Below is an excerpt from Renaldo, by James McCreath.
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 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 JAMES McCREATH 342 RENALDO 343 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.
There were no substitutions 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!
There was action in the other goalmouth as well. The Argentines had adapted to the attacking French style, and the use of the offside trap allowed for some hasty counterattacks into European territory. Often the dark-blue-shirted midfield would be caught too far forward in attack to assist their rear guard.
It was the surprising Leopoldo Anariba that seemed to be constantly pressing forward. He had received yeoman’s support in the first half from both Daniele Bennett in the rear and Caesar Castro up front, and now the rookie National Team member from Racing Club was gaining in poise and JAMES McCREATH 344 RENALDO 345 confidence. Chances were to be had continually. Vida hit the crossbar twice only two minutes apart. Gitares came close to putting the hosts back in the lead, but he was uncharacteristically inept in his finish.
Renaldo De Seta was more concerned about marking his man and not allowing the French an opportunity at his expense. He would feed strong balls to his teammates, but always with an eye on the gathering French hurricane. Less than fifteen minutes remained to play when the decisive moment arrived.
It started with a save by Junior Calix and a fast clearance out to Daniele Bennett on the left flank. Bennett looked upfield as the ball arrived and onetimed it thirty yards up the sideline to Leopoldo Anariba. The underrated halfback had acres of space since the French midfield was, once again, too far forward. Anariba made a run diagonally into the center of the pitch, and Renaldo De Seta, who was also unmarked, pressed forward ten yards in advance of his teammate.
Twenty-five yards from the goalmouth, Renaldo stopped dead, worried about a fast-breaking French counterattack should his line-mate cough up the ball. Anariba’s run had, by now, drawn a crowd of French defenders, and from the left wing, Caesar Castro was making a strong push into the penalty area, distracting several more Frenchmen. All this activity left Renaldo momentarily alone and unattended.
As Anariba flew past number seventeen on his way toward the right-hand goal post, he delivered a true pass onto the surprised center half’s right foot. So strongly was la pelota delivered to Renaldo that it volleyed off his boot to waist height. He watched it rise in the air and sit spinning almost in slow motion at the peak of its trip. The Newton’s Prefect Under Twenty-one player remembered thinking what a great, strong ball Anariba had sent him, how he hadn’t thought Leopoldo could pass with such authority until that very moment.
Renaldo then flashed on Astor Gordero’s words, Head and feet as one, head and feet as one! With his peripheral vision, he could pick out the top left corner of the opposing goal. The French defense seemed frozen in time. No one came forward to challenge, and as the ball sat suspended at the vertex of its rise, number seventeen swung a powerful right leg up and made contact.
“There!” the boy shouted as the sphere arched on its journey. His right hand pointed toward the top left corner of France’s goal, the preordained destination.
Head and feet as one! Come on, come on! This shot did not misfire, but was true to its mark. The French keeper had not expected a shot from such a distance, especially with powder-blue and white players streaming down the wings. That distraction and the resultant hesitation were his undoing. By the time he left his feet the ball was behind him, in the top left corner of the net!
Renaldo followed the flight of the ball, coaxing, pleading, urging it on its true path. He saw the back of the net bulge and Delaroche’s futile dive.
Raising his arms upright was the boy’s initial reaction. It was what he did instinctively any time he was fortunate enough to be rewarded in such a manner. He did not take to running wildly about the field, shouting praises to the heavens or falling to his knees while his teammates piled on top of him. Such demonstrations were for others. He had, at no time in his young life, scored a goal of this magnitude, however.
The stadium erupted in delight, and the heavens opened up with snowlike flakes of paper. Shouts of “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!” rained down upon the players as they swarmed their newly anointed Wellington.
The goal scorer was finally freed from his human entanglements and began to make his way back across the center line when he heard it for the first time. The noise seemed to start low in the field level section of the stadium, close to where the boy knew that Astor Gordero was seated. It was a strange sound, somewhat like a low roar followed by a long exclamation. Ramon Vida was now at Renaldo’s side.
“Do you hear that, man? You have your own cheer! Holy shit, listen to that, man. They’re saying ‘RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo.’ That’s you, man! You’re a fucking hero with your own fucking cheer, my friend. Look at the scoreboard. Look at those giant letters!”
Mesmerized by the growing volume of the refrain, Renaldo cast his eyes upon the mammoth illuminated board. There, in huge letters, spread the graphics of his name. Several ‘R’s’ in succession followed by ‘E,’ ‘N,’ several ‘A’s,’ then several ‘L’s,’ a ‘D’ and an ‘O.’ The entire stadium had picked up the chorus, and it was an extremely embarrassed, yet elated center half that took up his position for the final minutes of play.
On again came Napoleon’s legions, undaunted by the odds against them. Fine, inspired football propelled the blue shirts forward in search of the equalizer. But Wellington’s forces held their ground, and at the end of the day, left the field victorious.
The French must now retreat to Paris, empty-handed. Two games, two losses. A skilled, poetic team that just couldn’t find their offensive form. Renaldo De Seta exchanged jerseys with French captain Christian Thierry, who expressed best wishes and admiration for his young opponent. The crowd was still in a state of euphoria as Renaldo De Seta left the playing field, stripped to the waist and listening. The Gallery Gods were loudly proclaiming him as Argentina’s new darling of the River Plate.
