charges in a tight circle around him just as the officials signaled for the players
to take their positions.
“Señors, we have come a long, long way together. Too far to see things
fall apart now! We are fortunate to be able to continue on in this game! You
must take the battle to their doorstep immediately! Each of you, pull up your
stockings. Let that shining sun guide you to your true destiny. Champions of
the world! I have faith in each and every one of you. These multitudes looking
down upon us have faith in each and every one of you. Have faith in yourselves,
and you will stand on the victory podium in thirty minutes’ time!”
Thirty minutes. Two fifteen-minute halves. No sudden death, just
two fifteen-minute halves played to completion! The occasion called for
the penultimate effort by each of the twenty-two men that lined up for the
resumption of play.
Who would be equal to the task? Who would falter and bear the
42
RENALDO
ignominious title of ‘runner-up’ for the rest of their lives? Those questions were
about to be answered as the world watched and waited.
For Renaldo De Seta, there was no doubting the final verdict. He felt
strong and mentally capable of carrying out the duty expected of him. He had
taken only one direct scoring chance himself during the first ninety minutes
of play. He was convinced that his opponents would, therefore, regard him in a
lighter manner. This would translate into more time and space, which he could
use to his advantage.
His role for the last forty-five minutes had been primarily defensive,
due to the sustained dominance of the Europeans in the Argentine half of the
field. But the bothersome Willie Brax had backed off from his persistently
close shadowing as a result of the Dutchmen’s offensive superiority. Number
seventeen had seen room to create chances, if only the men in powder-blue
and white could break down the orange dike and flow into the Lowlander’s
heartland.
Holland kicked off and went on the offensive immediately. Green shirted
keeper Calix was called upon to stifle the orange crush twice before the ball
crossed the center field line going in the opposite direction. But it was that first
charge by the Latins that set the stage for things to come.
Juan Chacon’s headed clearance in the third minute was trapped and
controlled off the chest of Renaldo De Seta. With the Dutchmen pressed
forward in search of the go-ahead marker, the midfield resembled deserted
parkland.
Off tore number seventeen, straight up the field. Long, graceful strides
kept eating up the green carpet. Closer and closer loomed the opposition’s bank
vault. There was only one way that he could be stopped, and it was left to
retreating Dutch midfielder Jan Johannes to lunge desperately from behind at
the mercurial feet of the intruder. Contact was made, and down went Renaldo
De Seta, crashing to earth.
Sigñor Patrizio was on the spot instantly, displaying a bright yellow card
deemed for Mr. Johannes. The fallen Porteño grasped his tender limb to inspect
it for damage. He felt no unusual pain, and once convinced that there was no
harm done, bounded to his feet, and raced upfield ready for the free kick that
the foul had garnered.
Ruben Gitares took the set piece from thirty yards distance, and a diving
Caesar Castro was able to redirect the ball with a precise header into Ramon
Vida’s path. The ‘Boy from Boca’ stood face-to-face with keeper Wilhelmus,
but the shooter’s angle was poor, and the Dutchman was able to parry Vida’s
blast over the touchline. Argentina had served notice that this segment of the
contest was not going to be a carbon copy of the preceding embarrassment.
The ungentlemanly conduct had not disappeared with regulation time,
43
JAMES McCREATH
and Sigñor Patrizio, again, had his hands full trying to keep things moving
along with some sort of consistency. Chacon was cautioned, but not carded on
two occasions for blatant fouls that normally would have brought a booking.
Perhaps the besieged official feared having to come into intimate contact
with that deformed visage and foul temperament. He kept his distance as the
frustrated Orange-shirts swarmed around him, pleading for justice. It was to no
avail. Number eight in powder-blue and white merely shrugged his shoulders
at the long-distance reprimand and went about his business.
The Dutchmen had made no adjustment in their offensive tactics, sticking
with the same methodology that had produced their only reward thus far, long,
cross-field buildups, followed by quick breaks toward the Argentine goal by
any man who could shake loose of his mark. The deeper the Europeans pressed,
the more susceptible they became to the fast-breaking Latins’ counterattack.
One minute before the conclusion of the first extra stanza, a misplaced
Dutch cross was trapped by Jorge Calderone twenty yards out from his own
goal line. Turning upfield, the Newton’s Prefect fullback spotted Humberto
Velasquez with acres of space on the near sideline. Calderone’s true pass sent the
little halfback streaking upfield. As two Dutch defenders converged to relieve
him of the ball, he calmly shoveled it off to Ramon Vida, who had drawn close
to lend assistance.
Vida had some time to plan his next move, and he stopped dead in his
tracks to seek out reinforcements. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the
musical half of the R&Rs approaching rapidly on the full run.
“Go for it, man,” were the words that accompanied his gift to the dashing
center half. Three defenders had converged on Vida by this time, but none
were fleet enough to catch the rampaging Renaldo. Vida split the opening
between two of the Dutchmen with his pass, and onto the offering ran number
seventeen.
Eighteen yards out, at the edge of the penalty area, Renaldo was forced
to leap over the flailing form of Nilis Hendrik. But the ball stayed true to the
Argentine’s desired course as if it were on a string attached to his ankle. Straight
ahead he propelled himself, closer and closer to his ultimate destination.
Now more Orange-shirts congregated to impede his progress. A slight
feint to his left sent his old friend Willie Brax sprawling to the deck, clutching
nothing but air. After that challenge, Renaldo was clear, and he raised his head
to set his sights.
There, there it is. Right in front of me with only keeper Wilhelmus to beat. The
Holy Temple of wood and mesh loomed larger than life.
Come on! Come on! Head and feet as one! Head and feet . . . The words swirled
in his brain, but before he could react with his intended shot, Wilhelmus
abandoned his upright stance and dove straight at the ball.
44
RENALDO
There was nothing that Renaldo could do. He leapt to avoid the
outstretched keeper as Wilhelmus sprawled on the turf. Unfortunately, the
leather didn’t accompany the handsome intruder this time as he sidestepped
the last Dutchman. Instead, it struck the goalie’s elbow and floated upwards,
twirling agonizingly in the air. The millions held their collective breath in
slow motion torture. Where would it land? Who would it favor? That was the
ultimate question!
The Argentine center half was now behind the prone Dutch keeper,
watching, waiting for the spinning spheroid to make up its mind. Defenders
Van Vlymen and Laurens had also sprinted behind Wilhelmus and were fast
approaching to assist in the clearance. Even though Renaldo was still onside,
there would be precious little time to act.
The object of attention dropped to earth two yards from the goal line, out
of reach of the prostrate Wilhelmus, but dead in the midst of the two Dutch
defenders and the sandwiched Argentine. All three made frantic attempts to
caress the ball.
Head and feet as one! One more time, one more time!
The shining sun on Renaldo’s left calf guided him home. The touch was
ever so gentle, but it was all that was required. Down, down, the orb spun,
hitting the green grass one yard from heaven, then bounding nonchalantly into
the back of the net.
The goal scorer raised his arms triumphantly, but not believing his good
fortune, sought out Sigñor Patrizio for confirmation. The black-shirt was
striding full speed towards the net, his right arm outstretched, pointing to the
ball now resting contentedly in the far reaches of the Dutch goal.
The usual celebration teemed down from the Gallery Gods, but along with
the ticker tape came the trilled roar that was illuminated on the scoreboard.
“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”
“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”
“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”
The boy was elated by his good fortune, but there was no time to savor the
moment. The home team was not out of the woods yet. These Dutchmen were
not quitters, a fact that had been all too poignantly demonstrated by their ability
to come back and tie the game in regulation time. There remained another full
fifteen minutes of play on Sigñor Patrizio’s watch, and the Europeans would
fight until the last tick of the timepiece to avoid having the mantle of ‘runners-
up’ bestowed upon their shoulders!
Argentina stacked its defenses and prepared for the onslaught. Try as they
might, on this occasion, the visitors could not break down the impenetrable
wall of powder-blue and white. Tenacious as pit bulls, the Latins were unwilling
45
JAMES McCREATH
to relinquish this lead and risk the uncertainty of a penalty shoot-out. Each
Dutchman was smothered at every touch, unable to find the space required
to create an opportunity. Orange anguish escalated as the sands of time slid
through the hourglass. All they needed was one true chance, one crucial
opening to set things right!
The hosts were in no mood to accommodate the needs of their visitors on
this fateful afternoon. In fact, there remained a taste for the kill on the palates
of the Argentine forwards that would be savored six minutes from full time.
With the desperate Dutchmen throwing every man forward, an opportunity
arose as a result of Leopoldo Anariba deftly cutting out and stripping defender
Eimert Laurens of the ball. The Argentine halfback relayed the object of his
handiwork twenty yards up the sideline to Caesar Castro, who, in turn, wasted
not a second in connecting with Renaldo De Seta.
Just to the right of number seventeen flashed the ‘Boy from Boca.’ The
R&Rs were together again, this time on a much larger stage, and they ran
together stride for stride toward a different kind of golden record.
What developed was a form of ‘after you, Alphonse’ passing extravaganza,
which revealed each man’s desire to see his friend score the clinching marker.
Renaldo made the initial relay to his amigo, who collected the leather in
full flight some twenty-five yards out. Too swift were these South Americans
for the caught-upfield Netherlanders. At the top of the penalty arch, Ramon
flicked the ball back at his chum, who had cut the distance between them to
a mere five yards. The pass struck Renaldo on the right hip, and all the center
half could manage at the speed he was running was a twist of his lower torso
in his teammate’s direction. Vida had slowed, expecting a return offering. He
wasn’t disappointed, for Renaldo’s hip pointer struck him dead on the breast
bone.
There was no time to stop and trap the orb, for both men were now half
stumbling, half running to keep the threat alive. Off the Boca Boy’s chest
thumped the sphere, spiraling back at number seventeen only two yards until
colliding with the top of Renaldo’s right shoulder.
The ball seemed to rest comfortably for an instant in the crook of the
younger player’s neck. As Ramon Vida crossed in front of him some fifteen
yards from the goal line, Renaldo carried the black-and-white passenger a few
strides closer toward its desired destination. Vida’s pick play had drawn the
only remaining defender closer to the Dutch goal, allowing his friend to remain
onside and blocking the Orange-shirt from challenging his partner. Renaldo
was unmolested, so he took the time to carefully shrug the ball down to the
turf directly onto his right foot.
One touch for control was all he needed before cocking his powerful right
leg and letting fly. Dutch keeper Wilhelmus must have thought the bouncing
46
RENALDO
ball show was going to continue. He stood his ground in the center of the
goalmouth, keying on the approaching Vida in anticipation of a return pass.
The late-arriving Europeans frantically tried to gain position to interfere
with Renaldo’s unobstructed approach, but it was all to no avail. Even
Wilhelmus knew that the jig was up, and his halfhearted kick-step at the
rocketing missile ended up being too little, too late.
Astor Gordero’s familiar catch-phrase flashed through Renaldo’s mind as
his right foot made contact. Off went the leather globe, sailing just out of
Wilhelmus’ reach, completing its voyage in the far lower corner of the Dutch
net.
All doubts had been swept away with one swing of the boy’s right leg. All
the naysayers were silenced forever. The vast amounts of money and time spent
by the host nation to provide a world-class showcase would pay the ultimate
dividend. Argentina was about to be crowned champions of the world!
The remaining time elapsed as a mere formality. The heart had been torn
out of the brave Lowlanders, and they knew that there would be no ‘Dutch
Masters’ on this day.
The three shrill blasts of Sigñor Patrizio’s whistle were the signal for all
serious thoughts to cease throughout this South American madhouse. It was
celebration time, and the largest, longest, loudest party ever seen in the southern
hemisphere would commence before the final note of the referee’s metal object
had faded into the roaring dusk.
4
Chapter twenty-nine
The Argentine security forces tried their utmost to maintain some
semblance of order on the pitch. Each of the eleven victorious starters
was given a two-man military escort to th
e victory podium as soon as
the players had finished congratulating each other.
To Renaldo’s surprise and amazement, he was hoisted off the ground from
behind by two huge, muscular arms. As he tried to turn his head to see who
was providing the impromptu elevator, the unmistakably gruff voice of ‘Killer’
Juan Chacon rang in his ear.
“Not bad for a snotnosed schoolboy, not bad at all! You did well, little
one. I am proud to be your teammate!”
With that, the grip was loosened and number seventeen fell to earth. Still
dumbfounded by The Ugly One’s sudden amiability, Renaldo paused several
seconds before realizing that Chacon had extended his right hand in an offering
of reconciliation. The younger player grasped his former antagonist’s huge fist
and was instantly drawn to the larger man’s chest in an affectionate bear hug.
“Thanks, Juan, it means a lot to me to have your faith and acceptance. You
were the man that showed us all what ‘true grit’ really meant! I would rather
have you as a friend than an enemy any day!”
Captain Daniele Bennett finally led his assembled compatriots up the
steps and onto the podium where congratulations were extended by FIFA
dignitaries and the junta leaders. Then, in the moment all of Argentina had
waited and prayed for, the captain hoisted the golden trophy symbolizing world
football supremacy above his head for all to see.
This simple act was greeted by the most deafening roar of unbridled
euphoria ever heard in this soccer crazy country. They were the best, and their
pride and passion was great enough to stir the souls of their dear, departed
ancestors. This was a victory for all times, for generations past, present, and
future!
It was difficult to say who the most elated observer was standing in
row 8, field level section 365, seats 1 through 6. For Astor Gordero, the faith
and guidance bestowed upon his young goal-scoring protégé would be richly
rewarded in the months and years to come. The Fat Man felt that he and he,
alone, was responsible for creating Argentina’s new football superstar, and from
that moment on, he was ready to let every living soul know it.
JAMES McCREATH
For Sir Reginald Russell, the performance of his newly acquired hired
Renaldo Page 77