Renaldo (81 page)

JAMES McCREATH

arrogant people. I detest them! Don’t worry, Wolfie. You will have your revenge.

Many things can happen to the frail and elderly that are hard to explain. Illness,

injury, robbery, who knows, even an untimely death! We gave the old bag a

chance to do things aboveboard. Now we have to deal with her in a more heavy-

handed manner. Believe me, Wolfie, nothing, absolutely nothing, is going to

derail my plans to control the De Seta financial empire. By the way, I called

Rodrigues personally to tell him that Florencia would be unavailable for the

next two weeks. We must become more ruthless in our approach from now on.

So, let us drink a toast to the timely demise of Señora Lydia De Seta!”

The familiar storm of confetti and white streamers greeted the national

heroes as they emerged from the player’s tunnel of Rosario Central Stadium

on the evening of June fourteenth. The sea of powder-blue and white flags and

banners duplicated the atmosphere and aura of River Plate Stadium.

The lineup changes were not the only thing that was different about the

Argentine team. Octavio Suarez had insisted on his players wearing white shorts

with powder-blue piping instead of the traditional black trunks. Something

to do with an old superstition that the manager had, and one that he was

unwilling to explain to anyone.

Poland kicked off and went on the attack immediately. Calix was forced

to make two fine saves in the first minute of play. The home side defenders

seemed nervous and tentative at first, but the half line played deep enough in

their own zone to lend a helping hand in those crucial opening moments.

A Jorge Calderone clearance to Renaldo De Seta sent the boy streaming

upfield on Argentina’s first legitimate offensive foray. Although no goal resulted

from this initial rush, one could see the confidence build in the powder-blue

and white team by the minute. The Poles were ruthless in defense, and many an

Argentine body lay prostrate on the pitch after an intimate exchange with one

of the foreigners. The home side was able to give as well as take, however, and

Juan Chacon was at his nastiest every time a red-stripped player came within

range.

Renaldo was starting to feel at ease with the pace of the game by ten

minutes in. He had space to maneuver, perhaps in part due to his relative

anonymity. He had not played enough at this level to be scouted and feared.

All the better for me,
he thought to himself as his runs upfield became more

fluid, his passes more precise. Ramon Vida was experiencing the same kind of

freedom for his part on the forward line. A cross bar was all that stood between

him and pay-dirt in the twelfth minute.

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The biggest surprise of all was the continued fine play of Leopoldo Anariba,

who went after every Polish player that dared try his wing with the tenacity of

a pit bull. In the fifteenth minute, the Racing Club halfback relieved Polish

captain Kazimierz of the ball, then turned and headed up his wing. Ramon

Vida was making a strong run up the middle, and was in a perfect position

to accept Anariba’s cargo. He hadn’t traveled ten yards however, before he was

felled by two visiting defenders. Because Vida was not in possession of the ball,

no obstruction foul was called. To the disgust of the multitude, the referee

motioned for play to continue.

Renaldo De Seta had swung wide to overlap the fallen Vida on his right.

The defense was frozen for a split second, awaiting the referee’s judgment on the

tackle that felled the home-side striker. If the Polish defense seemed hesitant,

Leopoldo Anariba certainly didn’t. Deeper and deeper into foreign territory

raced the Argentine halfback, until at last, he saw his opportunity to make a

play.

Traversing the field toward the right corner, De Seta had only one man to

beat as he neared the penalty area. Anariba had his wits about him, for he laid a

perfect floating ball twenty-five yards upfield, directly on the handsome head of

his still on-side youngest teammate. Renaldo De Seta’s header on the dead run

from seven yards out was true. Argentina 1, Poland 0 after sixteen minutes!

Thunder roared down from the Gallery Gods. The sky turned white with

paper snowflakes set against an undulating powder-blue and white backdrop.

A brilliant play! An astonishing goal! Ramon Vida was the first to embrace the

marksman.

“Hey, hotshot, you said it was my turn to score the goals tonight. You’re

still too ugly to get that nose in the newspapers, man!” Vida had a grin on his

face from ear to ear.

“I said the winning goal, Ramon. There is still time for you to show the

world your stuff. Where is Anariba?”

At that moment, the man that made the goal happen joined the intimate

circle of two.

“Bravo, Leopoldo, bravo! A perfect pass, and a fine, fine, run!”

Renaldo clapped his hands approvingly as he congratulated his playmaker.

More powder-blue and white jerseys joined the gathering, until Swedish referee

Johannsen had to reprimand the home team for delaying the game.

The Poles redoubled their effort to take the game to Argentina’s doorstep.

Renaldo’s half line was forced to play deep inside their own zone in a defensive

role for most of the next twenty minutes. The red team’s break came when their

star striker, Jerzy Wojciech, eluded Jorge Calderone just in front of the corner

kick marking and headed along the goal line, directly at the Argentine net.

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Defender Ignacio Suazo loomed quickly in Wojciech’s path, but the agile

forward eluded the more cumbersome defender and carried on his road to glory.

The beaten Suazo was not above using his gangliness to his advantage at a time

like this, however, be it legal or illegal. A long leg reached back and upended

his adversary. The ball skidded safely out of play.

Suazo had wisely made certain that his foul occurred just outside the

penalty area, but the ensuing free kick from the irate Wojciech proved to be

trouble enough, especially for young Renaldo De Seta.

Wojciech’s lofty service arched over the four-man Argentine defensive

wall perfectly. An outstretched Junior Calix had to turn into a human pretzel

to flick the ball over his head and away from the goalmouth. Unfortunately,

the globe landed squarely on Juan Chacon’s shoulder, just to the side of the near

goalpost. The startled fullback could only nudge the ball back into play.

Chacon’s half touch was good enough for Marek Tyc. The pint-sized

whirlwind of a Polish forward needed only a slight touch of his head to send

the object on its way into the gaping Argentine net. Only one obstruction stood

in its path . . . player number seventeen in powder-blue and white.

Renaldo had initially lined up for Wojciech’s kick on the goal line, some

five yards behind his keeper, Junior Calix. He chose for his mark on the ensuing

play the dangerous Polish striker Stanislaw Grzegorz. Big, blond, handle bar-

mustachioed Grzegorz was lethal around the opposing goal, and Renaldo knew

that he had to stick to him like a second skin.

The Argentine center half watched the ball’s flight as it rebounded off his

two teammates and was sent goalward by Tyc, all the while trying to keep one

eye on Grzegorz. The Pole had dropped back several yards to await a rebound

from a better shooting perspective, and the boy found himself mesmerized,

alone, and the sole defender of his nation’s honor.

Tyc’s header came spiraling toward the open right side of the net. It was

too high to deflect with his legs or torso, and in that split second, Renaldo’s

inexperience and youthful enthusiasm got the better of him. An outstretched

right fist diverted the ball’s flight to safety, but the consequences were

instantaneous and dire.

The rookie knew that he had committed an unforgivable faux pas the

instant he felt leather on flesh. Humiliated, he sank to his knees on the goal

line. Juan Chacon had his usual words of encouragement.

“You stupid little shit! What the fuck are you doing out here? This isn’t

one of your fancy pants school yards you’re playing in now, pretty boy! This is

the World Cup! If you can’t play the game, get off the field!”

A glassy-eyed youngster could only stare up into the ugliest face on the

planet. Ramon Vida appeared at that moment and stood toe-to-toe with the

insulting defender.

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“Leave him alone, Chacon! It was your goddamned touch that put the

ball right on that Polack’s head. Without Renaldo on the line, you would have

given them a sure goal. Now at least Junior has a chance to save the penalty!”

The veteran keeper joined the discussion at that point, hoisting De Seta

to his feet.

“Don’t worry, Renaldo. It was a sure goal without you there. Leave it to

me now! Just play your game, and don’t worry about this.”

Laslo Kazimierz was the somewhat peculiar choice to take the red team’s

opportunity. Surely there were more adept marksmen on the Polish side than

their aging midfield captain. Nevertheless, it was Kazimierz that stood some

twenty yards away from the crouched Junior Calix as he began his run toward

the ball.

In this game of cat and mouse, the keeper has to guess correctly in his

directional moves or he is left alone on the turf clutching nothing but air. The

bright yellow sun on the national flag of Argentina must have been shining

down on Junior Calix this particular day, for he guessed correctly, and arose

from his lunge grasping the treasured black-and-white sphere. Kazimierz’s

poor effort had landed directly in Calix’s arms. The score was still Argentina 1,

Poland 0, and the actions of Renaldo De Seta had been somewhat vindicated.

Octavio Suarez had nothing but praise for his men at the interval. There

seemed to be the confidence-building within the starting eleven that he had

hoped the lineup changes would foster. Some brief words of encouragement and

a reminder not to get too anxious out on the pitch was the only advice offered

to number seventeen by the manager.

Renaldo felt badly that he had put the team in that often lethal penalty

situation, and he was certain that there was no one in the world more relieved

with Junior Calix’s save than the half back from Newton’s Prefects Under

Twenty-one team.

The final forty-five minutes of play were the most sparkling of the

tournament to date. Both teams lunged and parried at a steady, gut-wrenching

pace. The keepers were tested to the limit at each end of Central Stadium, and

the dramatic tension built by the minute.

The Poles pressed the attack, seeking the Golden Fleece. Junior Calix

barred the door on each occasion. Leaping, diving, sprawling, the goaltender

would not allow his net to be violated.

Renaldo De Seta had drawn much closer marking immediately following

his tally, but as time waned, he found himself with acres of open territory each

time Argentina cleared the ball upfield. The offensive-minded red-shirts were

susceptible to a fast-breaking counterattack.

At exactly the seventieth minute, Calix cleared a long, soft shot that he

had trapped. His quick overhand throw was well-placed fifteen yards upfield,

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JAMES McCREATH

directly to a surprised Juan Chacon. It was lucky for The Ugly One that Calix’s

pass was on the spot, for Chacon had lost his assignment, the ever-present Polish

striker Marek Tyc. The little whiz-bang Pole had left the plodding defender in

his wake en route to the goalmouth. Even Chacon’s attempted elbow to slow

down his adversary had missed its mark, too high to strike pay-dirt. Now,

‘Killer’ stood alone in possession of the ball, with all the enemy attackers

behind him awaiting the rebound that Calix never surrendered.

Space was not something Juan Chacon had seen a lot of that evening, for

he had played an exhaustive role assisting his acrobatic keeper shut out the

persistent Europeans. The Poles were not intimidated by his threats or his

appearance, however, and they gave as well as they took in the trenches. For

once, defender number eight had some room to take a stroll, and that is exactly

what he did. There was no red jersey for forty yards in front of him.

The crowd cheered to see this rare sight. Every football fan in Argentina

knew that Juan Chacon ran like a bull moose in heat. A distinctive half lope,

half quick-waddle. Fans pointed fingers and broke into spontaneous laughter.

Even the nearest Polish defenders did a double take upon seeing this most

ungraceful of visions.

It was Octavio Suarez that ruined the fun. The second Chacon started his

run upfield, the manager left the dugout. By the time he reached the sideline,

Suarez still could not believe what he was seeing. He called out to the heavens

for an explanation.

“Juan Chacon making a run upfield? Is he crazy? What the fuck is he