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a thirty-yard lob to the penalty spot was poorly cleared as a result of some
confusion between Juan Chacon and Ignacio Suazo. There was Thijssen again,
up from midfield to slam the misplaced ball directly at startled keeper Junior
Calix. His desperate lunge managed to tip the leather skyward and over the net
to safety, just as his counterpart had been forced to do minutes earlier.
A newfound aggression seemed to be instilled in the Dutch after Thijssen’s
two near misses on this grey afternoon, and the space that Renaldo had initially
savored evaporated as the minutes ticked away. Each touch of the ball now
attracted an orange jersey within seconds. One man in particular, blond, blue-
eyed, number seven, the inconsistent Willie Brax, seemed to make the host’s
number seventeen his personal whipping boy.
Three times Brax tried to go after Renaldo’s tender ankle and heel. Twice
the gesture was ignored by both the recipient and the referee. By the third
attempt, the official and the Argentine player had had enough. An unfriendly,
two-handed shove to the Dutchman’s chest was a gift from Renaldo to his
suitor. That gesture was followed by Sigñor Patrizio reaching into his black
shirt pocket to retrieve a yellow card for Mr. Brax. The European feigned
innocence, but the frustrated referee simply wagged his finger at the offender
and told him that such behavior would not be tolerated.
The incident did give the men in powder-blue and white a touch more
space, for the only fear the Dutchmen had was for the two colored cards tucked
inside the head official’s shirt pocket. One could not inflict damage or score
goals while sitting on the bench, and Brax’s reprimand was taken as a warning
that Sigñor Patrizio was unwilling to let the game slip from his grasp.
The current of the match flowed back into Argentina’s favor by the time
the clock indicated that one half hour of playing time had elapsed. Jorge
Calderone had been masterful in his clearances from around the Argentine goal
area. At each opportunity given, he would turn his possession of the ball into
long, fluid runs up the flank. The Dutch were busy marking the home side’s
strikers, but with each successive sortie that defender Calderone orchestrated,
the orange defenders became less stringent in their coverage of the powder-blue
and white marksmen.
One such run by Calderone at the thirty-seventh minute drew both Dutch
midfielder Kees Trelaan and defender Eimert Laurens away from their original
assignments. There was a split second opening to be exploited, and the crafty
Calderone knew exactly how to accept the Orangemen’s gift.
Angling his run into the center of the field, the South American defender
then turned straight for the goal at thirty-five yards out. Trelaan’s sweeping
right leg nicked the ball carrier’s foot as the Dutchman sprawled to the carpet.
Calderone left his feet an instant before contact in an effort to maintain his
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forward momentum. The Argentine knew that he was going down as well, but
a heartbeat before hitting terra firma, he managed to right foot the object of
attention past the onrushing Laurens.
The black-and-white orb rolled ten yards further upfield, untouched, until
it was retrieved by the home side’s number seventeen. Dutch defender Willie
Brax was, as usual, glued to Renaldo’s body, forcing the young Argentine to set
his left leg solidly into the turf in hopes of making a play with his right foot.
In the split second of time that he had available, Renaldo heard a familiar voice
approaching quickly.
“Hey, man, over here!”
Ramon Vida roared into sight some eight yards away, heading diagonally
for pay-dirt. Renaldo’s pass was right on the money, and now it was all up to
the ‘Boy from Boca.’
Defenders Hendrik and Van Vlymen, as well as midfielder Johannes,
loomed mere feet away, but they could not react swiftly enough to stop the
darting Latin. Collecting the treasure and veering ever so slightly to his right,
Vida split the outer two Dutchmen as he crossed over the white line marking
the penalty area.
Johannes, the last obstacle before a clear shot could be taken, was a large,
muscular specimen that could not be danced around in these close quarters.
It was a time to use cunning instead of power, so the fleet striker simply slid
to the ground and whacked the ball goalward with an extended left leg. The
upright Johannes could do nothing but watch in horror as the ball squirted
under the left arm of lunging keeper Wilhelmus and into the back of the net.
The heavens turned white in appreciation as the R&Rs were joined in
their celebratory hug by several jubilant teammates. The giant scoreboard
illuminated the result of their combined efforts for the world to see. Argentina
1, Holland 0!
For the Dutch, the goal sounded a wake-up call that reemphasized the
urgency of their plight. The ball possession skills of the Argentine National
Team had thrown them off their usual fluid game. The Orange-shirts had tried
to be too precise, too pretty in showcasing their ample skills. They needed the
football, and they set about acquiring it in the most direct of manners.
The remaining seven minutes of the opening half were as ill-tempered
and nasty as any seen in the tournament to date. Sigñor Patrizio was impotent
when it came to keeping the flow of the match moving. It seemed that he had
spent the entire time between the host’s goal and the interval admonishing one
player or another. There was no reward to be reaped for the visitors as a result
of their newfound belligerence, however, and they entered the bowels of River
Plate at the break still down by that one large tally.
Manager Octavio Suarez was satisfied with his team’s efforts in the first
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forty-five minutes of play. His charges had deprived the Dutch of their lethal
long-range cannons by flooding the zones in anticipation of a missile being
launched. Both Kees Trelaan and his elder brother, Arturs, had been kept
without a shot during the initial segment. The fact that a pair of siblings had
made the starting lineup of the Dutch National Team was definitely unusual,
but these two men from Eindhoven possessed the most accurate and powerful
shots on this team of renowned marksmen. That the brothers had been
kept totally at bay this long was an accomplishment not overlooked by their
opponents’ manager. There would be no changes in the Argentine National
Team’s lineup to commence the second half of play!
Holland took the field after the intermission intent on equalizing quickly.
There would be no more fancy flourishes that looked good on the highlight
films, but failed to produce the desperately needed result. Their means to their
desired end was direct, physical, even confrontational, football. They believed
themselves tougher and more physically fit than the home side, and the plan
was to wear down the men in powder-blue and white, then strike for the kill.
What the Orangemen had not counted
on was having to deal with the
likes of ‘Killer’ Juan Chacon each time they ventured too deep into hostile
territory. The Ugly One’s ill temper had been well scouted by the Europeans,
and their initial plan of long-range shooting would have neutralized the hideous
defender’s effectiveness. But now, time was of the essence, and with the long
ball effectively cut off by a swarming Argentine midfield and back-line, it was
time to come head-to-head with the monster.
Chacon had his usual style of welcome ready for the ‘golden boys.’ The
savagery that was meted out under the shadow of the Argentine goalposts was
not the thing of beauty that football purists had hoped to witness. No, this was
gritty, down and dirty, no quarter football, and with each successive infraction,
the game slipped away from the ineffectual Sigñor Patrizio.
How could he card everyone? There would be no one left on the field
to complete the match, so extensive was the use of blatant, unsportsmanlike
conduct. It wasn’t just the home nation. The Dutch gave back every tender
gesture that they received in-kind. There was no pace, no flow, no tempo to
the stuttering, pugnacious drama. High tension, yes, but skill and brilliant
football were totally subservient to retaliation and vitriolic temperament.
Holland pressed forward in search of the elusive equalizer. Junior Calix
met the challenge bravely, vocalizing instructions to his beleaguered defensive
corps. The Dutch began to play the field laterally, moving ever closer to the
Argentine goal using long crosses, sending four or five men in deep to try to
maintain possession for the finish. There was brutal punishment rewarded to
any Orangeman who dared to venture onto the sacred turf of the homeland,
but the Europeans were more than willing to pay that price to achieve their
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goal. It was not in their disposition to turn the other cheek either. Frustrations
mounted on both sides as time ticked away.
Twice the Dutchmen almost fell prey to their offensive enthusiasm. In
the fifty-seventh and again in the seventy-ninth minute, clearances by the
Argentine defenders resulted in lightning counterstrikes by powder-blue and
white foot soldiers.
Humberto Velasquez sent Ruben Gitares blazing up the flank on the
initial sortie, only to have the latter’s shot pound off the woodwork and into
touch. The second near miss saw Renaldo De Seta work his passing magic
with Caesar Castro on the opposite wing. Yellow-shirted Dutch keeper Dirk
Wilhelmus managed to get a flailing hand on the cannonading drive from the
River Plate winger, tipping it ever so slightly out of harm’s way.
Castro’s near miss signaled the end of the home-side’s offensive strikes for
the remaining nine minutes of play, however. Back came Holland, jaws set with
determination, eyes firmly focused on the mesh behind Junior Calix.
Dutch manager Hendrikus Arend had used his two substitutions in the
fifty-ninth and seventy-second minutes of play. It was substitute center forward
Frank Noordwijk that would finally silence the roar of the fanatical South
American supporters and bring the Europeans to terms.
Noordwijk, at 6’4” in height, was the tallest of the Dutchmen in Argentina.
He was not as proficient with his playmaking or shooting as starting center
forward Oosterband, but in the air, there was perhaps no better finisher in the
entire tournament.
Nine minutes from time, with orange jerseys streaking to and fro deep
inside enemy territory, Kees Trelaan gained possession of the mystic sphere
ten yards in from the touchline, some forty yards away from Calix’s doorstep.
The innovative midfielder started a false run down the sidelines, then faked a
shot goalward. All this time a mesmerized, stationary Humberto Velasquez
looked on from a mere two yards away. A call from brother Arturs sent the ball
spiraling back into the center of the pitch, where the elder Trelaan had time
and space to create some damage.
There was momentary confusion in the Argentine defensive ranks. Swift
Erny Jorgens was making a run down the right sideline, calling for the ball.
Captain Daniele Bennett screamed for an offside trap to nullify the threat,
but there were already too many Orange-shirts blocking the defender’s path.
Trelaan’s lob travelled twenty yards in the air, then bounced lightly, five yards
in front of the wide-open Jorgens. The linesman’s flag remained by his side,
meaning Jorgens was still onside. With his path to the goalmouth totally
unobstructed for a solo duel with Señor Calix, the wily striker chose, instead,
to loft the ball high into the center of the pitch from twenty-two yards out.
Manager Arend screamed in dismay at the loss of what he perceived as a
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sure goal. But wait! There, two yards outside the penalty area, flying through
the air, was substitute Noordwijk.
Higher, higher, the Dutchman leapt. Central defenders Chacon and Suazo
were there to meet the challenge, but they were not airborne like their opponent.
Jan Johannes was also mixed up between the two Argentine defenders to add
to their confusion. Noordwijk connected with Jorgen’s gift at the edge of the
penalty area and sent the ball on its way.
Junior Calix in the Argentine net had run to the far post to cover the
threat down the open wing should Jorgens try for the tally himself. The keeper
moved too slowly to combat the centering pass that Noordwijk sent goalwards.
Calix was little more than halfway back along his goal line when the net behind
him bulged with the Orange-shirt’s header.
Now, ten foreigners stood in huddled elation as eighty thousand looked
on in mute dismay. Holland had come level, and the world order stood on the
brink of collapse.
To make matters worse, the Dutch were far from content with their
stunning accomplishment. They seized the emotional letdown and shock that
their hosts were in the throes of and closed in for the kill.
On came the orange waves, sending the powder-blue and white defenders
back on their heels in disarray. Try as they might, Argentina could not gain
possession of the ball for more than a few seconds at a time before it was
aggressively relieved from them. Eight minutes of relentless pressure culminated
in the finest scoring chance of the day.
Less than a minute remained on Sigñor Patrizio’s watch when the brothers
Trelaan teamed up one more time. Again, it was Arturs who launched a deft
chip shot thirty yards upfield, this offering coming to earth mere yards in
front of his sprinting brother, Kees. Now it was Jorge Calderone’s turn to be
victimized by the onrushing Netherman. The Argentine fullback had given up
the advantage of position, and short of a costly foul, there was nothing he could
do except watch in dismay.
The ball came to earth at the edge of the goal crease, six yards out from
Nirvana. Kees Trelaan was positioned perfectly to pounce on the waist level
volley off the turf and jab the sacred object goalward with his left foot.
Keeper Calix made a futile stabbing mo
tion with his left leg to divert the
black-and-white globe from its damaging trajectory, but he narrowly missed
making contact. The guardian of the gate could only look back in anguish as
he and the onrushing Trelaan became entangled and crashed to the carpet.
The matter was out of everyone’s hands now. The Gods would decide the
outcome of the ball’s pilgrimage to Mecca. The entire football universe gasped
collectively as they followed its flight to the promised land.
Trelaan’s touch sent the orb downwards again, then off the turf two yards
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out, volleying upwards at waist level. There were no other defenders close
enough to interfere with its ordained destiny. No breathing, living, souls to save
Argentina from a disaster that only minutes before had been unthinkable!
There remained only a certain white, six inch by six inch, upright wooden
object to master. As fate would have it at this moment in time, it was the
goalpost that would change the course of history.
The eighty thousand breathed a collective sigh of relief as black and
white struck white. The benevolent sun of La Bandera Immaculada must have
been shining down on the fortunes of her native sons, for the dreaded object
rebounded back into play. It was then swiftly cleared from danger’s doorstep by
Captain Daniele Bennett.
There was no time left to strike again for the Dutchmen, no time left to
redeploy for the Argentines. The last glorious opportunity had been decided by
an inanimate object, totally impartial and oblivious to the emotional mayhem
that it had created.
Sigñor Patrizio raised his right arm and gave three long blasts of his
whistle. Regulation time had expired. The champion of the soccer world would
be determined in extra time, or failing that, penalty kicks.
The tension inside the circular cauldron known as Monumental Stadium
duplicated its namesake. Octavio Suarez had not been enamored by the play of
his team in the final half of the contest. He had made no substitutions as yet,
and during the five-minute break, he canvassed each of his starting eleven for
signs of fatigue or mental letdown.
No one wanted to come out of the contest. Not one man was willing to
give up his position. These were his shock troops, the best he had available,
and Octavio Suarez would do or die with these same warriors. He gathered his
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