Renaldo (90 page)

corner, but found himself covered by three red-shirts. Center forward Ramon

Vida was the closest player to Gitares, but there was an opponent shadowing

Vida so closely that the winger delayed his pass for an instant.

Suddenly, a pale-blue streak appeared just beyond Vida, charging for the

penalty area.

“There now, take this and fly, baby!” Ruben Gitares called out as he

directed the sphere diagonally back across the pitch. Twenty-five yards away,

Renaldo De Seta could see his gift arriving. He thought for a split second of

Simone in the stands watching, but then it was down to business. As he gathered

in the ball and strode toward the unprotected keeper, the phrase flashed in his

mind like a neon billboard.
Head and feet as one! Head and feet as one!

Vida and Gitares were bulling forward to the goal, drawing attention and

creating diversion. Renaldo had a clear shot with only the keeper to beat. He

was inside the penalty area now, but fearful of shooting too soon.

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RENALDO

Hold it, hold it, let the keeper make his move!
The young player’s inner voice

seemed to be guiding his every gesture now.

Watch for your opening, have a true eye and a strong foot. Easy, there it is.

Now!

Fifteen yards out, the Peruvian keeper left his feet to lunge at the

approaching attacker. It seemed a half-hearted effort to Renaldo, for the ball

eluded this last defender’s grasp by several feet. For a moment, number seventeen

felt his stomach turn as his shot came perilously close to hitting the far post.

But his aim was true, and the little bit of English that his right foot had put on

the shot allowed it to tuck nicely just inside the upright. His thoughts flashed

back to Simone as the scorer was engulfed by jubilant teammates. He realized

then just how much he wanted to go back to Buenos Aires to play in the

championship game and to hold her in his arms as his championship trophy.

Argentina had opened a crack in the door, but it was by no means sufficient

to earn them advancement. The pressure had to be constant on the ambiguous

Peruvian defenders, and the men in the powder-blue and white vertical stripes

set about its application with abandon. It seemed as if every warrior on the home

side wanted to add to the margin personally, for the surge forward, even by the

fullbacks, was overwhelming. What the world was witnessing happened to be

a South American team playing the overworked catch phrase, ‘total football.’

‘Total football’ was thought to be the exclusive domain of the Dutch when

it was introduced in 1974 in West Germany. The Orangemen had enthralled

the world with their fluid, all-encompassing style of play. It was entertaining

to watch, and the fact that the Netherlands fell two goals short of the World

Championship had done nothing to diminish or dissuade its disciples.

Now, Argentina was throwing every man into the attack, and it seemed

that only Peruvian goaler Jaime Allianza was interested in keeping the score

respectable. The poor Allianza had little or no help from his leaden teammates

as the home team gunners descended upon him.

Two minutes before the interval, a corner kick taken by Ruben Gitares

curled twenty yards away from the goal line. Pursuant to the strategy of the

day, six-foot-four-inch Ignacio Suazo had come forward to lend a helping hand.

In this case, he lent his head to the cause, pounding the ball down to earth

two yards in front of keeper Allianza. The Peruvian moved too late, and the

precious leather was behind him into the goal before he hit the deck.

Suazo could not believe his good fortune, for he was not a polished scorer

at the best of times. In fact, his ‘near misses’ had become a good-natured joke

among his teammates. The team had practiced headers once with no keeper

in the net, and Suazo had missed ten out of ten shots. They had presented the

good-natured River Plate defender with a ‘golden skull award’ at dinner that

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evening, and the mood of mirth and camaraderie that the silliness produced

was a tangible factor in their newfound cohesiveness.

Good things often come to those who suffer in silence, so now, Ignacio

Suazo was being swarmed by his teammates and lifted aloft. He would go to

the dressing room feeling more elated than at any time in his life.

Those moonbeams even helped Suazo!
thought Renaldo De Seta as the home

side exited the pitch. With half the game to play, Argentina was halfway to

salvation.

The beautiful Symca had enjoyed the drama and atmosphere of the first

half immensely, despite the fact that her focus had been strictly one dimensional.

She could not take her eyes off of number seventeen in the powder-blue and

white jersey. There were just so many things about Renaldo De Seta that had

a disarming effect on her.

His traffic-stopping good looks were obvious. Then there was the way his

body moved when he ran with the ball, so confident and graceful. His powerful

strides exuded sexuality. His shyness in real life, his sensitivity, his youthful

naiveté. His touch, and especially the enduring sensation of him pressed against

her.

She had been with other men, but none of them had inspired her like this

man. Her suitors had always been older, more experienced in the ways of love.

But Simone had been a good student, and the fantasy of being the teacher for

once kept her awake at night. She wanted with all her heart to be with him this

moonlit night, but it could not be. Her solace was the fact that she knew they

would be reunited in the capital within days, and she had conceived a plan to

make the experience special.

Simone Yvonne Montana Carta-Aqua would pick her timing carefully for

the opening of her new school. It would be a finishing school for her one student,

and that student had only one goal to achieve in acquiring his diploma. The

teacher would set an exacting curriculum, but in the end, the student would be

finished with boyhood forever, for she was going to turn him into a man!

Octavio Suarez was on the alert for those invisible ‘gremlins of the interval.’

He sat with each of the starting eleven to gauge their strength and spirit. His

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team was still two goals shy of reaching nirvana, and he had options to consider

regarding his two substitutions. Should he throw in fresh horses for the run

down the stretch? Proven finishers Bottaniz, Pastor, and yes, even the newly

dentured Miguel Cruz were available to insert.

Minutes before taking the field, the manager stood alone in his tiny office.

He was out of sight, but with the door open. His arms were wrapped around

his torso, head drooping on his chest, eyes closed, listening, listening. He had

heard ‘the buzz’ before, ‘the buzz’ that a group of men that are harmonious in

their destiny can make. Winners! It was in the dressing room right now. He

could hear it as the voices intertwined to make ‘the buzz.’ He could feel its

presence in that room.

“Winners!” Suarez mumbled. He raised his head, eyes now open and full

of fire. “Winners!” he shouted above ‘the buzz’ for all to hear. The starting

roster would remain unchanged!

The manager had some doubt about his good vibrations in the opening

minutes of the second half, however. The Peruvians had refound their skills

and panache during the break, and they pressed the game into the Argentine

danger zone. Some fancy footwork and ball control confused the powder-blue-

and-white-striped shirts for a time, but sooner or later, one had a feeling that

number eight of the hosts would make his special presence felt.

Peruvian striker Hector Diaz had been pleased with his World Cup

performance to date. He had scored twice against the Scots and wrung up

another deuce against Iran in the first round of play. Furthermore, he had

been praised by his manager and the press back home for his tireless showings

against Poland and Brazil in the second round. He had no doubt that one more

goal tonight against Argentina would etch his name in the minds of the North

American talent agents.

Hector Diaz longed to play for the Cosmos in New York City. His dream

was to be counted among the soccer elite of the world. Unfortunately, he would

be counted out for the duration of the match after leaping for a header just a

tad too close to Juan Chacon.

No one saw a blow struck or any impropriety committed at all by The

Ugly One. The two players simply went up for the ball at the same time, became

entangled, and fell to earth with the larger Chacon on top of the Peruvian.

No injustice was evidenced through the tangle of legs and bodies that

surrounded the fallen warriors as the play swirled around them. Chacon was

up almost at once, the red-shirted player remaining prone on the green carpet.

Smelling salts revived the groggy striker, but he was carried from the pitch by

stretcher after being unable to count to five. It would mark the end of the first

and final offensive thrust that Peru would mount that second half of play.

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JAMES McCREATH

At the forty-eight minute mark, Ruben Gitares lofted a free kick goalward

from just to the right of the penalty area twenty yards out. Renaldo De Seta,

the tallest man on the front line, trapped the ball on his chest and shrugged

it toward teammate Ramon Vida. Four red-clad Peruvians converged on the

center forward, but before any were within striking distance, the boy from Boca

calmly flicked-on the volley with his right foot.

Number seventeen had faded to his left and dropped back a few yards

to remain onside after the relay. He was in a perfect position for Vida’s return

offering. Clear of all obstacles, he stood alone, ten yards from the bewildered

Allianza.

“One more time, head and feet as one! Now, do it!” Renaldo said aloud.

The ball bounced once at his feet a yard out from the goal area. From seven

yards, it was an easy left-footed shot into the near top corner of the twines.

The familiar trilled roar that swept through the grandstand surrounded

the scorer as he took his spot for the ensuing kickoff. The scoreboard shone as

brightly as its celestial cousin, Argentina 3, Peru 0!

One hundred and twenty seconds later, the world unfolded as every

Argentine heart knew that it should. The padrone or ‘old man’ of the team,

thirty-year-old Caesar Castro, would lay the foundation for the largest

celebration Argentina had seen in years.

With the home side swarming around the foreigners’ danger-zone, the red

defenders tried jamming their goalmouth to keep the score respectable. As this

critical play evolved on the fringes, the River Plate winger left his feet and flew

into the midst of the Peruvian goal area. The airborne Castro then nonchalantly

headed the cowhide toward the barn as he connected with a precise lob from

the attacking Daniele Bennett.

Ramon Vida stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his red-shirted marker at

the far goalpost. Up, up, up the ball arched after Castro’s touch, spinning in

slow motion toward the Argentine center forward. Vida had position on his

defensive opponent, who seemed transfixed by the sphere’s flight. Twirling and