back on the defensive line helping out, so constant and unrelenting was the
Italian pressure.
As young and inexperienced as Wilhelmus was, however, on this day, he
was also lucky. Luck is always that intangible factor that every keeper hopes
will be part of his bag of tricks. Today, the uprights and crossbar of his net were
to give him the support in the early going that none of his teammates seemed
capable of supplying.
Three times the men in the beautiful blue jerseys hit the woodwork. The
Dutch, for their part, hardly tested the Italian keeper Enzio Sala. Where had the
offensive skills displayed against the Austrians and Germans gone? That was
the question on every Lowlander’s lips as the whistle sounded the interval.
Mysterious things often happen to teams during the fifteen-minute
intermission. Such was the case on this cloudless afternoon in Buenos Aires.
The Dutch rediscovered their free-flowing style in that dungeon of a locker
room. The Italians lost their calmness and teamwork in theirs. One would have
thought that a compulsory changing of team uniforms had accompanied the
changing of ends, so different was the style of play that both teams offered up
in the early minutes of the second half.
The white shirts descended on the previously arrogant Italian defenders in
waves. Shots were fired at Sala from all over the pitch. Long balls, scrambles in
front of the net, corner kicks, free kicks, everything imaginable! The Azzurri
defenders were wilting under the pressure, and who more appropriate to drive
home the new Dutch superiority than the goat of the opening half, Willie
Brax.
Only five minutes into play, a poor Italian clearance landed the ball on the
pate of Dutch midfielder Pieter Thijssen. His responding header was relayed to
the poll of fellow midfielder, Jan Johannes. The lanky Dutchman then directed
the sphere downward onto the approaching foot of the offensive-minded Brax.
From just outside the Italian penalty area, he let go a rocket that exploded
into the top left corner of the Mediterranean men’s net. The Dutch were back
on terms and soaring, the Italians, tied and slumping.
Patience seemed to be the keynote of the renewed Holland offensive. One
could sense that the white and orange men felt victory inevitable now, all they
had to do was continue to create chances. That they did, much to the disgust
of the Italian defense and their frantic manager on the sidelines. Name-calling
and finger-pointing had become part of the Italians’ self-destructive strategy,
and their game descended into a defensive quagmire.
398
RENALDO
The script reached its climax in the seventy-sixth minute. Once again,
it was a Dutch midfielder that changed the scoreboard. So tightly packed
in retreat were the Italian midfield and defense that the center of the pitch
resembled uninhabited parkland. The acres of empty pasture gave the
innovative Netherlanders the space to work their magic. Lady Luck then chose
twenty-four-year old Kees Trelaan as the man of the hour.
A specialist in long, curving shots, he hit a beauty, unchallenged, from
almost fifty yards out. Italian keeper Sala stood ready, watching the flight of
the ball.
No problem! he thought. This ball is going well wide of the mark. Then
suddenly, its trajectory started to curve inward toward the goalpost to the
Italian’s left.
Surely it will still pass wide of the net, was the last unconvincing thought that
flashed through the keeper’s mind as he realized, in desperation, that the shot
was critically close to beating him.
Sala left his feet, lunging to the left. His outstretched right arm could
only wave harmlessly at the ball as it sailed three feet above him. But disaster
had not befallen the keeper yet, for just as he hit the turf, his ears reverberated
with a sound that sent instant relief surging through his sprawling torso.
The ‘thwack’ of the black-and-white orb hitting the upright post was as
sweet as any melody he had ever heard. These posts and crossbar were his allies
now, just as they had been for the Dutch keeper in the first half.
But wait . . . something was terribly wrong. The orange-clad fans behind
the Italian goal had erupted in delight. Sala raised himself on one elbow and
stared disbelievingly into his unprotected net. There, in the far corner sat the
dreaded object. One of the white-shirts was retrieving it, holding it joyously
over his head for all the world to see. Disaster!
The shot had veered into the net once it struck wood. Nine times out
of ten it would have rebounded back into the field of play, or better still,
ricocheted out of play. Sala looked at his stunned teammates, then back at the
fickle upright. Despair and desperation were etched on every Azzurri face. Only
fourteen minutes remained to make amends.
There had been nothing to match the gut-wrenching drama of this
game’s last quarter hour in the entire tournament. Italy was Argentina’s second
team, the team that after the host nation, most Argentines had wished well
for. Millions had reveled in the thought of an Italy-Argentina rematch in the
final.
Now, the stadium, the bars, the cafés, and the living rooms across the
nation were as silent as if they were witnessing a state funeral. Only the few
thousand Dutch supporters behind Sala’s goal made any attempt to dispel the
wake-like pall that had fallen over Argentina.
399
JAMES McCREATH
The blue shirts tried gamely to find the equalizer, but the unyielding
Dutch midfield would not allow them to get untracked. Martini and Nazzareno,
so prominent and dangerous in the early stages of the match, were distracted
and ineffective on the attack. So thoroughly smothered and turned back was
each Italian thrust, that the ball rarely crossed into Dutch territory.
The clock was the real enemy. If only the Azzurri could hold back the
clock and gain more time!
It was that same dreaded clock that put an end to the Italians’ on-field
misery, as well as their hopes of a place in the World Cup final. Seventy-five
thousand people in River Plate as well as millions around the world beheld
their agony. What had happened to the Azzurri of the first half? How had they
allowed the Dutchmen to steal victory from their grasp?
The Italian players stood on the pitch, most with tears streaming down
their anguished faces. They had come to Argentina with so much talent, so
much promise! This was not the way things were supposed to end! There
would be no tomorrow that mattered for these tragic warriors. But as they left
the field of play, the thousands saluted them for their proficiency, their pride,
and their sorrowful passion, now so openly displayed.
That same beautiful afternoon in Córdoba was to become one of the
blackest days in West German football history. A German victory by a large
goal differential, aided by a tie in the Italy-Netherlands match, could very
well put the reigning world champions back in the final. Relentless offensive
football was the order of the day. Unfortunately, the
players were unable to
carry out that order.
Things started off brightly enough for the green-shirted Germans. A goal
in the nineteenth minute stood through the interval. But the dressing room
gremlins played their nasty tricks on the men who held the lead. It was a
different German team in attitude and ability that took to the pitch for the
final forty-five minutes.
An own goal fifteen minutes into the second half brought the Austrians
level, then five minutes later, the favorites found themselves a goal down to
their European neighbors. The German’s pride was severely offended, and they
swarmed around their opponents’ net, seeking to redeem themselves. It only
took two minutes for their labors to bear fruit, and there still remained ample
time to salvage a great victory.
The Austrians were not in an accommodating mood, however. There
was nothing in this world that would temporarily erase past failures more
400
RENALDO
thoroughly than a victory over their Teutonic cousins. They had repulsed the
German blitzkrieg in the last half-hour of play and were now poised to storm
the beaches in one final counterattack.
Under five minutes remained in this Prussian chess game when the
checkmate occurred. Victory was placed on the doorstep of the Austrians and
gratefully accepted. The winning tally in the eighty-seventh minute left no
time for the Germans to regroup. They were unable to make even the faintest
attempt at an equalizer, and one could sense that the wrath of an unforgiving
and disillusioned nation would quickly descend upon their fallen heroes.
Wolfgang Stoltz and Paul Rheinhart had been on the terraces in Córdoba
that afternoon. Matters at Buenos Recuerdos were proceeding according to
plan, but the unpleasant business was hardly mentioned. This was a football
outing, and the two old sailors from the Kreigsmarine were there to give all
their support and encouragement to the current idols of German football.
Stoltz had found it essential to temper his enthusiasm for his ‘Fatherland
Favourites’ in the company of his employer. Astor Gordero was a raving
nationalist when it came to his love for Argentine football. The Fat Man would
not tolerate discussion of the positive merits of any other nation’s football
program. Wolfgang Stoltz relished this one opportunity to cast aside the mantle
of oppression and cheer heartily for his native sons.
Stoltz and Rheinhart would just as ardently drown their sorrow with
pails of ale that bleak evening. By midnight, the lawyer from Buenos Aires
had imbibed enough of the magic froth to convince himself that the German
defeat had saved him from acute embarrassment and confrontation with his
employer.
What if Germany and Argentina had met in the final as antagonists?
What if Germany had beaten the host nation and reaffirmed their world
dominance of the sport? He could imagine the horrible personal consequences,
even with his alcohol-clouded brain.
No, he would feel better in the morning, despite the hangover that he
knew would awake him. He would feel better for not having to hide his passion
from Astor Gordero. He enjoyed his work, and his play, with the influential
facilitator far too much to jeopardize his standing on something as trivial as the
outcome of a football match.
Even so, the last image that Wolfgang Stoltz conjured up as he sank into
a drunken slumber was of the West German captain holding aloft the World
Cup trophy after having vanquished all the world’s pretenders. Deutschland Uber
Alles!
401
JAMES McCREATH
The second-to-last piece of the puzzle would be played out seven hundred
and sixty-one meters above sea level in the foothills of the Andes Mountains.
The city of Mendoza and a well-rested Polish National Team would welcome
the traveling Brazilians back to the thin mountain air. It was the second time
in less than a week that the yellow shirts had to traverse almost the entire
breadth of Argentina to play their fixture.
Both teams had a technical chance of a berth in the final. The Poles, for
their part, would go through if they were victorious and the Peruvians upset
the host nation later that evening. The Brazilians needed not only to win, but
to also run up the score, so that the critical goal differential was heavily in their
favor should Argentina triumph.
A cloudless blue sky hung above the forty-seven thousand, six hundred
and twenty expectant football fans that beautiful afternoon in Mendoza. It was
part of the same high pressure front that brought identical weather to each
venue that June day.
‘High pressure’ was an apt description of the atmosphere inside the stadium
as well. The Samba beat was ever present, the crowd being predominately
supporters of the South American team.
Four years earlier, these two teams had met in the ‘bronze medal,’ or third-
place match in Munich. In that game, Poland had capped a brilliant World
Cup showing with a 1-0 victory over the Brazilians. The men from the southern
hemisphere did not take kindly to the comeuppance, for the unexpected loss
had caused them all kinds of embarrassment on their return home.
To make matters worse, the Poles were officially considered the home team
for this fixture, and as such, had the choice of uniform strips. They selected
white tops, red shorts, and white stockings, forcing their opponents to don their
secondary colors. The familiar yellow shirts of Brazil would be replaced on this
day by ones of a royal-blue hue, along with white pants and white stockings.
It was not what the Samba men wanted to play in, and the insult did not
go unnoticed. Brazil had a score to settle, and it set about the task from the
opening whistle.
The blue-shirts tattooed the Poles’ woodwork with the imprint of the ball,
and it was a thing of beauty to watch their pinpoint execution. The Samba
beat, oh, that Samba beat!
A free kick taken by Brazilian gunner Emmerson Dos Santos eluded the
Polish wall and tucked nicely into the mesh in the thirteenth minute. The
Europeans were back on their heels and barely hanging together.
The South Americans pressed forward again and again. Fluid, always
moving to space, a work of art in creation. Unfortunately, that creation did not
include the ability to finish the piece. By the half hour, slight signs of frustration
could be seen in the ranks of the crowd favorites, for the Poles had taken heart
402
RENALDO
at having weathered the storm and were more confident and abrasive. The
Brazilian surges dwindled in the face of Polish long ball counterattacks.
One minute before the half, Poland’s newfound aggressiveness paid off.
A scramble ten yards in front of keeper Oliveira resulted in a screened shot
eluding all the defenders and knotting the score. Now which team would come
back onto the pitch following the break with the confidence to play their style
of football and win? Everything hung on the answer to this question.
Buoyed by their late success, the men in the white shirts a
nd red shorts
picked up their game where they had left off. The Brazilian defenders looked
confused and disorganized in the early going, several near misses around their
net undermining the confidence that was so prevalent in the first thirty minutes
of the game.
It was left to the blue-clad midfielders to turn the current in the opposite
direction. The midfield is considered the canvas that allows the Brazilian game
to become an art-form, if things are going well. Slowly, ever so slowly, those
men began to win more and more duels for possession. The precision passing of
their halfbacks turned defense into offense, pushing the play forward, striving
to find that Samba beat again.
They found the beat in the fifty-seventh minute when João Batista
collected in a rebound and drove home the chance. One could feel the Poles
wilt under the noise of the jubilant crowd. Several covered their ears to block
out the harsh celebration. They had heard enough of the Samba beat, enough
to last a lifetime.
The Europeans had nothing left to offer. A third South American marker
followed five minutes after the second. The remaining time was a blur of
blue and white on the run, a demonstration of style and tactics for which the
Brazilian game is so famous.
The only problem was that, once again, the finish was lacking, and the
men from Ipanema were unable to build their crucial margin of victory past
the two goal level. A 3-1 final score in favor of Brazil entered the record books
after ninety minutes of football.
This result meant that the host nation had to win by four clear goals
against Peru to oust the Brazilians from the World Cup final. Four clear goals,
almost an insurmountable task!
Barring a complete collapse of the Peruvian defense, each and every
Brazilian player felt supremely confident that they would sport the yellow
battle colors of their nation one more time in the most important game of their
young lives. The World Cup championship final!
403
JAMES McCREATH
The Argentina-Brazil fiasco had proven to be a distasteful event for Sir
Reginald Russell. He had so hoped to see the South American game displayed
in its finest showcase. As it turned out, he was barely able to control his contempt
Renaldo Page 65