Renaldo (101 page)

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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RENALDO

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 outside

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