Carrizo
He spent a quarter of a century catching balls with magnetic hands and sowing panic in the enemy camp. Amadeo Carrizo founded a style of South American play. He was the first goalkeeper who had the audacity to leave the penalty area and lead the attack. Heightening the danger, on more than one occasion this Argentine even took the enormous risk of dribbling past opposing players. Before Carrizo, such insanity was unthinkable. Then his audacity caught on. His compatriot Gatti, the Colombian Higuita, and the Paraguayan Chilavert also refused to resign themselves to the notion that the keeper is a living wall, glued to the net. They proved he can also be a living spear.
As we all know, fans delight in hating the enemy: rival players always deserve condemnation or scorn. But Argentine fans of all stripes praise Carrizo, and all but one or two agree that on that country’s playing fields no one ever blocked shots as well as he did. Nevertheless, in 1958 when the Argentine team returned with their tails between their legs after the World Cup in Sweden, it was the idol who caught the most heat. Argentina had been beaten by Czechoslovakia 6–1, and such a misdeed demanded a public expiation. The press pilloried him, the crowds hissed and whistled, and Carrizo was crushed. Years later in his memoirs he confessed sadly: “I always recall the goals they scored on me rather than the shots I blocked.”
Shirt Fever
Uruguayan writer Paco Espínola did not like soccer. But one afternoon in the summer of 1960, when he was scanning the radio dial for something to listen to, he chanced upon the local classic. Peñarol was routed by Nacional 4–0.
When night fell, Paco felt so depressed he decided to eat alone so as not to embitter the life of anyone else. Where did all that sadness come from? Paco was prepared to believe there was no particular reason, maybe the sheer sorrow of being mortal. Suddenly it hit him: he was sad because Peñarol had lost. He was a Peñarol fan and hadn’t known it.
How many Uruguayans were sad like him? And how many, on the other hand, were jumping with joy? Paco experienced a delayed revelation. Normally we Uruguayans belong to Nacional or to Peñarol from the day we are born. People say, for example, “I’m with Nacional.” That’s the way it has been since the beginning of the twentieth century. They say that back then the professionals of love used to attract clients by sitting in the doorways of Montevideo’s bordellos wearing nothing but the shirts of Peñarol or Nacional.
For the fanatic, pleasure comes not from your own club’s victory, but from the other’s defeat. In 1993 a Montevideo daily interviewed a group of young men who supported themselves by carrying firewood all week and enjoyed themselves by screaming for Nacional in the stadium on Sundays. One of them confessed, “For me, just the sight of a Peñarol shirt makes me sick. I want them to lose every time, even when they play against foreigners.”
It’s the same story in other divided cities. In 1988 in the final of the Copa América, Nacional beat Newell’s, one of two clubs that share the adoration of the city of Rosario, on the Argentine littoral. On that occasion the fans of the other club, Rosario Central, filled the streets of their city to celebrate the defeat of Newell’s at the hands of a foreign team.
I think it was Osvaldo Soriano who told me the story of the death of a Boca Juniors fan in Buenos Aires. That fan had spent his entire life hating the club River Plate, as was entirely appropriate, but on his deathbed he asked to be wrapped in the enemy flag. That way he could celebrate with his final breath the death of “one of them.”
If the fan belongs to a club, why not the players? Rarely will a fan accept an idol in a new venue. Changing clubs is not the same as changing workplaces, although the player is indeed a professional who earns his living by his legs. Loyalty to the uniform does not fit with modern soccer, but fans still mete out punishment for the crime of desertion. In 1989 when Brazilian player Bebeto left Flamengo for Vasco da Gama, some Flamengo fans went to Vasco da Gama matches just to boo the traitor. Threats rained down on him and the most fearful sorcerer in Rio de Janeiro put a hex on him. Bebeto suffered a rosary of injuries; he could not play without getting hurt or without guilt weighing down his legs. Things went from bad to worse until he gave up and left for Spain. Some years earlier the longtime star of the Argentine club Racing, Roberto Perfumo, moved over to River Plate. His loyal fans gave him one of the longest and loudest catcalls in history. “I realized how much they loved me,” Perfumo said.
Nostalgic for the faithful old days, fans also are loath to accept the calculations of profitability that often determine managers’ decisions, now that every club has been obliged to become a factory for producing extravaganzas. When business is not going well, red ink cries out for sacrificing some of the company’s assets. A gigantic Carrefour supermarket now sits on the ruins of San Lorenzo’s stadium in Buenos Aires. When the stadium was demolished in the middle of 1983, weeping fans carried off fistfuls of dirt in their pockets.
The club is the only identity card fans believe in. And in many cases the shirt, the anthem, and the flag embody deeply felt traditions that may find expression on the playing field but spring from the depths of a community’s history. For Catalonians, the Barcelona team is more than a club; it is a symbol of their long struggle for national affirmation against the central power in Madrid. Since 1919 no foreigners and no non-Basque Spaniards have played for Athlétic in Bilbao. A bastion of Basque pride, Athlétic takes only Basque players into its ranks, and they are nearly always players from their own farm teams. During the long dictatorship of Franco, two stadiums, Camp Nou in Barcelona and San Mames in Bilbao, were sanctuaries for outlawed nationalist sentiment. There, Catalonians and Basques could shout and sing in their own languages and wave their outlawed flags. The first time the Basque standard was raised without provoking a beating from the police was in a soccer stadium. A year after Franco’s death, the players of Athlétic and Real Sociedad carried the flag onto the field.
Yugoslavia’s war of disintegration, which so upset the entire world, began on the soccer field before it took to the battlefield. The ancient resentment between Serbs and Croats came to the surface every time clubs from Belgrade and Zagreb faced each other. Fans revealed their deep passions and dug up flags and chants from the past to use as battle-axes.
Goal by Puskás
It was 1961. Real Madrid was playing at home against Atlético of Madrid.
No sooner had the match begun than Ferenc Puskás scored a double goal, just as Zizinho had in the 1950 World Cup. The Hungarian striker for Real Madrid executed a free kick at the edge of the box and the ball went in. But as Puskás celebrated with his arms in the air, the referee went up to him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but I didn’t whistle.”
So Puskás shot again. He kicked with his left foot, as before, and the ball traveled exactly the same path: like a cannonball over the same heads of the same players in the wall and, just like the goal that had been disallowed, it landed in the upper left corner of the net tended by Madinabeytia, who leaped just as before and, as before, was unable even to graze it.
Goal by Sanfilippo
Dear Eduardo,
I’ve got to tell you about this. The other day I went to the Carrefour supermarket, the one built where San Lorenzo used to play. I was with my childhood hero José Sanfilippo, who was San Lorenzo’s leading scorer four seasons in a row. There we were, walking among the shopping carts, surrounded by pots and pans and cheese and strings of sausage. All of a sudden, as we head for the checkout, Sanfilippo opens his arms and says: “To think that it was right here where I rammed it in on Roma with a half-volley in that match against Boca.” He walks in front of a housewife pushing a cart filled to the brim with cans, steaks, and vegetables, and he says: “It was the fastest goal in history.”
He concentrates, as if he were waiting for a corner kick, and he says to me: “I told the center half, a young fellow, ‘As soon as the ball is in play send it to me in the box. Don’t worry, I won’t make you look bad.’ I was older and this kid, Capdevilla was his nam
e, was scared, thinking, ‘What if I don’t come through?’” And then Sanfilippo points to a stack of mayonnaise jars and screams: “He put it right here!” People are looking at us like we’re nuts. “The ball came down behind the halfbacks, I stumbled but it landed ahead of me there where the rice is, see?” He points to the bottom shelf, and all of a sudden he starts running like a rabbit in spite of his blue suit and shiny shoes. “I let it bounce and boom!” He swings his left leg in a tremendous kick. We all spin around to look at the checkout, where the goal sat thirty-odd years ago, and it’s as if we all see the ball hit the net up high, right by the batteries and the razor blades. Sanfilippo raises his arms to celebrate. The shoppers and the checkout girls pound their hands applauding. I’m practically in tears. “Baby” Sanfilippo scored that goal from 1962 all over again, just so I could see it.
Osvaldo Soriano
The 1962 World Cup
A few Indian and Malaysian astrologists were predicting the end of the world, but it kept on turning, and as it turned an organization with the name of Amnesty International was born and Algeria took its first steps of independent life after more than seven years of war against France. In Israel the Nazi criminal Adolf Eichmann was being hanged, the miners of Asturias were on strike, and Pope John was trying to change the Church and return it to the poor. They were making the first computer disks and performing the first operations with laser beams, and Marilyn Monroe was losing her will to live.
What was the price of a country’s vote? Haiti sold its franchise for $15 million, a highway, a dam, and a hospital, and that’s how the OAS got a majority to expel Cuba, the black sheep of Pan-Americanism. Well-informed sources in Miami were announcing the imminent fall of Fidel Castro, it was only a matter of hours. Seventy-five suits were being launched in U.S. courts to ban the novel Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller, published for the first time in an unexpurgated edition. Linus Pauling, who was about to win his second Nobel Prize, was picketing the White House to protest nuclear testing, while Benny “The Kid” Paret, an illiterate black Cuban, was dying, beaten to a pulp, in the ring at Madison Square Garden.
In Memphis Elvis Presley was announcing his retirement after selling 300 million records, but before long he changed his mind, while in London a record company, Decca, was refusing to record the songs of a group of hairy musicians who called themselves The Beatles. Carpentier was publishing Explosion in the Cathedral, Gelman was publishing Gotán, the Argentine military were overthrowing President Frondizi, and the Brazilian painter Cândido Portinari was dying. Primeiras estórias by Guimarães Rosa was in the bookstores, as were the poems that Vinícius de Moraes wrote para viver um grande amor. João Gilberto was crooning “One Note Samba” in Carnegie Hall, while the Brazilian soccer team was landing in Chile, expecting to win the seventh World Cup against five other countries from the Americas and ten from Europe.
Luck was not with Di Stéfano in the ’62 World Cup. He was going to play for his adopted country, Spain. At thirty-six this would be his last opportunity. Just before the opening match, he hurt his right knee and there was no way he could play. Di Stéfano, “The Blond Arrow,” one of the best players in the history of soccer, never played in a World Cup. Pelé, another all-time star, did not get far in Chile either: he pulled a muscle early on and could not play. And one more sacred giant of soccer, the Russian Yashin, also turned into a lame duck: the best goalkeeper in the world let in four goals by Colombia, because, it seems, he bucked himself up with a few too many nips in the dressing room.
Brazil won the tournament without Pelé and under Didi’s charge. Amarildo sparkled in the difficult role of filling Pelé’s shoes, Djalma Santos made himself into a wall on defense, and up front Garrincha was inspired and inspiring. “What planet is Garrincha from?” asked the daily El Mercurio, when Brazil liquidated the home team. The Chileans had beaten Italy in a match that was a pitched battle, and they also beat Switzerland and the Soviet Union. They gobbled up the spaghetti, chocolate, and vodka, but choked on the coffee: Brazil won 4–2.
In the final, Brazil downed Czechoslovakia 3–1 and, just as in ’58, was the undefeated champion. For the very first time the World Cup final was broadcast live internationally on television, although in black and white and only to a few countries.
Chile won third place, its best ranking ever, and Yugoslavia won fourth thanks to a bird named Dragoslav Sekularac whom no defender could catch.
The championship did not have a leading scorer, but several players notched up four goals: Garrincha and Vavá of Brazil, Sánchez of Chile, Jerkovic of Yugoslavia, Albert of Hungary, and Ivanov of the Soviet Union.
Goal by Charlton
It happened at the World Cup in 1962. England was playing against Argentina.
Bobby Charlton set up the first English goal by placing the ball where Flowers could face the goalkeeper Roma alone. But the second goal was Charlton’s from start to finish. Charlton, lord of the entire left side of the field, made the Argentine defense collapse like swatted moths. He changed feet at full tilt and using his right he overwhelmed the keeper with a shot from the wing.
Bobby was a survivor. Practically all the players on his team, Manchester United, died in the twisted ruins of a burning plane. Death spared this miner’s son so he could continue giving people the high nobility of his soccer.
The ball obeyed him. She traveled the field following his instructions and flew into the net before he even kicked her.
Yashin
When Lev Yashin covered the goal, not a pinhole was left open. This giant with long spidery arms always dressed in black and he played with a naked elegance that disdained the spectacle of unnecessary gestures. He liked to stop thundering blasts with a single claw-like hand that trapped and shredded all projectiles, while his body remained motionless like a rock. He could deflect the ball with a glance.
He retired from soccer several times, always pursued by torrents of gratitude, and several times he returned. There was no other like him. During more than a quarter of a century, this Russian blocked more than a hundred penalty shots and saved who-knows-how-many goals. When asked for his secret, he would say the trick was to have a smoke to calm your nerves, then toss back a strong drink to tone your muscles.
Goal by Gento
It was 1963. Real Madrid faced Pontevedra.
As soon as the referee blew the opening whistle, there was a goal by Di Stéfano. Then right at the beginning of the second half Puskás scored. From that point on, the fans waited in suspense for the next goal, which would be number 2,000 for Real Madrid since it started playing in the Spanish League in 1928. Madrid fans invoked the goal by kissing their fingers while making the sign of the cross, and the enemy fans warded it off by pointing their index and little fingers at the ground.
The game turned around. Pontevedra began to dominate. When night fell and only a few minutes remained, and that goal so desired and so feared seemed lost from sight, Amancio fired off a dangerous free kick: Di Stéfano couldn’t reach the ball, but it was trapped by Gento. The Madrid left winger broke free of the defenders surrounding him, shot and won. The stadium went wild.
All rival teams were on the lookout to capture Francisco Gento, the fugitive. Sometimes they managed to put him behind bars, but he always escaped.
Seeler
A jolly face. You could not imagine him without a mug of foaming beer in his fist. On Germany’s soccer fields he was always the shortest and the stoutest: a pudgy pink hamburger with an unsteady gait, because one foot was larger than the other. But Uwe Seeler was a flea when he jumped, a hare when he ran, and a bull when he headed the ball.
In 1964 this center forward for Hamburg was chosen as the best player in Germany. He belonged to Hamburg body and soul: “I’m just another fan. Hamburg is my home,” he liked to say. Uwe Seeler scorned numerous juicy offers to play on Europe’s most powerful teams. He played in four World Cups. To shout “Uwe, Uwe” was the best way of shouting “Germany, Germany.”
M
atthews
In 1965, when he was fifty years old, Stanley Matthews still caused serious outbreaks of hysteria in British soccer. There weren’t enough psychiatrists to deal with all the victims, who had been perfectly normal until the cursed moment they were bewitched by this grandfatherly tormentor of fullbacks.
Defenders would grab his shirt or his shorts, they would get him in wrestling holds or tackle him with kicks worthy of the police blotter, but nothing stopped him because they never managed to clip his wings. Matthews was precisely that, a winger, the one who flew highest over England’s turf, all along the touchlines.
Queen Elizabeth was well aware of this: she made him a knight.
The 1966 World Cup
The military was bathing Indonesia in blood, half a million, a million, who-knows-how-many dead, and General Suharto was inaugurating his long dictatorship by murdering the few reds, pinks or questionables still alive. Other officers were overthrowing N’Krumah, president of Ghana and prophet of African unity, while their colleagues in Argentina were evicting President Illia by coup d’état.
For the first time in history a woman, Indira Gandhi, was governing India. Students were toppling Ecuador’s military dictatorship. The U.S. Air Force was bombing Hanoi with renewed vigor, but Americans were growing ever more convinced they should never have gone into Vietnam, let alone stayed, and should leave as soon as possible.