Renaldo

by James McCreath

  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

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  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,

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  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.

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  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

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  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

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  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