Renaldo (73 page)

the wing this time, not in the center of the field. Octavio Suarez had told him

to simply patrol up and down the sideline initially, until he felt certain that

he could run on the damaged foot. Suarez was taking a huge gamble on that

heel. Should Renaldo go down, Argentina would have to play the remainder

of the match with only ten men. There could be no further substitutions. The

manager hoped that his youngest player would reaffirm his judgment and

adapt under fire.

That proved easier said than done in the early going. The sideline was

a new entity for Renaldo. He found it confining at first, an inflexible barrier

controlled by the linesman’s flag. The boy was a fast learner, however, and in

this case, he was tutored expertly by the swift Hungarian wingers.

Twice his red-shirted opponents gathered in the ball and left the boy in

their shadows.

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JAMES McCREATH

“Wake up, you little shit!” was the warm greeting offered by Juan Chacon

as Renaldo took his place in the goal area for the Hungarian corner kick that

his second gaffe had produced. The third time a Magyar tried his wing, he was

ready. He would use the sideline as an ally this time.

Anticipating the ball’s path, Renaldo waited until the unsuspecting

Hungarian had collected the sphere and turned to head up the line in full

flight. Both men were within a yard of the boundary, but the Argentine had

the preferable angle and more room to maneuver. The Hungarian could not

proceed directly down the wing without contact. As the visitor turned slightly

to look for a red jersey to pass to in the center of the field, a perfectly placed

sliding foot knocked the ball back between the European’s legs and within the

reach of the approaching Ramon Vida. With play now progressing into the

Hungarian zone, Renaldo felt reassured that the sideline worked the same for

both teams. It was just as difficult for his opponent to work in the limiting

confines of its shadow as it was for him. He must use it as a friend, respect it,

and never take it for granted.

The undercurrent of the match began to subtly shift after about five

minutes of play. The hard tackling of the Argentine defense, coupled with the

brutal illegal punishment dealt out by Juan Chacon, was having the desired

effect on the European guests. Chacon was an expert at avoiding the yellow

card, for he would pick the opportunities to deliver his salutations only when

the referee was occupied elsewhere. The rest of the time, a sneer, a growl, or a

close-up look at his hideous countenance would be sufficient to intimidate an

opponent.

The Hungarians began to shoot the ball from further and further out,

seldom venturing near the monster of the back line. At the other end of the

field, things were starting to jell. The Argentines were beginning to connect

with their passes, which gave their offense a sense of rhythm. Much maligned

Humberto Velasquez set up Ruben Gitares twice with pinpoint relays onto

which he could run. The second of these led to a desperation foul by an out

maneuvered Hungarian defender. The resulting indirect free kick for the host

nation would be taken from thirty yards out. Eighteen minutes had elapsed in

the second half.

The National Team had practiced several set plays for this opportunity,

and Captain Daniele Bennett called on a piece using Miguel Cruz as the

triggerman. Renaldo De Seta had not been included in any of the set pieces for

obvious reasons. He took up a position at the edge of the box, just to the left

of the Hungarian defensive wall. Ramon Vida trotted by on his way closer to

the goal.

“Be ready for a rebound over on this side. That pussy Cruz won’t score on

the first shot,” was his friend’s advice.

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RENALDO

At the referee’s whistle, Enrique Rios ran directly over the ball from the

left side. Three paces behind Rios came Gitares, who flicked the ball slightly to

the right and onto the powerful foot of the waiting Miguel Cruz.

Cruz’s low blast sailed unobstructed into the Magyar goalkeeper’s arms,

but Janos Toth, the keeper, was unable to find the handle. The ball squirted

loose, sitting suspended in time for an instant in front of six disbelieving

players. Suddenly, out of nowhere, came a solitary foot to tap the ball closer

to the Hungarian net. That foot belonged to Renaldo De Seta, and his short

pass landed directly on the toe of Ramon Vida’s left foot. Not a soul stood

between Vida and the back of the net, and that is precisely where the ball was

deposited.

It was as if an explosion had gone off in River Plate Stadium. Roaring with

delight, seventy-five thousand voices chanted in unison, “Argentina! Argentina!

Argentina!” Ticker tape fell from the heavens. Ramon Vida stood with his arms

outstretched to the Gallery Gods in thanksgiving as several of his teammates

offered congratulations. Miguel Cruz was not among them. Renaldo waited

until Ramon was finally alone before he approached the striker.

“Nice goal, hotshot,” Renaldo offered with a smile.

“Nice pass, rookie. Didn’t I tell you that Cruz would fuck up? Now let’s

go to work and show these Hunkies what you and I can really do.”

The Hungarians were in no mood to allow their hosts to put on a soccer

clinic, and they resorted to some blatant intimidation of their own to throw the

Argentines off their game. The logic was that the hot-tempered Latins would

lose their cool and open up opportunities for the visitors. That logic backfired.

The host nation’s warriors kept their collective cool, and it was the visitors

who became more and more frustrated as the clock wore down. Seldom did the

red-shirts venture under the shadow of their opponent’s goal posts, for there

in all his ugliness stood ‘Killer’ Juan Chacon. The Argentines did not take

the bait and retaliate, but something had to happen to sway the balance of the

game before anarchy erupted on the pitch.

That something started with right back, Jorge Calderone. The twenty-

seven-year-old from Newton’s Prefects was having a career night, one in which

he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. His steadiness in the

first half had reassured his defensive line-mates, and now with the Hungarians

failing to press forward, he was able to use his considerable offensive skills to

the team’s advantage.

Time and time again, he would come upfield, spearheading the attack.

His passes were perfection, and nearly all of the powder-blue and white sorties

into enemy territory were the result of Calderone’s newfound freedom. With

just six minutes left to play, the versatile fullback again found himself deep

inside Hungarian territory in uncontested possession of the ball.

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JAMES McCREATH

Newton’s Prefect striker Ruben Gitares received a laser-like pass from

his club-mate as he was streaking diagonally across the field. In one motion,

Gitares back-healed the ball to Miguel Cruz, who was making a parallel run,

ten yards to the winger’s left. Cruz gathered in the orb and strode straight

towards the goal. Two defenders and the keeper converged on the center half,

the keeper diving at Cruz’ feet in an attempt to steal away the cherished object.

Unfortunately for Toth, the ball once again squirted loose as he and Cruz

tumbled to the ground in a heap. Only a few feet from this tangle of opposing

players stood Jorge Calderone. The sphere was his and his alone. It was as if this

one play was his reward for a stellar performance. With a gaping net twenty

yards away, he made no mistake. 2-1 Argentina!

‘Thunderstruck,’ was the only word to describe the feeling that swept over

Renaldo De Seta as the ball entered the net. The piercing burst of hysteria that

enveloped those on the pitch was beyond imagination. Once again, the white

streamers and confetti rained down from the heavens. The lengthy roar was

eventually transformed into the bravado-induced chant “Argentina! Argentina!

Argentina!” The initial outburst had actually startled Renaldo, for he had never

before played the game at a time when so much was at stake.

The Hungarians would not roll over and allow the partisan fans to

continue their celebration, however. Approximately six minutes remained until

time, and the Magyars went for the equalizer with a bloody vengeance.

Possession of the ball became the battle cry, and the Europeans stretched

the limits of fair play to make sure that it remained on their feet. Señor Garando,

the Portuguese referee, was all over the field trying to calm tempers and keep

play moving.

Torok and Nagy created several anxious moments in front of Junior Calix,

for those two in particular would not be denied the ball. As a result, they found

themselves in the thick of the rough-and-tumble play, and that meant having

to deal with the ever-abrasive Juan Chacon.

It was the brave Torok that dared to defy the monster at the gate with a

bold charge straight for the goal. The Hungarian center forward had gathered

in a pass on the full run as he crossed the half line and was bearing down on

number seventeen in powder-blue and white. In a split second, Renaldo had

to decide whether to go after the streaking red-shirt or fall back and cover his

opposing winger.

At that moment, Miguel Cruz buzzed into the picture and took a shot

at disarming Torok. The Hungarian neatly slipped by the attempted tackle,

but he was temporarily distracted. It was just the break that Renaldo figured

he needed. The rookie Argentine set out after the Magyar, allowing Daniele

Bennett to cover his mark. He worried about his heel for perhaps half a stride,

then instinct took over.

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The boy loved chasing down opponents and disarming them. He found

it even more exhilarating than scoring goals, if the truth be known. Torok

was thirty-five yards out when Renaldo left his feet. The hulking form of Juan

Chacon loomed ahead. Torok had to either shoot or feint away from Chacon.

The Ugly One was now advancing full speed at the intruder. A slight deke to

his right brought the red-shirt one step closer to the outstretched right foot of

number seventeen. That was all that was necessary.

The ball skittered harmlessly away after making contact with Renaldo’s

laces, and Torok, Renaldo, and of course, Juan Chacon, ended up in a three-

man love-in on the turf. Surprisingly, Chacon’s forearm seemed to find the

Hungarian’s chin somewhere in the entanglement, and in retaliation, Torok’s

elbow seemed to find Renaldo’s nose.

Totally unexpected, the blow brought tears of pain to the boy’s eyes as he

sprawled on his back holding his broken, bleeding, proboscis. Fortunately, the

referee had witnessed only the retaliatory act by the visitor. Once again, Juan

Chacon’s timing had been perfect. The red card was shown without hesitation

to Torok, and his fervent argument that he was only defending himself fell on

deaf ears.

The Hungarians, to a man, were irate. They swarmed referee Garando.

He was cool enough to ignore their protestations as the training staff attended

to the downed Argentine. As the two trainers knelt beside Renaldo, wiping

away the blood, Juan Chacon stood directly over the boy offering kind words

of sympathy.

“Get up, you little crybaby. The whole fucking world is watching you lay

there getting your diaper changed. This is a man’s sport. If you want to play

with the big boys, you better be ready to take that shit. Now either get off the

field or stand up and play!”

“I’ll play, don’t worry about me,” was the boy’s calm response as he pushed

away the trainers and rose to his feet. The bleeding had not altogether stopped,

and he was forced to wipe the stream of blood with his jersey. Ramon Vida was

at his side now.

“Hey, man, you look great. Really nails. Those Hunkies won’t come near

you now! Your face is almost as scary as Chacon’s! Let’s go, tough guy.”

Renaldo could always count on his flippant friend to make him laugh,

even in the bleakest situations.

Less than two minutes remained until the final whistle, and despite

having to play with only ten men, the Hungarians again pressed the attack.

Unfortunately for the visitors, the tackling and interference by both sides was

so vicious that no sustained offensive thrust could be mounted.

Under one minute remained when an exchange at midfield between

Nagy and Cruz sent Señor Garando to his shirt pocket once more. In this case,

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