Renaldo (71 page)

to Argentina.

A national day of mourning was declared in the land of the River Plate

once their fallen hero arrived home. People wept openly over the casket as

Nicodemo Garcia lay in state at center field of La Bombonera, his old home

stadium with the Boca Juniors. What was to be the nation’s finest hour was

turning out to be its darkest moment. Grief and shock were supplanted by

anger and despair when the size of void left by Garcia’s absence was finally

comprehended.

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The one man who bore the brunt of the tragedy more than any other

was the National Team manager Octavio Suarez. All of his preparations had

focused on the prolific marksman being in the lineup. No one could take his

place, no one could even come close to filling his shoes. It would be necessary

for Suarez to devise a totally new strategy.

Everyone had an opinion as to what should be done. The press was

often extremely negative, saying that there was now no hope of winning the

championship. The recurring message seemed to be that “The Team’s one goal

should be to avoid embarrassing the nation.”

Those that chose to be positive focused on the National Team’s warm-

up match record, as well as the talents of the new ‘Señor Gol,’ Migel Cruz.

The cocky center half ate up the attention, saying on national television that

“Although I am saddened by Nico Garcia’s cruel death, it gives the true patriots

of Argentina, those players who chose to stay and develop their skills in their

native land instead of chasing the almighty peso, a chance to show their

enormous talent to the world.” As if this overt slight to the departed national

icon was not enough, the arrogant Independiente player went on to proclaim,

“I, Miguel Cruz, the new ‘Señor Gol,’ will make the people of Argentina

forget about Nicodemo Garcia very quickly.”

Now, under a dark, early winter sky, seventy-five thousand people filled

River Plate Stadium to overflowing. They were there to watch and to be given

reason to forget.

At seven-fifteen p.m. sharp, the Portuguese referee raised his arm, blew

his whistle, and pointed to Hungarian center forward Tibor Torok.

Words could not describe the atmosphere. The earth stood still for that

moment, all eyes upon the mystic sphere. How could one solitary object bring

so much joy and yet so much anguish? How could it have caused wars and split

families, been responsible for suicides, and yes, even births?

The ticker tape that had cascaded down on the would-be national heroes

had ceased. The multitude of patriotic singers and flag wavers stood inanimate

on the terraces. Collective breathes were held for that fleeting instant. Then,

with an ever so slight tap of his right foot, Tibor Torok raised the curtain on

ninety minutes of nail-biting mayhem.

The Argentine National Team fielded by Octavio Suarez for this critical

opening match contained several surprises in its lineup. Junior Calix had

outlasted a strong challenge from Angel Martinez and was playing a vocal,

confident style in goal.

There were no changes to the starting back four in Calderone, Suazo,

Chacon, and Bennett. It was the half back line that had the most drastic

overhaul.

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‘Señor Gol,’ Miguel Cruz, patrolled his familiar center half territory, but

due to the loss of Carlos Castillo in Montevideo and the glaring ineptitude

of his replacement, Leopoldo Anariba, Suarez had decided to make wholesale

changes. He sat down the defensive-minded Humberto Valasquez in favor of

an all-Independiente half line.

B squad halves Ricardo Arzu and Francis Argueta, both 25, both from

Independiente, were inserted into the A squad’s roster immediately after the

final warm-up match. Things worked well initially, the two new additions

being used to working with Cruz on a regular basis with their club team. But

there was dissension among the non-Independiente players over this perceived

favoritism. The matter was made worse by the fear of Juan Chacon and his

more arrogant than ever club-mates overhearing the disenchanted and taking

personal retribution.

Daniele Bennett, the rock-solid fullback with Italian and English roots,

had been appointed team captain by Octavio Suarez, but there was no doubting

the fact that ugly Juan Chacon was the man to whom everyone in the locker

room deferred. He ran the clubhouse as if it were his personal fiefdom and had

his underlings from Independiente create whatever distraction or amusement

for which he felt in the mood. Sometimes it was unyielding heckling of a

National Team member that had made a bad play or had done something off

the field that could be used against him. The Anariba twins were a constant

source of low humor.

While Juan Chacon derived several hearty bouts of laughter at his

unfortunate teammate’s expense, the undercurrent of hatred and contempt felt

by those not of his ilk was tearing the team apart.

Octavio Suarez was aware of the problem that the Independiente group

was creating, but his job was to produce a World Championship team, not

to babysit a bunch of whiners. He would let Chacon and his band have the

limelight on the night of the opening match, but if any of them failed to

perform, they would find themselves watching the contest from the pine rail.

Finally, the forward line, the place where Nicodemo Garcia would have

worked his magic . . . if only! Goal scorer Ruben Gitares was a staple on the

right wing, while Independiente
’
s Enrique Rios retained his training camp

center forward position by default. Newcomer Ramon Vida patrolled the left

wing, which was a change of position for the confident shooter, but one Suarez

felt was necessary to generate some of the lost offensive punch of which Garcia’s

death had deprived them.

Nicolas Pastor, the incumbent winger, had seemed like a fish out of water

after his primary feeder and club-mate Castillo went down. Ramon Vida was

given an opening during one practice scrimmage, scored three times, and never

left the A squad. His presence in the lineup did not thrill the Independiente

men, for Vida still carried a huge grudge over his friend Renaldo’s misfortune.

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The Boca Juniors player would mouth off at Chacon and company at every

opportunity. He had pummeled Francis Argueta in a locker room dustup that

saw him gain considerable respect, as well as distance, from his antagonists.

“Loco,” was how Argueta described his vicious assailant. Vida could very

easily have taken the Independiente’s man’s life, so savage was his display of

temper. Rumors of ‘The Loco One’ having a .357 magnum handgun in his

possession at the training facility further deterred any thoughts of settling

accounts on the part of Argueta’s cronies.

Ramon Vida’s reputation as a Boca gang leader and street fighter had been

picked up by the press during the course of his meteoric ride into the national

spotlight. The other members of the Argentine National Team had read the

stories as well, and they all knew that if there was one person on the team that

was not going to take any nonsense from Chacon and his lackeys, it was their

recently promoted left wing forward.

But the hour was at hand to put aside all the petty jealousy and childish

games. It was only ‘The Game’ that mattered now!

The eleven men who had stood moist-eyed through a stirring rendition

of the Argentine national anthem were about to cast aside their powder-blue

warm-up jackets and step over the threshold into either ecstasy or agony. All of

Argentina had waited years for this very moment, and these were the men who

held the nation’s pride at their feet.

The starting lineup for the National Team of Argentina was as follows on

the night of June 2, 1978:

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JAMES McCREATH

The Hungarians had shown flashes of brilliance in the qualifying rounds

to get to Buenos Aires, defeating both Bolivia and the Soviet Union. It was

said that they did not travel well and tended to be individualistic rather than

a unified team. That assessment was the furthest thing from the truth during

the opening ten minutes of the game.

The Hungarians sent four-man waves to attack the Argentine goal from

the opening whistle. Torok was set loose up the middle on three different

occasions by the precise foot of Attila Nagy. This lanky center half controlled

the midfield to such a degree in the early going that Octavio Suarez thought

that his side must be short one man.

Sandor Kovacs and Jozsef Laszlo on the red-shirted Hungarian’s wings

were a constant threat to pound home a rebound, and first blood was drawn

by halfback Zoltan Kaiser utilizing that exact scenario. A half parried save

by Junior Calix at the ten-minute mark found the attacking Kaiser with the

ball at his feet and a wide-open net. He made certain of his shot and gave his

countrymen the lead, 1-0.

Seventy-five thousand hearts sank, their voices no longer shrill, their

banners and flags limp. What was happening? The powder-blue and white

team had barely made it over the midfield stripe and had recorded no shots to

their credit. Ricardo Arzu had been directly victimized by the goal, for Kaiser

was his mark. The wily Torok had also left him clutching air on two occasions.

Miguel Cruz had not touched the ball as yet, and what was worse, the constant

pressure on the back line had led to finger-pointing and derogatory shouts of

blame among the Argentine players. To slow the fleet Magyars down, the halves

and defenders were constantly resorting to rough tackles, sweater grabbing, and

in Juan Chacon’s case, a few well-placed elbows. Free kicks were the Hungarians

reward for their inhospitable treatment, and by the time Kaiser’s blast entered

the net, the home side was thoroughly dazed and confused.

Octavio Suarez was a patient man, however, and he realized that the

tremendous pressure his charges were playing under would be certain to

unnerve them initially. The manager would wait to make any changes. It was

still too early to act.

Unfortunately, the remaining thirty-five minutes of the first half did

nothing to reinforce that theory. The men of Argentina were dismal! It was

only the acrobatic skills of Junior Calix that closed the door on disaster. There

was no coordination between the backs and halves, no precise clearing passes,

no stylish football, just bumbling miscues.

The Hungarians were everywhere, throwing even their sweeper, Ferenc

Doza, forward into the attack on several occasions. A post and a crossbar came

to Calix’s aid on two occasions. Had it not been for the off-line clearing of six-

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foot, four-inch Ignacio Suazo and the brutal punishment being dealt out by

‘Killer’ Juan Chacon, the score could have reached double figures.

There seemed to be no help from the midfield whatsoever. In fact, they

remained totally invisible, except when left prone on the ground after being