Renaldo (102 page)

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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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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JAMES McCREATH

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.