Renaldo

by James McCreath

  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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  it was a matter of well-misplaced kicks to each other’s shins that saw both

  players shown the red card. The fact that the Hungarian had struck the first

  blow incensed the crowd, but Cruz’s retaliatory offering was done with blatant

  attempt to injure, giving the referee no alternative. That did not mean that the

  volatile Cruz would depart in a gentlemanly fashion. He had several choice

  words for Señor Garando before Octavio Suarez ordered him off the field from

  the sideline.

  The dilemma for Suarez was immediate. Because of his expulsion, Cruz

  had to sit out Argentina’s next match against France. As the final whistle

  sounded, ringing in Argentina’s initial victory in their quest for world football

  supremacy, Octavio Suarez was a worried man. He knew that the four days

  of preparation that his depleted team was afforded before battling the French

  was not nearly enough time to put the pieces together. There was no time for

  retrospection, and there was no time for savoring this victory. The future was

  all that mattered!

  France had lost to Italy in a heartbreaking 2-1 game at Mar del Plata that

  afternoon. To avoid elimination, the French had to beat Argentina. Suarez knew

  that his charges would face a tenacious, determined opponent. Thoughts of

  Napoleon’s gallant armies marching to victory after victory filled the manager’s

  mind with anxiety. Luckily, the boss was able to conjure up the one thought

  that finally erased the
scene from existence. It was the fact that there had been

  one Waterloo for the French already. Hopefully, the contest at the River Plate

  battlefield would be the second.

  The eleven names that illuminated the giant scoreboard under the

  host country’s name on the evening of June sixth provided ample cause for

  speculation. The starting lineup for this decisive match against France had

  been the best kept secret in Argentina. All press and visitors had been barred

  from the practice pitch, which had been shrouded in a twelve-foot high, solid

  wood fence. No one, players, coaches, or the manager himself, was allowed to

  discuss strategy during the inevitable interviews decreed by FIFA. The starting

  lineup tended to give credence to a rumor that had been circulating freely

  in the press. There was talk of a falling out between Octavio Suarez and his

  Independiente players, and the resultant purge by the manager had left only

  one of their number on the starting roster.

  That player, the indomitable and irreplaceable Juan Chacon, had given

  veiled hints of his dissatisfaction with the player selection in an interview the

  day before the French contest. The real story had Chacon and Suarez almost

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  coming to blows over the replacement of Arzu, Argueta, and now even Enrique

  Rios from the A squad. With Miguel Cruz’s suspension, the number of

  Independiente players that started the tournament’s second game for the home

  side fell to one. Five had started the previous game. Juan Chacon interpreted

  the action of the National Team manager as an affront to his club-mates and

  himself, and confronted Suarez in his office. Rumors abounded that ‘The Ugly

  One’ had to be physically restrained from attacking Suarez by coach Estes

  Santos.

  The answers that the Gallery Gods were waiting for were about to be

  revealed as the Swiss referee blew his whistle and pointed to Ramon Vida. The

  young center forward was grinning from ear to ear as he nodded affirmation

  and flicked the ball back ten yards to center half Renaldo De Seta. The strategy

  of manager Suarez’ game plan was now evident for all to see.

  He had moved the ‘dynamic duo’ to the middle of the playing field, the

  location where they felt most comfortable. Enrique Rios had been removed

  from the center forward spot due to his indifferent play, and on the wing,

  Nicholas Pastor, the perennial A squad forward, was nowhere to be seen.

  In his place stood veteran Caesar Castro, the River Plate winger who was

  on his home turf and patrolling the same terra firma that he owned during

  club matches. Suarez was gambling that the thirty-year-old Castro would

  feel comfortable in the well-known confines of River Plate Stadium. Vida and

  Castro had worked together as B squad forwards many times since the start of

  training, so they were well acquainted. Only Ruben Gitares remained on the

  front line from the original A squad eleven.

  The half line held two surprises. One was De Seta, but the other was even

  more of a shock. Instead of either of the two Independiente halves available to

  him, Suarez had chosen to go with another B player in the often overwhelmed

  Leopoldo Anariba. Again, the manager was sending out the message that there

  were no secure postings on the starting eleven. Four B players now patrolled

  the Argentine middle and left side. Cruz’s expulsion had opened the door for

  Suarez to regain control of his team. The eleven men in powder-blue and white

  stockings had received the signal loud and clear.

  The red stockings of the French embraced legs that possessed startling

  speed, intelligent improvisation, cleverness, and imagination. France had

  scored on Italy after only thirty-eight seconds of their opening match. It was a

  goal that would stand as the prettiest and best executed end-to-end rush of the

  tournament. Italy had managed to regroup and emerge victorious, but Suarez

  was afraid that a similar opening flurry by the French would severely rattle his

  young charges.

  Although Junior Calix was tested twice in the early going, the Argentines

  parried their opponent’s opening assaults and then countered with a skillful

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  attack of their own. The match had an energy level that Renaldo De Seta had

  never experienced before.

  Gone were the clutch and grab tactics of the Hungarians. This was pure,

  fluid football, and the boy loved it. The navy-blue-shirted, white-shorted

  Frenchmen were every bit as cagey as Suarez had warned. The flow of play

  never ebbed for a moment as both teams played poker with their opponent’s

  defenses.

  De Seta and Vida had several bright moments together, none culminating

  in the sought-after reward, however. Castro and Anariba seemed to be holding

  their own, and as the last minute of the first half loomed, manager Suarez was

  generally pleased with what he had observed.

  Renaldo’s heel was holding up well to this point, and he had not seemed

  out of place among the artful French playmakers. The pace of the game had been

  hectic, with numerous fast-breaking counterattacks by both sides. Nevertheless,

  Argentina’s youngest player remained stalwart in defense, managing to mark

  his opposite number with suffocating efficiency.

  With the clock set to summon the two teams to the dressing room for the

  interval, the French mysteriously seemed to let up for a few moments. Ramon

  Vida was able to undress French defender Yves Herve from the ball deep inside

  the European zone and relay it to his young friend, De Seta. Renaldo gathered

  in the pass on the full run and beat a path directly toward the French goal. He

  was met inside the penalty area by France’s captain, defender Christian Thiery.

  The powerfully built Thiery wasted no time in diving at his opponent’s feet

  and sending both men sprawling to the turf.

  The tackle had been legal, but as the Frenchman fell, his left arm seemed

  to make contact with the ball, sending it safely out of harm’s way, over the

  touch line. Ramon Vida was instantly at the referee’s side pointing to his hand

  and vehemently stating his case for a hand-ball foul. The Swiss official strode

  to the sideline to confer with his linesman, who had had a better vantage point

  from which to see the disputed play. Vida was on Mr. Raabsamen’s heels the

  entire width of the field. He kept up a constant chatter as the two officials

  conferred and his persistence paid off.

  Turning to make his way back across the pitch, the referee gave a slight

  flick of his wrist to indicate that he concurred with Señor Vida and ran directly

  to the penalty spot. The crowd erupted in sheer delight as league leading goal

  scorer Ruben Gitares stepped up to the ball and awaited the referee’s signal. On

  the whistle, he deftly nestled the orb in the back of the French goal, blasting a

  shot in the opposite direction from the sprawling keeper, Jean-Marc Poullain.

  Referee Raabsamen again brought the whistle to his lips, this time signaling

  the half. The home side was ecstatic, the visiting Europeans stunned.

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  There were no substituti
ons for either side as the second half commenced.

  The French took to the attack like a team possessed, and well they should, for

  a loss would send them home disqualified. The Argentine defensive back line

  had remained intact after the Hungarian contest, and as usual, Juan Chacon

  was handing out his greeting cards to any French player who came close enough

  to collect one.

  Twenty-year-old wing half Martín Palance was the heart and soul of the

  French offensive thrust. Time and time again, he defied the ugly Argentine

  with lightning sorties into the shadow of the powder-blue and white goal. He

  was rewarded for his dexterity in the sixty-first minute with the equalizing

  tally, converting a finely honed shot that had rebounded onto his foot off the

  crossbar. Countryman Didier Onze and two Argentine defenders were actually

  inside the net when the ball passed over the line. The great cliffs fell silent. The

  scoreboard did not lie! It was a tie game, and anybody’s contest.

  Among the advantages held by the home side at this particular point in

  the match was the fact that the starting French keeper, Jean-Marc Poullain, had

  to be carried from the field at the fifty-eighth minute. The unfortunate goalie

  had been injured by crashing his back into the upright post while making a

  particularly acrobatic save. His replacement, Michel Delaroche, was the older

  of the two men by five years. At age thirty-one, many thought that he had seen

  better days.

  Despite this setback, Palance continued to be the spark that rallied the

  men in the dark-blue shirts. Forward, forward, like Napoleon’s Imperial Guard,

  they wore the coq proudly. Didier Onze was to come the closest to being

  crowned the emperor when Palance set him free on a magnificent run. With

  only Junior Calix to beat, from twelve yards out he pulled the lanyard of his

  cannon. Calix sprawled to his left, clutching nothing but air.

  The solid shot projectile hurtled unobstructed toward the enemy’s

  headquarters. Onze followed its trajectory, confident in his ability as a master

  artilleryman. This would be the coup de grâce! The foe was finished. France

  would be victorious. But wait, what was this? For some unexplained reason, the

  shot misfired. His attempt wide by inches, the despondent Frenchman fell to

  his knees and grabbed his flowing mane in both hands. Agony!