Lonnie removed the cork from a bottle of cheap whisky that he had
purchased in town and took another long pull. He lay down on his cot as the
alcohol’s magic swept over him.
“Good Lord, the papers will be full of him tomorrow. I’ll have to go
and purchase every one of them. My little brother is a fucking national hero!
Amazing!”
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“Black pants and stockings! I want you to look as sinister as possible
tonight against these ‘Samba Sweethearts.’ This isn’t going to be any garden
party out there. You must assert yourselves early and often. Don’t give these
bastards the space they need to execute their stylish fucking ball control game.
I want you in their faces all night! I want your mother’s maiden name tattooed
on their asses by the time they come off at the half. Does each and every one of
you understand me?” Octavio Suarez had a look on his face that told each of his
charges that they had better not disappoint the manager or their time on the
pitch would be short-lived.
Suarez would use every tactic available to promote an abrasive attitude on
the field, and even changing the shorts and stockings from white to black was
a ploy used to instill confidence and aggression.
The Brazilians had beaten Peru 3-0 in Mendoza four days earlier, and
they seemed to be revving up their offensive machine now that they had left
the inhospitable climes of Mar del Plata. That was exactly what Octavio Suarez
feared the most, that the talented neighbors to the north would hit full stride
this night in Rosario.
The starting eleven for Argentina contained one major surprise. Against all
speculation, Miguel Cruz started at center half over Renaldo De Seta. Suarez’s
only comment to the boy wearing number seventeen was that he wanted keep
the youngster fresh for the second half. This move would also temporarily
relieve some of the enormous pressure and expectation that had come to rest
on his shoulders.
Renaldo was disappointed with his mentor’s decision, but raised no
objection. What Octavio Suarez was most concerned about was that the
Brazilians would go after his new scoring sensation’s tender Achilles’ heel in an
attempt to drive him from the game. The manager had seen the yellow shirts
use this approach before, and their wily defenders had developed the practice
to an art-form. Better to let Cruz take a beating in the first half and see how
the game developed.
The powder-blue and white sea of spectators, once again, showered their
heroes in a white froth of streamers and confetti as they took the field. The
Hungarian referee, Mr. Kukla, was all smiles as the two captains shook hands
and took part in the ceremonial coin toss. His smile would fade quickly once
he blew his whistle to commence the match.
Argentina had not beaten the Brazilians in eight years. That pressure,
plus the intensity of this World Cup fixture, was evident instantly. Suarez’s pep
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talk was taken to heart, and the hosts conceded their first free kick after only
ten seconds.
Cheap shots abounded everywhere, and the stunned European official
seemed incapable of gaining control of the match. Six fouls were called in
the first three minutes, and there was no flow to the little bit of football that
managed to escape the rough-and-tumble proceedings.
Scoring chances were initially scarce, but crafty Brazilian left winger João
Batista started to exploit an overcautious Humberto Velasquez with short give-
and-go overlapping thrusts, using the full support of his offensive-minded
midfielders. These exchanges resulted in three almost identical saves at the top
of his right goal area for Junior Calix in the space of five minutes.
Were it not for the continued ill-temper of the game with its lumbering
pace due to stoppages, the Brazilians could have set the tempo to their Samba
beat and done some real damage. As it was, they seemed more intent on
defending their manly honor with every injustice offered them.
While the yellow shirts dominated what little soccer one could pick out
of the first half, they went to their dressing room with nothing to show for it.
Argentina’s midfield had done exactly what Octavio Suarez had asked of them,
but their ‘in your face’ execution had not produced one clear scoring chance for
the home side. The consolation was that, at least, they had kept the visitors off
the score-sheet!
Suarez was hoping for more ball possession from the rough play in the
central part of the field. Nearly all the exchanges up to the interval had gone in
Brazil’s favor. Miguel Cruz had been adequate defensively, but he seemed caught
up in demonstrating something other than football skills to his opponents. On
more than one occasion, he had a clear chance to make a move upfield with the
ball. Instead, he chose to deliver an ill-tempered thank you for any physical
affront offered by an overzealous adversary. Suarez knew it was time to take a
gamble.
“What do you mean you are taking me out of the game?” an incensed
Miguel Cruz screamed across the dressing room at Octavio Suarez. “I’ve done
everything you have asked of me. They haven’t scored yet, have they? Check
their forward Dos Santos’ butt. You will see my mother’s maiden name on
it. I stuck to him just like you asked. I’ll tell you another thing, too, that
chickenshit is hurting a whole lot, thanks to me. Last half, I defend, this half,
I score! You owe it to me. I must stay in!”
“De Seta starts! Let’s get out there and play some offensive football this
half,” was Suarez’ only reply.
“You little brownnosing cocksucker!” screamed Cruz at his replacement
sitting on the other side of the room. “What did you do, pay him off to let you
on the field? Well, I’m going to make sure that you don’t look so good if you
make it out of this room at all!”
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In an instant, Cruz was on top of Renaldo De Seta, fists flailing and a
stream of expletives spewing from his mouth. Estes Santos was the first on the
scene, managing to pull the Independiente player upright and back a few paces
from his startled adversary.
Just as Cruz opened his mouth to commence another verbal tirade, a
closed fist came crashing out of nowhere, landing squarely on the restrained
player’s lips. The sickening sound that occurs when hard knuckles meet soft
flesh reverberated throughout the suddenly silent confines.
The look of shock lasted only a second on Cruz’s face before his eyeballs
curled upward into their sockets and he collapsed backward, blood now running
freely through the gaping hole where several of his teeth used to be.
“You should learn to keep your mouth shut when the manager tells you
something, my friend. It is all for the good of the team, for the good of the
nation. We want to win the World Cup, and we must listen to our manager.
Maybe this little lesson will assist you in the future!”
There was no hint of anger in Ramon Vida’s voice as he d
elivered his
soliloquy to the fallen, unconscious Miguel Cruz. His tone was one of a soothing
parent or teacher. Everyone in the dressing room was startled by the ferocity of
the blow, and many could still hear its terrible sound inside their heads. It was
up to the manager to refocus their thoughts.
“Alright, forget about this shit. We are here for one reason only. To play
and win this football match! There is no room for personal rivalry. When this
tournament is over, I don’t care if you go out and shoot each other. But for the
next week, I own your asses. If you want to be world champions, don’t any of
you ever forget that! Argu, Arguetta, stay here and clean your friend up. If
he needs an ambulance, call the medics. Chacon, do you have anything to say
about this?”
The Ugly One stood silently looking down at his fallen brother-in-law,
shaking his head in disbelief.
“Good, now let’s go show these half-breeds how the sport is played!”
Renaldo De Seta was about to become intimately acquainted with the
current giants of Brazilian football, men he had read about in his adolescence.
Legends backed by the incessant Samba beat. Those drums and whistles! What
an amazing sound they made. And that beat! That beat always touched the
roots of his musical soul, and he knew that it really did have a lot to do with
the artistic beauty of the Brazilian game. He loved their music, their rhythm.
But not now, not for the next forty-five minutes.
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JAMES McCREATH
Suarez’s fears for the rookie’s health were realized within minutes. Number
seventeen was sent to the turf seconds after his first touch of the ball. Never a
pandering showboat when fouled, Renaldo tried to right himself instantly, but
fell to the ground clutching his damaged heel. The offending Brazilian was
nowhere to be seen.
But Juan Chacon was at the boy’s side, for the foul had occurred deep
inside Argentine territory. He said nothing, just looked at Renaldo with disgust,
then took the free kick awarded for the misdemeanor. As the play progressed
upfield into the Brazilian zone, the fallen warrior struggled to stand erect. He
failed to see the retreating enemy forward that just happened to collide with
his tender limb.
Down went the player a second time, his cry of pain piercing the night
air. Again Juan Chacon was at Renaldo’s side, only on this occasion, he was
in Brazilian forward Aleixo Cabral’s face. ‘Killer’ was all over his smaller
opponent, pushing Cabral back several yards with his massive chest while
verbally lambasting the yellow-shirt.
A linesman alerted the referee to the events behind the play, and the senior
official hastily called time and ran to separate the two antagonists. Chacon was
smart enough not to exercise his distaste for the foreigner under the watchful
eye of Mr. Kukla.
A hideous smile and an unfriendly shove were accompanied by the words,
“We will meet again, you yellow bastard!” as the two were separated. No foul
was awarded during the stoppage, for the referee had not seen the incident take
place. A trainer was now at Renaldo’s side.
“How bad is it, son?”
“Ooohh, it’s damn sore. Thank God his aim was off a bit. He got my
ankle not my heel, but he gave me a good whack. I . . . I think the heel is
alright, though. Here, take my hand, help me up.”
“Stay there for a second and I’ll give your foot a shot of aerosol freezing.
Hold still now, that’s a good boy.”
A freezing cloud of relief dissipated on the halfback’s heel and ankle.
The pain retreated instantly, if only for a short time. The trainer checked
the appendage in question for major damage and agreed with the player’s
assessment. His entire foot would be a black-and-blue mess in the morning,
but for the present, Renaldo appeared fit to carry on.
‘Carrying on’ was certainly easier said than done. Every time he put
pressure on his battered limb, the pain sent shockwaves to his brain. The
substitute center half was reduced to hobbling about the midfield like some
lost soul.
Octavio Suarez screamed at the boy from the sidelines to “work it out,”
and to “limber up.” The fact of the matter was that his player could hardly
stand up!
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As play continued, a strange phenomenon unfolded all around number
seventeen in powder-blue and white as he tried to patrol his sector of the pitch.
The Argentine players seemed to treat Renaldo’s designated part of the field
with as much respect as their own goal area. They consciously kept the ball as
far away from the boy’s territory as possible. The home side now took to the
attack, rejuvenated by the bad taste left in their mouths as a result of their
comrade’s pain.
Brazilian goalkeeper Oliveira had to be at peak form to keep his hosts
from taking the lead. For a fifteen-minute span, the ball never crossed into
Argentine territory, and their injured center half was allowed to play back in a
static defensive role while he ‘worked out’ his injury and stood ready to blunt
a counterattack.
Alas, there was to be no poetry on this day. The beat of the Samba and
the staccato cheers of “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!” were drowned out
by a loud chorus of ugly, ill-tempered, retaliatory football. By the thirty-
minute mark of the second half, the last true scoring chance by either side
had been taken. The remaining fifteen minutes were reduced to anticlimactic
hostilities.
‘Killer’ Chacon did manage to keep his promise and renew his friendship
with Aleixo Cabral, however. The Brazilian departed the field with a souvenir
black eye courtesy of his new amigo’s infamous right elbow.
Both teams were battered and bloodied after ninety minutes, but under
tournament rules, the goalless draw would stand in the record books. One
point was awarded each team, and with one group game remaining for both
countries, the future was anything but clear.
There were only three days to heal and regroup before Peru would take
this same field against his warriors, and manager Octavio Suarez knew that
he had his work cut out for him. It was highly possible that goal ratios would
determine the eventual winner of their group, and at this point in time,
Argentina trailed the Brazilians by a one-goal differential. Offense would be
the key against Peru. Total offense, or there would be no tomorrow.
Renaldo De Seta wondered if he was the only one in the dressing roomed
that sensed the difference in this team after the ninety minutes of bedlam.
He had felt it first ascending the stairs to the pitch just after the locker room
incident with Cruz. Chacon had held his tongue and his temper. His cocky,
loudmouth brother-in-law had been put in his place, but more important than
that, the words of manager Suarez seared his mind like a branding iron.
We are here for one reason only. To win this football match! That is what it all
came down to . . . winning!
Nothing that happened off the field mattered once you set foot on th
at
green carpet. Old club rivalries, personal disputes, even outright hatred had to
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be set aside. And tonight, for the final forty-five minutes of play, they had been.
Renaldo De Seta knew that he had just witnessed the formation of a cohesive,
unselfish football team.
It was a collection of small things that manifested themselves in their
new attitude. The willingness to help each other, to stand up for each other,
to protect each other. He had thought that Juan Chacon would have shaken
Cabral’s hand for laying the ‘schoolboy’ out. No one was more surprised in the
entire stadium at the wrath The Ugly One showered on the Brazilian than
Renaldo De Seta. No words were spoken between the disfigured defender and
the injured midfielder during the entire second half, but the younger man
sensed a new form of grudging acceptance from his caustic teammate, perhaps
as a result of Suarez’s words.
How they had helped each other during that last forty-five minutes!
Renaldo had been virtually useless the entire half, unable to hit anywhere
near full stride. Time and time again, his midfield mates pinched into his area
to help out. Likewise, the defenders were constantly coming forward to lend
advanced reinforcements.
While the match was no oil painting, it was a moral success for team
unity and spirit, at least from Renaldo De Seta’s perspective. A warm glow
swept over number seventeen as he sat sipping a coke with his bruised foot in
an ice bath. He knew that things would be different when they took the field
against Peru. He was ready, his teammates were ready, the country was ready.
Victory is at hand! Viva Argentina!
Esquela Perez had been the kitchen maid at Buenos Requerdos for just
over two years. At nineteen, she had grown to be an attractive, even sensuous
woman. Too sensuous for Nana Taseo, the long-time head housekeeper at the
estancia. The gauchos and hired hands were always seeking her favors, hanging
around the servants’ entrance to the main casa in hopes of sharing a bottle of
tequila after work.
The widow Taseo didn’t trust anyone with such a low moral commitment
and warned the girl of dire consequences should she slip up and find herself in
the family way.
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