sense of confidence to the practice field.
Calix, De Seta, Anariba, Velasquez, Vida, and Castro would all be on the
pitch for the kickoff against the Poles, just as Suarez had promised.
So would Juan Chacon, who had held his tongue and his temper after the
unceremonious dressing down he had received.
The other Independiente players were not pleased with the starting roster,
particularly Miguel Cruz, but they kept silent about their feelings in public.
For once, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that control of this team was
back in the hands of Octavio Suarez.
The effects of the personal affront that Lydia De Seta had leveled on
Wolfgang Stoltz were still evident when the German came face-to-face with
his employer in Rosario the following afternoon. Stoltz had driven his two-
seat Mercedes 350 SL at breakneck speed back to the capital immediately
following his dismissal from Buenos Recuerdos. Originally, he had planned to
take Florencia to a luxurious cottage on the Paraná River that was close enough
to Rosario to allow him to attend the football games and do some business.
It would have been perfect, for the location was far enough away from the
continuous silliness of the World Cup that Florencia detested so.
But she would have no part of a romantic liaison after the visit with her
mother-in-law. Florencia had never witnessed the always self-assured Stoltz in
such foul humor, and the more he rambled on about his inability to change his
past, the angrier she became with Lydia De Seta.
It is time to put the old witch in her place, Florencia thought to herself. She
had told Stoltz that she wanted to return to Buenos Aires to compile all the
trust and corporate documents that pertained to the De Seta family fortune.
She would turn these documents over to A.R. Gordero and Sons, who would
then assist her in wrestling control of the financial throne of the empire from
the old lady in Pergamino. That was the only good piece of news that the
humiliated lawyer had for Astor Gordero.
“Why that shriveled up old bitch! How dare she insult you in such a
manner! Those English are made of stone, they have no feelings at all. Such
31
JAMES McCREATH
arrogant people. I detest them! Don’t worry, Wolfie. You will have your revenge.
Many things can happen to the frail and elderly that are hard to explain. Illness,
injury, robbery, who knows, even an untimely death! We gave the old bag a
chance to do things aboveboard. Now we have to deal with her in a more heavy-
handed manner. Believe me, Wolfie, nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to
derail my plans to control the De Seta financial empire. By the way, I called
Rodrigues personally to tell him that Florencia would be unavailable for the
next two weeks. We must become more ruthless in our approach from now on.
So, let us drink a toast to the timely demise of Señora Lydia De Seta!”
The familiar storm of confetti and white streamers greeted the national
heroes as they emerged from the player’s tunnel of Rosario Central Stadium
on the evening of June fourteenth. The sea of powder-blue and white flags and
banners duplicated the atmosphere and aura of River Plate Stadium.
The lineup changes were not the only thing that was different about the
Argentine team. Octavio Suarez had insisted on his players wearing white shorts
with powder-blue piping instead of the traditional black trunks. Something
to do with an old superstition that the manager had, and one that he was
unwilling to explain to anyone.
Poland kicked off and went on the attack immediately. Calix was forced
to make two fine saves in the first minute of play. The home side defenders
seemed nervous and tentative at first, but the half line played deep enough in
their own zone to lend a helping hand in those crucial opening moments.
A Jorge Calderone clearance to Renaldo De Seta sent the boy streaming
upfield on Argentina’s first legitimate offensive foray. Although no goal resulted
from this initial rush, one could see the confidence build in the powder-blue
and white team by the minute. The Poles were ruthless in defense, and many an
Argentine body lay prostrate on the pitch after an intimate exchange with one
of the foreigners. The home side was able to give as well as take, however, and
Juan Chacon was at his nastiest every time a red-stripped player came within
range.
Renaldo was starting to feel at ease with the pace of the game by ten
minutes in. He had space to maneuver, perhaps in part due to his relative
anonymity. He had not played enough at this level to be scouted and feared.
All the better for me, he thought to himself as his runs upfield became more
fluid, his passes more precise. Ramon Vida was experiencing the same kind of
freedom for his part on the forward line. A cross bar was all that stood between
him and pay-dirt in the twelfth minute.
32
RENALDO
The biggest surprise of all was the continued fine play of Leopoldo Anariba,
who went after every Polish player that dared try his wing with the tenacity of
a pit bull. In the fifteenth minute, the Racing Club halfback relieved Polish
captain Kazimierz of the ball, then turned and headed up his wing. Ramon
Vida was making a strong run up the middle, and was in a perfect position
to accept Anariba’s cargo. He hadn’t traveled ten yards however, before he was
felled by two visiting defenders. Because Vida was not in possession of the ball,
no obstruction foul was called. To the disgust of the multitude, the referee
motioned for play to continue.
Renaldo De Seta had swung wide to overlap the fallen Vida on his right.
The defense was frozen for a split second, awaiting the referee’s judgment on the
tackle that felled the home-side striker. If the Polish defense seemed hesitant,
Leopoldo Anariba certainly didn’t. Deeper and deeper into foreign territory
raced the Argentine halfback, until at last, he saw his opportunity to make a
play.
Traversing the field toward the right corner, De Seta had only one man to
beat as he neared the penalty area. Anariba had his wits about him, for he laid a
perfect floating ball twenty-five yards upfield, directly on the handsome head of
his still on-side youngest teammate. Renaldo De Seta’s header on the dead run
from seven yards out was true. Argentina 1, Poland 0 after sixteen minutes!
Thunder roared down from the Gallery Gods. The sky turned white with
paper snowflakes set against an undulating powder-blue and white backdrop.
A brilliant play! An astonishing goal! Ramon Vida was the first to embrace the
marksman.
“Hey, hotshot, you said it was my turn to score the goals tonight. You’re
still too ugly to get that nose in the newspapers, man!” Vida had a grin on his
face from ear to ear.
“I said the winning goal, Ramon. There is still time for you to show the
world your stuff. Where is Anariba?”
At that moment, the man that made the goal happen joined the intimate
circle of two.
“Bravo, Leopoldo, bravo! A perfect pass, and a fine, fine, run!”
Renaldo clapp
ed his hands approvingly as he congratulated his playmaker.
More powder-blue and white jerseys joined the gathering, until Swedish referee
Johannsen had to reprimand the home team for delaying the game.
The Poles redoubled their effort to take the game to Argentina’s doorstep.
Renaldo’s half line was forced to play deep inside their own zone in a defensive
role for most of the next twenty minutes. The red team’s break came when their
star striker, Jerzy Wojciech, eluded Jorge Calderone just in front of the corner
kick marking and headed along the goal line, directly at the Argentine net.
33
JAMES McCREATH
Defender Ignacio Suazo loomed quickly in Wojciech’s path, but the agile
forward eluded the more cumbersome defender and carried on his road to glory.
The beaten Suazo was not above using his gangliness to his advantage at a time
like this, however, be it legal or illegal. A long leg reached back and upended
his adversary. The ball skidded safely out of play.
Suazo had wisely made certain that his foul occurred just outside the
penalty area, but the ensuing free kick from the irate Wojciech proved to be
trouble enough, especially for young Renaldo De Seta.
Wojciech’s lofty service arched over the four-man Argentine defensive
wall perfectly. An outstretched Junior Calix had to turn into a human pretzel
to flick the ball over his head and away from the goalmouth. Unfortunately,
the globe landed squarely on Juan Chacon’s shoulder, just to the side of the near
goalpost. The startled fullback could only nudge the ball back into play.
Chacon’s half touch was good enough for Marek Tyc. The pint-sized
whirlwind of a Polish forward needed only a slight touch of his head to send
the object on its way into the gaping Argentine net. Only one obstruction stood
in its path . . . player number seventeen in powder-blue and white.
Renaldo had initially lined up for Wojciech’s kick on the goal line, some
five yards behind his keeper, Junior Calix. He chose for his mark on the ensuing
play the dangerous Polish striker Stanislaw Grzegorz. Big, blond, handle bar-
mustachioed Grzegorz was lethal around the opposing goal, and Renaldo knew
that he had to stick to him like a second skin.
The Argentine center half watched the ball’s flight as it rebounded off his
two teammates and was sent goalward by Tyc, all the while trying to keep one
eye on Grzegorz. The Pole had dropped back several yards to await a rebound
from a better shooting perspective, and the boy found himself mesmerized,
alone, and the sole defender of his nation’s honor.
Tyc’s header came spiraling toward the open right side of the net. It was
too high to deflect with his legs or torso, and in that split second, Renaldo’s
inexperience and youthful enthusiasm got the better of him. An outstretched
right fist diverted the ball’s flight to safety, but the consequences were
instantaneous and dire.
The rookie knew that he had committed an unforgivable faux pas the
instant he felt leather on flesh. Humiliated, he sank to his knees on the goal
line. Juan Chacon had his usual words of encouragement.
“You stupid little shit! What the fuck are you doing out here? This isn’t
one of your fancy pants school yards you’re playing in now, pretty boy! This is
the World Cup! If you can’t play the game, get off the field!”
A glassy-eyed youngster could only stare up into the ugliest face on the
planet. Ramon Vida appeared at that moment and stood toe-to-toe with the
insulting defender.
34
RENALDO
“Leave him alone, Chacon! It was your goddamned touch that put the
ball right on that Polack’s head. Without Renaldo on the line, you would have
given them a sure goal. Now at least Junior has a chance to save the penalty!”
The veteran keeper joined the discussion at that point, hoisting De Seta
to his feet.
“Don’t worry, Renaldo. It was a sure goal without you there. Leave it to
me now! Just play your game, and don’t worry about this.”
Laslo Kazimierz was the somewhat peculiar choice to take the red team’s
opportunity. Surely there were more adept marksmen on the Polish side than
their aging midfield captain. Nevertheless, it was Kazimierz that stood some
twenty yards away from the crouched Junior Calix as he began his run toward
the ball.
In this game of cat and mouse, the keeper has to guess correctly in his
directional moves or he is left alone on the turf clutching nothing but air. The
bright yellow sun on the national flag of Argentina must have been shining
down on Junior Calix this particular day, for he guessed correctly, and arose
from his lunge grasping the treasured black-and-white sphere. Kazimierz’s
poor effort had landed directly in Calix’s arms. The score was still Argentina 1,
Poland 0, and the actions of Renaldo De Seta had been somewhat vindicated.
Octavio Suarez had nothing but praise for his men at the interval. There
seemed to be the confidence-building within the starting eleven that he had
hoped the lineup changes would foster. Some brief words of encouragement and
a reminder not to get too anxious out on the pitch was the only advice offered
to number seventeen by the manager.
Renaldo felt badly that he had put the team in that often lethal penalty
situation, and he was certain that there was no one in the world more relieved
with Junior Calix’s save than the half back from Newton’s Prefects Under
Twenty-one team.
The final forty-five minutes of play were the most sparkling of the
tournament to date. Both teams lunged and parried at a steady, gut-wrenching
pace. The keepers were tested to the limit at each end of Central Stadium, and
the dramatic tension built by the minute.
The Poles pressed the attack, seeking the Golden Fleece. Junior Calix
barred the door on each occasion. Leaping, diving, sprawling, the goaltender
would not allow his net to be violated.
Renaldo De Seta had drawn much closer marking immediately following
his tally, but as time waned, he found himself with acres of open territory each
time Argentina cleared the ball upfield. The offensive-minded red-shirts were
susceptible to a fast-breaking counterattack.
At exactly the seventieth minute, Calix cleared a long, soft shot that he
had trapped. His quick overhand throw was well-placed fifteen yards upfield,
35
JAMES McCREATH
directly to a surprised Juan Chacon. It was lucky for The Ugly One that Calix’s
pass was on the spot, for Chacon had lost his assignment, the ever-present Polish
striker Marek Tyc. The little whiz-bang Pole had left the plodding defender in
his wake en route to the goalmouth. Even Chacon’s attempted elbow to slow
down his adversary had missed its mark, too high to strike pay-dirt. Now,
‘Killer’ stood alone in possession of the ball, with all the enemy attackers
behind him awaiting the rebound that Calix never surrendered.
Space was not something Juan Chacon had seen a lot of that evening, for
he had played an exhaustive role assisting his acrobatic keeper shut out the
persistent E
uropeans. The Poles were not intimidated by his threats or his
appearance, however, and they gave as well as they took in the trenches. For
once, defender number eight had some room to take a stroll, and that is exactly
what he did. There was no red jersey for forty yards in front of him.
The crowd cheered to see this rare sight. Every football fan in Argentina
knew that Juan Chacon ran like a bull moose in heat. A distinctive half lope,
half quick-waddle. Fans pointed fingers and broke into spontaneous laughter.
Even the nearest Polish defenders did a double take upon seeing this most
ungraceful of visions.
It was Octavio Suarez that ruined the fun. The second Chacon started his
run upfield, the manager left the dugout. By the time he reached the sideline,
Suarez still could not believe what he was seeing. He called out to the heavens
for an explanation.
“Juan Chacon making a run upfield? Is he crazy? What the fuck is he
thinking of? Chacon! Chacon! Get rid of that ball and get back where you
belong! Who do you think you are, Franz Beckinbauer?”
The manager’s reference to the multitalented, world-class German sweeper
was laughable. Luckily for Suarez, his big defender was within earshot of the
boss, and number eight suddenly realized that he was leaving a gaping hole in
the defense behind him. The nearest player he could direct his treasure toward
wearing powder-blue and white was number seventeen.
Renaldo De Seta graciously accepted his tormentor’s gift. He had followed
his deformed teammate upfield and was ten yards deep into the Polish half
when the parcel arrived. Ramon Vida was on the move to his right, and the
center half placed the ball directly at his friend’s galloping feet.
Vida was poetry in motion. A swing of his hips one way, then another,
kept the last line of Polish defenders guessing. Three Europeans closed for the
kill twenty-five yards from the Polish goal line.
“Come on, come and get me!” Vida shouted as he plunged ahead. Over his
right shoulder he could feel the looming presence of defender Antoni Wroclaw,
whose outstretched right leg swept for the ball. Vida saw the flash of stocking
as it approached and deftly sure-footed the prize six yards to his left.
36
RENALDO
Renaldo Page 61