Renaldo (103 page)

Calix was little more than halfway back along his goal line when the net behind

him bulged with the Orange-shirt’s header.

Now, ten foreigners stood in huddled elation as eighty thousand looked

on in mute dismay. Holland had come level, and the world order stood on the

brink of collapse.

To make matters worse, the Dutch were far from content with their

stunning accomplishment. They seized the emotional letdown and shock that

their hosts were in the throes of and closed in for the kill.

On came the orange waves, sending the powder-blue and white defenders

back on their heels in disarray. Try as they might, Argentina could not gain

possession of the ball for more than a few seconds at a time before it was

aggressively relieved from them. Eight minutes of relentless pressure culminated

in the finest scoring chance of the day.

Less than a minute remained on Sigñor Patrizio’s watch when the brothers

Trelaan teamed up one more time. Again, it was Arturs who launched a deft

chip shot thirty yards upfield, this offering coming to earth mere yards in

front of his sprinting brother, Kees. Now it was Jorge Calderone’s turn to be

victimized by the onrushing Netherman. The Argentine fullback had given up

the advantage of position, and short of a costly foul, there was nothing he could

do except watch in dismay.

The ball came to earth at the edge of the goal crease, six yards out from

Nirvana. Kees Trelaan was positioned perfectly to pounce on the waist level

volley off the turf and jab the sacred object goalward with his left foot.

Keeper Calix made a futile stabbing motion with his left leg to divert the

black-and-white globe from its damaging trajectory, but he narrowly missed

making contact. The guardian of the gate could only look back in anguish as

he and the onrushing Trelaan became entangled and crashed to the carpet.

The matter was out of everyone’s hands now. The Gods would decide the

outcome of the ball’s pilgrimage to Mecca. The entire football universe gasped

collectively as they followed its flight to the promised land.

Trelaan’s touch sent the orb downwards again, then off the turf two yards

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JAMES McCREATH

out, volleying upwards at waist level. There were no other defenders close

enough to interfere with its ordained destiny. No breathing, living, souls to save

Argentina from a disaster that only minutes before had been unthinkable!

There remained only a certain white, six inch by six inch, upright wooden

object to master. As fate would have it at this moment in time, it was the

goalpost that would change the course of history.

The eighty thousand breathed a collective sigh of relief as black and

white struck white. The benevolent sun of La Bandera Immaculada must have

been shining down on the fortunes of her native sons, for the dreaded object

rebounded back into play. It was then swiftly cleared from danger’s doorstep by

Captain Daniele Bennett.

There was no time left to strike again for the Dutchmen, no time left to

redeploy for the Argentines. The last glorious opportunity had been decided by

an inanimate object, totally impartial and oblivious to the emotional mayhem

that it had created.

Sigñor Patrizio raised his right arm and gave three long blasts of his

whistle. Regulation time had expired. The champion of the soccer world would

be determined in extra time, or failing that, penalty kicks.

The tension inside the circular cauldron known as Monumental Stadium

duplicated its namesake. Octavio Suarez had not been enamored by the play of

his team in the final half of the contest. He had made no substitutions as yet,

and during the five-minute break, he canvassed each of his starting eleven for

signs of fatigue or mental letdown.

No one wanted to come out of the contest. Not one man was willing to

give up his position. These were his shock troops, the best he had available,

and Octavio Suarez would do or die with these same warriors. He gathered his

charges in a tight circle around him just as the officials signaled for the players

to take their positions.

“Señors, we have come a long, long way together. Too far to see things

fall apart now! We are fortunate to be able to continue on in this game! You

must take the battle to their doorstep immediately! Each of you, pull up your

stockings. Let that shining sun guide you to your true destiny. Champions of

the world! I have faith in each and every one of you. These multitudes looking

down upon us have faith in each and every one of you. Have faith in yourselves,

and you will stand on the victory podium in thirty minutes’ time!”

Thirty minutes. Two fifteen-minute halves. No sudden death, just

two fifteen-minute halves played to completion! The occasion called for

the penultimate effort by each of the twenty-two men that lined up for the

resumption of play.

Who would be equal to the task? Who would falter and bear the

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ignominious title of ‘runner-up’ for the rest of their lives? Those questions were

about to be answered as the world watched and waited.

For Renaldo De Seta, there was no doubting the final verdict. He felt

strong and mentally capable of carrying out the duty expected of him. He had

taken only one direct scoring chance himself during the first ninety minutes

of play. He was convinced that his opponents would, therefore, regard him in a

lighter manner. This would translate into more time and space, which he could

use to his advantage.

His role for the last forty-five minutes had been primarily defensive,

due to the sustained dominance of the Europeans in the Argentine half of the

field. But the bothersome Willie Brax had backed off from his persistently

close shadowing as a result of the Dutchmen’s offensive superiority. Number

seventeen had seen room to create chances, if only the men in powder-blue

and white could break down the orange dike and flow into the Lowlander’s

heartland.

Holland kicked off and went on the offensive immediately. Green shirted

keeper Calix was called upon to stifle the orange crush twice before the ball

crossed the center field line going in the opposite direction. But it was that first

charge by the Latins that set the stage for things to come.

Juan Chacon’s headed clearance in the third minute was trapped and

controlled off the chest of Renaldo De Seta. With the Dutchmen pressed

forward in search of the go-ahead marker, the midfield resembled deserted

parkland.

Off tore number seventeen, straight up the field. Long, graceful strides

kept eating up the green carpet. Closer and closer loomed the opposition’s bank

vault. There was only one way that he could be stopped, and it was left to

retreating Dutch midfielder Jan Johannes to lunge desperately from behind at

the mercurial feet of the intruder. Contact was made, and down went Renaldo

De Seta, crashing to earth.

Sigñor Patrizio was on the spot instantly, displaying a bright yellow card

deemed for Mr. Johannes. The fallen Porteño grasped his tender limb to inspect

it for damage. He felt no unusual pain, and once convinced that there was no

harm done, bounded to his feet, and raced upfield ready for the free kick that

the foul had garnered.

Ruben Gitares took the set piece from thirty yards distance, and a diving

Caesar Castro was able to redirect the ball with a precise header into Ramon

Vida’s path. The ‘Boy from Boca’ stood face-to-face with keeper Wilhelmus,

but the shooter’s angle was poor, and the Dutchman was able to parry Vida’s

blast over the touchline. Argentina had served notice that this segment of the

contest was not going to be a carbon copy of the preceding embarrassment.

The ungentlemanly conduct had not disappeared with regulation time,

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JAMES McCREATH

and Sigñor Patrizio, again, had his hands full trying to keep things moving

along with some sort of consistency. Chacon was cautioned, but not carded on

two occasions for blatant fouls that normally would have brought a booking.

Perhaps the besieged official feared having to come into intimate contact

with that deformed visage and foul temperament. He kept his distance as the

frustrated Orange-shirts swarmed around him, pleading for justice. It was to no

avail. Number eight in powder-blue and white merely shrugged his shoulders

at the long-distance reprimand and went about his business.

The Dutchmen had made no adjustment in their offensive tactics, sticking

with the same methodology that had produced their only reward thus far, long,

cross-field buildups, followed by quick breaks toward the Argentine goal by

any man who could shake loose of his mark. The deeper the Europeans pressed,

the more susceptible they became to the fast-breaking Latins’ counterattack.

One minute before the conclusion of the first extra stanza, a misplaced

Dutch cross was trapped by Jorge Calderone twenty yards out from his own

goal line. Turning upfield, the Newton’s Prefect fullback spotted Humberto

Velasquez with acres of space on the near sideline. Calderone’s true pass sent the

little halfback streaking upfield. As two Dutch defenders converged to relieve

him of the ball, he calmly shoveled it off to Ramon Vida, who had drawn close

to lend assistance.

Vida had some time to plan his next move, and he stopped dead in his

tracks to seek out reinforcements. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the

musical half of the R&Rs approaching rapidly on the full run.

“Go for it, man,” were the words that accompanied his gift to the dashing

center half. Three defenders had converged on Vida by this time, but none

were fleet enough to catch the rampaging Renaldo. Vida split the opening

between two of the Dutchmen with his pass, and onto the offering ran number

seventeen.

Eighteen yards out, at the edge of the penalty area, Renaldo was forced

to leap over the flailing form of Nilis Hendrik. But the ball stayed true to the

Argentine’s desired course as if it were on a string attached to his ankle. Straight

ahead he propelled himself, closer and closer to his ultimate destination.

Now more Orange-shirts congregated to impede his progress. A slight

feint to his left sent his old friend Willie Brax sprawling to the deck, clutching

nothing but air. After that challenge, Renaldo was clear, and he raised his head

to set his sights.

There, there it is. Right in front of me with only keeper Wilhelmus to beat.
The

Holy Temple of wood and mesh loomed larger than life.

Come on! Come on! Head and feet as one! Head and feet . . .
The words swirled

in his brain, but before he could react with his intended shot, Wilhelmus

abandoned his upright stance and dove straight at the ball.

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RENALDO

There was nothing that Renaldo could do. He leapt to avoid the

outstretched keeper as Wilhelmus sprawled on the turf. Unfortunately, the

leather didn’t accompany the handsome intruder this time as he sidestepped

the last Dutchman. Instead, it struck the goalie’s elbow and floated upwards,

twirling agonizingly in the air. The millions held their collective breath in

slow motion torture. Where would it land? Who would it favor? That was the

ultimate question!

The Argentine center half was now behind the prone Dutch keeper,

watching, waiting for the spinning spheroid to make up its mind. Defenders

Van Vlymen and Laurens had also sprinted behind Wilhelmus and were fast

approaching to assist in the clearance. Even though Renaldo was still onside,

there would be precious little time to act.

The object of attention dropped to earth two yards from the goal line, out

of reach of the prostrate Wilhelmus, but dead in the midst of the two Dutch

defenders and the sandwiched Argentine. All three made frantic attempts to

caress the ball.

Head and feet as one! One more time, one more time!

The shining sun on Renaldo’s left calf guided him home. The touch was

ever so gentle, but it was all that was required. Down, down, the orb spun,

hitting the green grass one yard from heaven, then bounding nonchalantly into

the back of the net.

The goal scorer raised his arms triumphantly, but not believing his good

fortune, sought out Sigñor Patrizio for confirmation. The black-shirt was

striding full speed towards the net, his right arm outstretched, pointing to the

ball now resting contentedly in the far reaches of the Dutch goal.

The usual celebration teemed down from the Gallery Gods, but along with

the ticker tape came the trilled roar that was illuminated on the scoreboard.

“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

The boy was elated by his good fortune, but there was no time to savor the

moment. The home team was not out of the woods yet. These Dutchmen were