grinning from ear to ear as he nodded affirmation
and flicked the ball back ten yards to center half Renaldo De Seta. The strategy
of manager Suarez’ game plan was now evident for all to see.
He had moved the ‘dynamic duo’ to the middle of the playing field, the
location where they felt most comfortable. Enrique Rios had been removed
from the center forward spot due to his indifferent play, and on the wing,
Nicholas Pastor, the perennial A squad forward, was nowhere to be seen.
In his place stood veteran Caesar Castro, the River Plate winger who was
on his home turf and patrolling the same terra firma that he owned during
club matches. Suarez was gambling that the thirty-year-old Castro would
feel comfortable in the well-known confines of River Plate Stadium. Vida and
Castro had worked together as B squad forwards many times since the start of
training, so they were well acquainted. Only Ruben Gitares remained on the
front line from the original A squad eleven.
The half line held two surprises. One was De Seta, but the other was even
more of a shock. Instead of either of the two Independiente halves available to
him, Suarez had chosen to go with another B player in the often overwhelmed
Leopoldo Anariba. Again, the manager was sending out the message that there
were no secure postings on the starting eleven. Four B players now patrolled
the Argentine middle and left side. Cruz’s expulsion had opened the door for
Suarez to regain control of his team. The eleven men in powder-blue and white
stockings had received the signal loud and clear.
The red stockings of the French embraced legs that possessed startling
speed, intelligent improvisation, cleverness, and imagination. France had
scored on Italy after only thirty-eight seconds of their opening match. It was a
goal that would stand as the prettiest and best executed end-to-end rush of the
tournament. Italy had managed to regroup and emerge victorious, but Suarez
was afraid that a similar opening flurry by the French would severely rattle his
young charges.
Although Junior Calix was tested twice in the early going, the Argentines
parried their opponent’s opening assaults and then countered with a skillful
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attack of their own. The match had an energy level that Renaldo De Seta had
never experienced before.
Gone were the clutch and grab tactics of the Hungarians. This was pure,
fluid football, and the boy loved it. The navy-blue-shirted, white-shorted
Frenchmen were every bit as cagey as Suarez had warned. The flow of play
never ebbed for a moment as both teams played poker with their opponent’s
defenses.
De Seta and Vida had several bright moments together, none culminating
in the sought-after reward, however. Castro and Anariba seemed to be holding
their own, and as the last minute of the first half loomed, manager Suarez was
generally pleased with what he had observed.
Renaldo’s heel was holding up well to this point, and he had not seemed
out of place among the artful French playmakers. The pace of the game had been
hectic, with numerous fast-breaking counterattacks by both sides. Nevertheless,
Argentina’s youngest player remained stalwart in defense, managing to mark
his opposite number with suffocating efficiency.
With the clock set to summon the two teams to the dressing room for the
interval, the French mysteriously seemed to let up for a few moments. Ramon
Vida was able to undress French defender Yves Herve from the ball deep inside
the European zone and relay it to his young friend, De Seta. Renaldo gathered
in the pass on the full run and beat a path directly toward the French goal. He
was met inside the penalty area by France’s captain, defender Christian Thiery.
The powerfully built Thiery wasted no time in diving at his opponent’s feet
and sending both men sprawling to the turf.
The tackle had been legal, but as the Frenchman fell, his left arm seemed
to make contact with the ball, sending it safely out of harm’s way, over the
touch line. Ramon Vida was instantly at the referee’s side pointing to his hand
and vehemently stating his case for a hand-ball foul. The Swiss official strode
to the sideline to confer with his linesman, who had had a better vantage point
from which to see the disputed play. Vida was on Mr. Raabsamen’s heels the
entire width of the field. He kept up a constant chatter as the two officials
conferred and his persistence paid off.
Turning to make his way back across the pitch, the referee gave a slight
flick of his wrist to indicate that he concurred with Señor Vida and ran directly
to the penalty spot. The crowd erupted in sheer delight as league leading goal
scorer Ruben Gitares stepped up to the ball and awaited the referee’s signal. On
the whistle, he deftly nestled the orb in the back of the French goal, blasting a
shot in the opposite direction from the sprawling keeper, Jean-Marc Poullain.
Referee Raabsamen again brought the whistle to his lips, this time signaling
the half. The home side was ecstatic, the visiting Europeans stunned.
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There were no substituti
ons for either side as the second half commenced.
The French took to the attack like a team possessed, and well they should, for
a loss would send them home disqualified. The Argentine defensive back line
had remained intact after the Hungarian contest, and as usual, Juan Chacon
was handing out his greeting cards to any French player who came close enough
to collect one.
Twenty-year-old wing half Martín Palance was the heart and soul of the
French offensive thrust. Time and time again, he defied the ugly Argentine
with lightning sorties into the shadow of the powder-blue and white goal. He
was rewarded for his dexterity in the sixty-first minute with the equalizing
tally, converting a finely honed shot that had rebounded onto his foot off the
crossbar. Countryman Didier Onze and two Argentine defenders were actually
inside the net when the ball passed over the line. The great cliffs fell silent. The
scoreboard did not lie! It was a tie game, and anybody’s contest.
Among the advantages held by the home side at this particular point in
the match was the fact that the starting French keeper, Jean-Marc Poullain, had
to be carried from the field at the fifty-eighth minute. The unfortunate goalie
had been injured by crashing his back into the upright post while making a
particularly acrobatic save. His replacement, Michel Delaroche, was the older
of the two men by five years. At age thirty-one, many thought that he had seen
better days.
Despite this setback, Palance continued to be the spark that rallied the
men in the dark-blue shirts. Forward, forward, like Napoleon’s Imperial Guard,
they wore the coq proudly. Didier Onze was to come the closest to being
crowned the emperor when Palance set him free on a magnificent run. With
only Junior Calix to beat, from twelve yards out he pulled the lanyard of his
cannon. Calix sprawled to his left, clutching nothing but air.
The solid shot projectile hurtled unobstructed toward the enemy’s
headquarters. Onze followed its trajectory, confident in his ability as a master
artilleryman. This would be the coup de grâce! The foe was finished. France
would be victorious. But wait, what was this? For some unexplained reason, the
shot misfired. His attempt wide by inches, the despondent Frenchman fell to
his knees and grabbed his flowing mane in both hands. Agony!
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