Renaldo (104 page)

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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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

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 the 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

gunners partially erased his skepticism and the feeling of being taken for a

sucker by the rotund facilitator. Reggie still felt that it was a ridiculously

exorbitant amount of money that his daughter had forced him to commit to

paying the two South Americans for their services in England.

We’ll see how these warm weather Latinos react to playing a man’s game of football

in real soccer weather!
thought the still unconvinced Englishman.

For Mallory Russell, it wasn’t a matter of the money at all. The play of

Vida and De Seta would be enough to keep her father off her back, at least for

the time being. No, the money would be well spent. For her, there were two

tangible things that exhilarated the fair-haired beauty.

The first was a chance to bring the South American style and skill to

the paying English soccer public, and to use these two imports as a means of

showing the Football Association that their navel-gazing attitude about how

the game should be played needed a good dose of soul searching.

But most importantly for Mallory Russell, it was the opportunity to

continue watching that gorgeous number seventeen ply his trade. To be close to

him, to get to know him, to help him get adjusted to his new life in England,

and to make him her lover!

For Simone, the day held a very mixed bag of emotions. She was thrilled

for Renaldo and his success, but she knew that this same success would take

him away from her. She was already aware of the pending deal that would send

the object of her desire to another continent. Astor Gordero had informed her of

all the particulars the day before the final. He had also informed the chanteuse

that should there remain any doubt in the boy’s mind as to whether or not to

accept the English offer, that she was expected to ‘close the deal’ on his behalf.

She was in no position to refuse her domineering manager’s instructions, no

matter how much her heart ached.

As the team and coaching staff left the podium for their victory lap

around River Plate Stadium, Lonnie De Seta tried to seek out his brother to

offer congratulations. He had been able to forget about his own predicament

completely during the past two hours of high drama. Now with tears of joy

streaming down his cheeks, he joined the ever-growing crush of press and

supporters that were jockeying for position around their conquering heroes.

Rojo Geary’s only instructions from Astor Gordero had been to make sure

that the brothers did not come in contact with one another. Lonnie’s subsequent

disappearance would be too difficult to explain if Renaldo knew that his older

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brother had, in fact, been in Buenos Aires for the final game. Better he think

that Lonnie had met his demise in the intended traffic mishap in Bariloche

instead of the truth.

Gordero had already laid the groundwork for the ruse, and only the brothers

coming face-to-face could disrupt things. Rojo Geary was a professional, and

for that reason, Gordero had felt totally at ease that nothing would happen

that wasn’t planned. Let Lonnie see his brother play for the championship as a

farewell gift. After that, his fate rested in the hands of the assassin.

Rojo Geary was truly touched by his companion’s outpouring of pride and

joy. Geary was also thrilled that Argentina was the champion of the world. He

had admired the skills of Lonnie’s brother, and thought that the two goals the

boy had scored were a fitting tribute to his soon to be departed brother. Yes,

Rojo Geary had enjoyed the emotion-packed afternoon immensely, but now it

was down to business.

The stadium pitch was, by this time, a madhouse of uncontrollable

Argentines of every description. People were tearing up chunks of turf as

souvenirs or trying to carry away any stationary object that wasn’t permanently

secured. Water bottles, coolers, the team benches, and even the newly installed

seats all fell prey to the pillaging hordes.

The more zealous fanatics tried to rip the game jerseys off the backs of

their heroes as lasting mementos of the greatest day in Argentina’s history. The

players themselves were swarmed at first, then hoisted aloft and paraded around

the pitch in triumph. Skipper Bennett kept an iron grip on his golden prize,

lest it be swept away by the frenzied celebrants.

Lonnie De Seta tried to locate his brother in the swirling sea of powder-

blue and white, but it was no easy task. So irrationally intense was the jarring