to keep it locked up until after the game. It is stashed in the glove compartment
of my car. I parked back there by the café. I didn’t think I should risk bringing
it out around this crowd. We can get it after the match, then I can give you a
lift to wherever you’re going.”
Lonnie would have preferred to have the pesos crammed in his wallet
right away, just in case anything unusual went down. But Oswaldo seemed
like a straight up, responsible fellow. By the time the hunted man arrived on
the floor of the swirling cauldron that was River Plate Stadium, he felt totally
at ease in Rojo Geary’s company, and he was ready to lose himself in Renaldo’s
glorious efforts.
By two o’clock, River Plate was overflowing, five thousand bodies above
official capacity. Eighty thousand voices, eighty thousand faithful, believing
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voices! If there was a Dutchman in the crowd, he was to become invisible
under the fluttering white storm of paper and ticker-tape. The national colors of
Argentina were everywhere. One hundred-foot-long cloth banners, flags large
and small, streamers, scarves, homemade signs. Everything under the sun that
could be fashioned in powder-blue and white existed here. But most of all, it
was the noise, the noise of those believing voices. Songs of national pride and
heroic deeds rained down upon the green carpet. Surely no team in the world
could conquer both the Argentine players and the Gallery Gods! This was
Argentina’s day! This must be Argentina’s day!
At game time, manager Octavio Suarez remained in his office. His team
had already been called to the field, but the man in charge told his assistant
coaches to stall for time. He, and he alone, would give the word when to start
down the path to glory.
For now, he listened, arms folded across his torso, chin resting on his
chest, eyes closed, his back facing the door. He would not leave the room until
he heard that sound, ‘the buzz!’ The sound of champions!
Goalkeeper coach Estes Santos sat on a small table directly in front of a
large, orange plastic tarp. This strange item had appeared on one of the dressing
room walls before any of the players had entered the facility. Santos was told by
the manager to “guard that thing with your life. Let no man look beneath the
orange shield.” Santos had been steadfast in his resolve to carry out the boss’s
instructions, and he had managed to repel all curiosity seekers.
This had been a rewarding tournament for the former player-turned
goalkeeper coach. Argentina’s goals against statistics were the best in the
tournament, and that was largely due to the strong bond that had formed
between coach Santos and National Team keeper, Junior Calix.
The two men understood each other, and they had formed a mutual respect
as teacher and student. Over the last three days, they had spent innumerable
hours practicing together, defending against the curling long balls that the
Dutch had used to sink every team they had played to date. By June the
twenty-fifth, Santos was well pleased, and Junior Calix was ready to meet the
orange onslaught!
There was a second request for the Argentine National Team to take
the field. Ubaldo Luque, the assistant manager, vaguely described some small
‘problem’ that was holding the team back. He assured the uptight Austrian
linesman that they would be along momentarily.
The players were wondering what was up! They were dressed in what had
become their number one strip, starting with their alternating powder-blue and
white vertically striped jerseys. Black shorts with five tight vertical stripes on
the sides, blue, then white, then blue, white again, and finally a last stripe of
blue, gave a sinister, aggressive posture to their uniform. Black stockings with
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three white horizontal rings on the fold complimented the shorts. They had
never lost a game in World Cup ’78 attired in this fashion. They felt comfortable
suited up in this battle dress. They felt ready to play, and win!
But the waiting was getting to them. Each one, to a man, questioned what
Suarez was doing in his office alone. Why had he not given his charges one of
his patented inspirational lectures to propel them onto the field? Their voices
rose in volume with impatient, nervous banter.
“There! There it is! ‘The buzz’ of champions. I have heard it!
Champions!”
Octavio Suarez wheeled around, grabbed a cardboard box from the edge
of his desk, and strode into the dressing area. Every voice in the room stopped
in mid-sentence.
“Gather around this table, all of you. Thank you, Estes.”
The goalkeeper coach stepped aside as the man in charge placed the box
on the space he had vacated. Suarez turned and gave a hearty tug to the orange
tarp. As it fell to the floor, the national flag of Argentina loomed in its place.
“La Bandera Immaculada, Señors. Our immaculate flag! This is the flag
of the greatest nation on earth. A flag for all our people.” Suarez took a nearby
pointer and held it on the bottom horizontal blue band of the sacred object.
“Here, here is the blue of the great Atlantic Ocean that laps at our fair
shores. In the middle, the white snow of the Andes Mountains, so pure and
true. And here, the blue of the sky . . . breathtaking, never-ending! But it is
here, right here in the center, that you will find the source that will light your
way today. It is the sun, Señors! The sun that shines down from the clear blue
sky, over the pure-white mountains, and glistens on the bright blue sea. The
sun that always guides us, shows us the way, leads us to our destiny!”
The manager paused, looking into the glazed eyes of his players. He
placed his hands on the lid of the box in front of him.
“Today, the sun will guide your way. Today, the sun will be with you every
step that you take. The sun will keep your aim true and your heart strong. The
sun will guide you to victory!”
Suarez cast aside the lid, reached into the rectangular crate, and held up a
pair of stockings. White football stockings with three horizontal powder-blue
rings on the fold. The boss extended his arms straight out in front of his body
at shoulder height. He then made a slow one hundred and eighty degree sweep
of the room with the precious article held lovingly in his hands. Atop the three
powder-blue rings on the outer side of the stocking was a sewn-on patch. That
patch was adorned with the smiling golden sun of La Bandera Immaculada.
“Here is the sun that will guide you to victory today! Now, each one
of you step up here and take a pair. Change your stockings, now! All of you.
Move!”
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The pale blue sky as described on La Bandera Immaculada turned into a
white downpour of paper products the minute the first Argentine player crested
the top of the field-level stairway. There had been other impressive displays of
support using the bleached pulp materials, but nothing, nothing at all like
this.
The crowd literally
disappeared from view as the paper torrent of affection
and encouragement settled on the previously unsoiled green battlefield. The
noise, the color, the atmosphere . . . it had to be experienced to be believed.
The National Team of Argentina had kept the Dutch waiting on the pitch
for more than five minutes. The Europeans were seething as a result of the
perceived insult. Strong words were exchanged as the two teams lined up for
the respective national anthems.
The men from the Netherlands stood rigidly at attention as the strains
of their homeland’s chorus reverberated around the giant bowl. Despite the
massed military bands with their musicians numbering in the hundreds, the
Dutch anthem seemed too low in volume to be truly inspirational to her native
sons. But then, the unyielding roar from the galleries made it difficult to hear
oneself think at field level.
The public address announcer then instructed the eighty thousand
witnesses to direct their attention toward the victory podium, which was set
up on the west side warning track at center field. There, alongside junta leader
and President Jorge Videla, stood a tiny figure dressed in a blue and white
vertically striped jumpsuit.
“Señors, señoras, and señoritas, it is our distinct pleasure to present to you
today, here to sing the national anthem of Argentina, the nation’s leading vocal
artist. Please welcome, the fabulous . . . Symca!”
The loudest roar of the day swirled around the amphitheater. Simone
smiled confidently as she stepped to the microphone and waved enthusiastically
to the thousands. She looked down the line of Argentine players that stood
soldier-still in front of her.
Her eyes met Renaldo’s as she passionately vocalized the opening bars of
the melody. The crowd held its breath, many with tears in their eyes, as the
beautiful lady sang this patriotic tribute from the depths of her soul.
When she was done, as the fanatical applause engulfed her, she paused
for a moment to blow a kiss in the National Team’s direction. Only number
seventeen knew the true destination of her airy sign of affection. The kiss was
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for him, there could be no mistaking that. By nightfall, he was determined to
replace that blown kiss with the real article. The touch of her ripe lips on his!
‘Depart, oh night!
Set you, stars!
Set you, stars!
At dawn I shall win!
I shall win!
I shall win!’
Field level section 365, row 8, seats 1 & 2 were occupied by their usual
subscriber, and on this occasion, Astor Gordero was, once again, attired in
the full regalia of an army reserve colonel. This was going to be a day of great
national pride and respect for Argentina, and he wanted the world to know that
he had the rank and title to command respect as well.
The man of many hats also wanted to impress his distinguished guests,
Sir Reginald and Lady Mallory Russell of London, England. As Gordero was
now a business associate of the English visitors, he thought that they might also
be impressed with his military bearing and well-placed junta connections.
Sir Reggie discreetly commented to his daughter that their host had
enough material in his uniform to outfit an entire platoon of Royal Marines.
Mallory was forced to stifle her humorous reaction with a sharp-eyed glare in
her father’s direction.
Wolfgang Stoltz sat in seat number six, in row eight. Seat number five had
been left vacant, until the military escort arrived to deliver Simone from the
podium to her designated viewing point. Introductions were made to the Lord
and Lady, and then, with eighty thousand others, they turned their attention to
the spectacle before them.
It was ironic that Simone and Mallory should be seated side by side. There
was the usual polite small talk exchanged before the opening whistle, but if
each of the women had confided in the other, they would have been shocked
to find out that they both had really only come to see one of the twenty-two
players on the pitch. Number seventeen in powder-blue and white!
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By two fifty-eight p.m., the team photographs had been taken, the
combatants had exchanged informal handshakes and hollow good wishes with
one another, and the teams had saluted the multitudes with upraised arms.
Now, finally, Italian referee Giovanni Patrizio stood over the ball at center field.
Four years of preparations, qualifying matches, exhibition contests, scandals,
name calling, and bitter rivalries had all led to this one moment.
The twenty-two world-class athletes that anxiously awaited each tick of
the second hand would lineup as follows for this, the most important ninety
minutes of their young lives.
For Argentina, clad in vertical powder-blue-and-white-striped jerseys with
black numerals, black shorts with vertical powder-blue and white piping on the
sides, and white stockings adorned with three horizontal powder-blue rings and
the golden sun of La Bandera Immaculada on the fold:
For the Netherlands, turned out in their traditional orange jerseys with
black numerals and three black pinstripes running across the shoulder and
down the sleeve, white shorts with three vertical orange stripes as piping on
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the sides, and stockings in orange to match their jerseys, with three black
horizontal rings on the fold:
No European team had ever won the World Cup in South America. With
several of their more experienced world-class players at home in Holland for
various reasons, the Dutch had their work cut out for them. There was no fear
in the eyes of the eleven starters, however, for they had played their best football
of the tournament in the later stages. Each man felt that this team was capable
of hoisting the World Cup trophy in triumph when all was said and done.
On paper, the final game was a contrast in styles and temperaments. The
dark, hot-blooded Latins’ short ball control game, versus the fair, cool-headed
Europeans’ ‘clockwork orange’ style of swirling, constantly changing, every-
man-playing-every-position football. That was on paper. What unfolded in
reality was actually quite different.
Holland came out tackling aggressively, marking the Argentine forwards
with man-to-man coverage. This was a surprise to Gitares, Vida, and Castro,
who had assumed that they would be given more space in the early going. They
had been told that the Dutch would attempt to set up their well rehearsed
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offside trap, then storm back on the offensive with quick counterattacks. Not
so!
The Dutchmen’s style was ‘in your face,’ and defender Nilis Hendrik sent
Ruben Gitares crashing rudely to the turf in under thirty seconds of play. The
first of fifty-odd fouls the day would see had been committed. Many others
were to follow in rapid succession.
Argentina was playing in an overlapping zonal defense, with midfielders
and forwards falling back in a protective envelope as needed. The two out
side
defenders, Bennett and Calderone, were given leeway to push forward and add
to the attack when an opportunity arose.
Renaldo De Seta felt ready. His foot was sound, and he had been truly
inspired by both Octavio Suarez and the lovely Symca. He dared to glance up
into the heavens before the opening whistle and proclaim, “Papa, this game, I
play for your memory!”
While the Argentine strikers were tied up in knots from the first kick of
the ball, number seventeen seemed to have more space than he had anticipated
in the early going. Both on the defensive and in the attack, Renaldo had ample
time to connect with his patent ‘right on the mark’ passes. He sent Ramon
Vida charging into the penalty area in the third minute with a lovely chip shot,
and Dutch keeper Wilhelmus had to soar to tip the streaking striker’s volley
over the crossbar.
Vida returned the favor two minutes later, setting number seventeen loose
with a lovely back heeled pass. For fifteen yards, Renaldo ran as if he were poetry
in motion, strong and straight, tearing at the heart of the Dutch defense.
There was no support for the boy on this sortie, however, and the over-
enthusiastic Willie Brax was about to end this particular threat in a rather
crude manner. As Renaldo cocked his foot to let fly a shot, Mr. Brax simply
grabbed the waistband of his opponent’s shorts and gave a firm tug. The
threatening Argentine was pulled completely off balance, but still managed
to make contact with the ball on his right foot instead of his left. The leather
bounced harmlessly into the grasp of keeper Wilhelmus, but the foul resulted
in a free kick.
Although nothing became of Ruben Gitares ensuing effort, the Dutch,
in general, and Willie Brax, in particular, had been alerted to the skills of
young number seventeen. They would have to pay considerably more attention
to that handsome Porteño, or the damage he could inflict would show up on
the scoreboard.
But offense wasn’t the sole domain of the home team. The Dutch midfield
was ever-present in the Argentine danger-zone, pushing forward, looking for
a kill. Seven minutes in, big Pieter Thijssen took a run up the middle to head
a free kick from Erny Jorgens inches wide of the near post. Two minutes later,
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