Renaldo (87 page)

would be no tomorrow that mattered for these tragic warriors. But as they left

the field of play, the thousands saluted them for their proficiency, their pride,

and their sorrowful passion, now so openly displayed.

That same beautiful afternoon in Córdoba was to become one of the

blackest days in West German football history. A German victory by a large

goal differential, aided by a tie in the Italy-Netherlands match, could very

well put the reigning world champions back in the final. Relentless offensive

football was the order of the day. Unfortunately, the players were unable to

carry out that order.

Things started off brightly enough for the green-shirted Germans. A goal

in the nineteenth minute stood through the interval. But the dressing room

gremlins played their nasty tricks on the men who held the lead. It was a

different German team in attitude and ability that took to the pitch for the

final forty-five minutes.

An own goal fifteen minutes into the second half brought the Austrians

level, then five minutes later, the favorites found themselves a goal down to

their European neighbors. The German’s pride was severely offended, and they

swarmed around their opponents’ net, seeking to redeem themselves. It only

took two minutes for their labors to bear fruit, and there still remained ample

time to salvage a great victory.

The Austrians were not in an accommodating mood, however. There

was nothing in this world that would temporarily erase past failures more

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thoroughly than a victory over their Teutonic cousins. They had repulsed the

German blitzkrieg in the last half-hour of play and were now poised to storm

the beaches in one final counterattack.

Under five minutes remained in this Prussian chess game when the

checkmate occurred. Victory was placed on the doorstep of the Austrians and

gratefully accepted. The winning tally in the eighty-seventh minute left no

time for the Germans to regroup. They were unable to make even the faintest

attempt at an equalizer, and one could sense that the wrath of an unforgiving

and disillusioned nation would quickly descend upon their fallen heroes.

Wolfgang Stoltz and Paul Rheinhart had been on the terraces in Córdoba

that afternoon. Matters at Buenos Recuerdos were proceeding according to

plan, but the unpleasant business was hardly mentioned. This was a football

outing, and the two old sailors from the Kreigsmarine were there to give all

their support and encouragement to the current idols of German football.

Stoltz had found it essential to temper his enthusiasm for his ‘Fatherland

Favourites’ in the company of his employer. Astor Gordero was a raving

nationalist when it came to his love for Argentine football. The Fat Man would

not tolerate discussion of the positive merits of any other nation’s football

program. Wolfgang Stoltz relished this one opportunity to cast aside the mantle

of oppression and cheer heartily for his native sons.

Stoltz and Rheinhart would just as ardently drown their sorrow with

pails of ale that bleak evening. By midnight, the lawyer from Buenos Aires

had imbibed enough of the magic froth to convince himself that the German

defeat had saved him from acute embarrassment and confrontation with his

employer.

What if Germany and Argentina had met in the final as antagonists?

What if Germany had beaten the host nation and reaffirmed their world

dominance of the sport? He could imagine the horrible personal consequences,

even with his alcohol-clouded brain.

No, he would feel better in the morning, despite the hangover that he

knew would awake him. He would feel better for not having to hide his passion

from Astor Gordero. He enjoyed his work, and his play, with the influential

facilitator far too much to jeopardize his standing on something as trivial as the

outcome of a football match.

Even so, the last image that Wolfgang Stoltz conjured up as he sank into

a drunken slumber was of the West German captain holding aloft the World

Cup trophy after having vanquished all the world’s pretenders.
Deutschland Uber

Alles!

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JAMES McCREATH

The second-to-last piece of the puzzle would be played out seven hundred

and sixty-one meters above sea level in the foothills of the Andes Mountains.

The city of Mendoza and a well-rested Polish National Team would welcome

the traveling Brazilians back to the thin mountain air. It was the second time

in less than a week that the yellow shirts had to traverse almost the entire

breadth of Argentina to play their fixture.

Both teams had a technical chance of a berth in the final. The Poles, for

their part, would go through if they were victorious and the Peruvians upset

the host nation later that evening. The Brazilians needed not only to win, but

to also run up the score, so that the critical goal differential was heavily in their

favor should Argentina triumph.

A cloudless blue sky hung above the forty-seven thousand, six hundred

and twenty expectant football fans that beautiful afternoon in Mendoza. It was

part of the same high pressure front that brought identical weather to each

venue that June day.

‘High pressure’ was an apt description of the atmosphere inside the stadium

as well. The Samba beat was ever present, the crowd being predominately

supporters of the South American team.

Four years earlier, these two teams had met in the ‘bronze medal,’ or third-

place match in Munich. In that game, Poland had capped a brilliant World

Cup showing with a 1-0 victory over the Brazilians. The men from the southern

hemisphere did not take kindly to the comeuppance, for the unexpected loss

had caused them all kinds of embarrassment on their return home.

To make matters worse, the Poles were officially considered the home team

for this fixture, and as such, had the choice of uniform strips. They selected

white tops, red shorts, and white stockings, forcing their opponents to don their

secondary colors. The familiar yellow shirts of Brazil would be replaced on this

day by ones of a royal-blue hue, along with white pants and white stockings.

It was not what the Samba men wanted to play in, and the insult did not

go unnoticed. Brazil had a score to settle, and it set about the task from the

opening whistle.

The blue-shirts tattooed the Poles’ woodwork with the imprint of the ball,

and it was a thing of beauty to watch their pinpoint execution. The Samba

beat, oh, that Samba beat!

A free kick taken by Brazilian gunner Emmerson Dos Santos eluded the

Polish wall and tucked nicely into the mesh in the thirteenth minute. The

Europeans were back on their heels and barely hanging together.

The South Americans pressed forward again and again. Fluid, always

moving to space, a work of art in creation. Unfortunately, that creation did not

include the ability to finish the piece. By the half hour, slight signs of frustration

could be seen in the ranks of the crowd favorites, for the Poles had taken heart

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at having weathered the storm and were more confident and abrasive. The

Brazilian surges dwindled in the face of Polish long ball counterattacks.

One minute before the half, Poland’s newfound aggressiveness paid off.

A scramble ten yards in front of keeper Oliveira resulted in a screened shot

eluding all the defenders and knotting the score. Now which team would come

back onto the pitch following the break with the confidence to play their style

of football and win? Everything hung on the answer to this question.

Buoyed by their late success, the men in the white shirts and red shorts

picked up their game where they had left off. The Brazilian defenders looked

confused and disorganized in the early going, several near misses around their

net undermining the confidence that was so prevalent in the first thirty minutes

of the game.

It was left to the blue-clad midfielders to turn the current in the opposite

direction. The midfield is considered the canvas that allows the Brazilian game

to become an art-form, if things are going well. Slowly, ever so slowly, those

men began to win more and more duels for possession. The precision passing of

their halfbacks turned defense into offense, pushing the play forward, striving

to find that Samba beat again.

They found the beat in the fifty-seventh minute when João Batista

collected in a rebound and drove home the chance. One could feel the Poles

wilt under the noise of the jubilant crowd. Several covered their ears to block

out the harsh celebration. They had heard enough of the Samba beat, enough

to last a lifetime.

The Europeans had nothing left to offer. A third South American marker

followed five minutes after the second. The remaining time was a blur of

blue and white on the run, a demonstration of style and tactics for which the

Brazilian game is so famous.

The only problem was that, once again, the finish was lacking, and the

men from Ipanema were unable to build their crucial margin of victory past

the two goal level. A 3-1 final score in favor of Brazil entered the record books

after ninety minutes of football.

This result meant that the host nation had to win by four clear goals

against Peru to oust the Brazilians from the World Cup final. Four clear goals,

almost an insurmountable task!

Barring a complete collapse of the Peruvian defense, each and every

Brazilian player felt supremely confident that they would sport the yellow

battle colors of their nation one more time in the most important game of their

young lives. The World Cup championship final!

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JAMES McCREATH

The Argentina-Brazil fiasco had proven to be a distasteful event for Sir

Reginald Russell. He had so hoped to see the South American game displayed

in its finest showcase. As it turned out, he was barely able to control his contempt

for the stuttering, bullying football that the Latins offered.

“If we are supposed to be looking for a diamond in the rough, I’m afraid

that we will never find it in this rubbish, darling!” the perturbed Lord snapped

at his daughter.

“Sit down, daddy, and keep a sharp eye, now, that’s a good chap. You are

upsetting the patrons around you with your blathering on.”

“I’m upsetting them? What about that crap down there? That’s what

should be upsetting them!” Reggie pointed to the pitch as he obediently took

his seat again.

Mallory Russell kept her eyes glued on the player wearing powder-blue

and white number seventeen. The player had been felled twice since entering

the game as a substitute after the break. She knew for a fact that it was the

same young player that had scored the two goals against Poland. The lady had

been unable to take her eyes off him during that game as well.

Renaldo, Renaldo,
she kept saying his name silently to herself. She was

startled and disappointed to find him missing from the starting eleven against