Man of God

Córdoba, Argentina, 1964 

I am at the opponents’ end of the pitch when I see the soccer ball fly down  toward me. It’s a high pass from Katz, back there on defense. I assure  myself that I’m not offside and, after stopping the ball with my chest, start running toward the goal line. As my marker gets to me, I stop, do a  hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, shifting the ball from my left foot to my  right one. I’ve seen Pelé do this a thousand times; but it’s a first one for me.  It works. The move fakes him out and he zooms past me. I resume my run. I  am so pumped up, I can’t hear a thing. The ball is glued to my left foot. My  marker has recovered and starts running after me but I am way ahead. I  look at the goalie and see that he's coming forward to block my shooting  angle, but before he has a chance to get close, I kick the most glorious,  hooked shot I’ve ever managed. I didn’t know I had that much spin in me. Years later, such curved shots would be known as “bent by Beckham.” 

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This is summer camp, high up in the highlands of Córdoba province, an  overnight bus ride from Buenos Aires. A month in the Córdoba hills is a  yearly rite of passage for all of us teenagers in the Jewish community  center. There’s a large soccer field across a dirt road from the camp’s main  house. The field is dotted with patches of grass and, when the wind blows  from the hills, it becomes a grimy bowl, especially around the goal areas. The dust flying across the field adds to that from the dirt road, so that the  windows of the camp buildings facing the pitch are usually covered in a hazy film, making it hard to see in or out.  

The moment we arrive from BA, we boys head to the soccer field. While  the camp is coed, this is mid-‘60s Argentina and it is unheard of for girls to  play soccer; so, it’s just us guys. For the rest of the month, any time when  we are not under the well-ordered schedules imposed by our counselors,  we play soccer, dribbling, passing, and shooting corner kicks. 

The local boys start teasing us the very first day we arrive at camp. They  sit at the edge of the field and make fun of us. They are stable hands, these  Cordobeses, as we call them. The camp rents a dozen sad horses three times  a week and the boys bring them to the dirt road in front of the camp, where  they saddle and groom them. Then they guide us along the highland trails.  Other than that, the Cordobeses sometimes sit around watching and  sometimes kick their own ball at the other end of the field. 

"Hey, rusos”—Russians, they call us— ". . .  you call that a pass?” They  mock. “Can't you kick any further, maricón?" 

This mockery has three separate insults. One is being called a ruso. It’s  the rude name given to Jews in Argentina. It reflects the fact that about half  the Jewish population arrived in the early 20^th century escaping the  pogroms of Russia.  Since then, all Argentine Jews are Russian. But in our  camp community no one is Russian. We are all descendants of the other  half, the Jews who escaped in the 1930s and ‘40s from Germany and  Austria. Our German parents or grandparents take offense at being called  Russians. It’s more snobbishness than affront to them, but it is what it is. 

The second insult is to be called a maricón. This is Latin American  machismo, far from the more politically correct attitudes I would find in the US decades later when I moved here. The word is a slight to our manliness. But the worst is to be told that we don’t know how to play soccer. That  insult takes the prize for disrespect. It stings more than being called a  Russian sissy. We’re not bad at soccer. My friend Katz and I play a serious  game back in BA. We can beat almost anyone in the Jewish leagues when  we are on the same team. Not that Strauss is so bad, or Levy or Oelsner.  These guys are pretty good, but Katz and I connect in a way nobody else  does. We have intuition for each other’s moves. I read his mind and know  where he will head next, or how he’ll free himself from his marker. When I  watch Katz play fútbol, I know that he was born with a soccer ball attached  to his right foot, like the great Pelé, or like Maradona or Messi years later. He can run, dribble, fake, stop, and change directions without even looking  at the ball; and the ball will stay there, at his feet. 

Because of his talent, our coach’s idea of strategy is simple: GET.THE.BALL.TO.KATZ.PERIOD. Still, I dream of getting a pass from Katz,  dribbling past two, three, four defenders and scoring a powerful shot into  the net. I am then  carried out on a thousand shoulders, my name  resonating up and down the valleys.  

Sitting on the sidelines, the Cordobeses point at us, laugh, and make us  mad. But deep down, we know who’s who in the society of soccer. We are  not it, no matter how good Katz is. These locals are amazing, all of them  play fútbol like they invented it, like it is theirs. They are like ballet dancers on the pitch, like puppets, bouncing and bending rubber figures who can do  acrobatics, backward kicks, headers, and dribbles like we have only seen  the pros do them in the big stadium. 

We are outsiders to the sport, ignorant of its mysteries, which are only revealed if you are born poor and in these dry hills, a long way from BA.  And what hope do we have with the game? None. The riddles of fútbol have  never been revealed to any rusos. We are amateurs; worse, we are  pretenders who show up once a year, rent horses from the Cordobeses and  barely exchange a word before we go back to our urban lives.  

Sometimes, we play at the end of the field kicking into one of the goals,  training Weil, our goalie. He dreams of being Yevgeny Yashin, the  legendary Soviet goalkeeper who is known as "the Black Spider." Weil, a  bony six feet like Yashin, shows up for practice dressed all in black. Black  sneakers, black socks, black T-shirt, and black shorts. He seems to have  hands everywhere when he is standing at the goal line. We train the Spider  at one end of the field and leave the other goal empty. The Cordobeses take it over and practice, while we watch across no man’s land, envious.  

One day Katz kicks the ball in their direction, and they do not return it. I  know he has done it on purpose. Katz is sick of their taunts and wants a  fight. He shouts at them: "Hey, can we have the ball back?" No please and  no answer. I try to stop him from this folly, but I get swept up in the  manhood thing. He starts walking toward the other end of the field, and so  do we, for effect. "Eh! Qué pasa? Don't you speak Spanish in these hills?" he  says. He soon gets into a shoving match with one of the bigger ones, el  colorado, as everybody calls him because of his red hair. The stable boys  also have blood on their minds; it is too late for harmony.  

Rabbi Hirsch, looking through one of the hazy windows in the main  house, sees the commotion. He runs out of the building blowing the metal  whistle, which is always hanging from his neck. You can’t really tell he is a  rabbi, hurrying in his shorts, T-shirt, sneakers, white socks up to his knees, and a dark blue skull cap. Hirsch is a cool guy for a rabbi. He is a middle aged German émigré, having escaped Berlin when Hitler took over in the  1930s. He used to be a soccer player for some Jewish league over there  and, much like the local boys of Córdoba, carries the game in his blood. He  is the arbiter and wise man of the camp. He runs the Friday night services,  inspects cabins for cleanliness, and at night walks around the woods with a  flashlight catching couples who are making out just before curfew. 

Gentleman of peace that he is, Hirsch turns the jostling incident into a  challenge. Katz and the colorado shake hands under the solemn gaze of the  rabbi and agree that we would once and for all resolve our conflict on the  field, mano a mano. Eleven rookie city kids with a basic knowledge of the  game, against an equal number of highly skilled Cordobeses, who have imbibed their fútbol talents from their mothers' milk. For the next two  weeks we train and train and train. And the Cordobeses sit there watching  us, amused. 

Today is game day. It is bright and sunny. A bit hot for the mountains, but  not too bad. No breeze to cause whirlwinds on the pitch. The Cordobeses show up early, wearing vertically striped T-shirts in crimson and marine  blue, sort of like the colors of Barcelona FC. We wear our camp's sky blue  with a tiny Star of David on the left. The locals show up with dozens of their  friends, who keep a steady din, dancing, chanting, and playing their bombos and maracas. We are cheered by the rest of the camp and our fans  outnumber theirs in bodies but not in sound. Our local kitchen help keeps  mum, although I know whom they’re rooting for. This time the rabbi wears  a black yarmulke to match the rest of his referee's outfit. Hirsch is the only guy in these hills who can referee this game, and only after the locals get  reassured by their coach that, although he is a ruso, he is acceptable since  he is a Man of God and will not favor us.  

At the beginning of the game, our team is in classic 2-3-5 formation:  Weil on goal; Kantor and Landau on defense; Schnock, Kahn, and Levy in  mid-field; and Oelsner, Goldstein, Katz, Meier, and Strauss on attack. It’s the  dream team from the Judean Mountains playing against top talent from the  Córdoba Hills. 

The Cordobeses dominate us from the start. At first, I think that we will  lose big time, but in a lucky break we score one goal due to a penalty kick  after Strauss gets booted in the shins. This almost leads to a fight. After the  foul, both coaches run into the field to stop the pushing and shoving, and  the rabbi blows the whistle several times hoping for assistance from the  Almighty. 

We change formation after scoring the penalty kick, dropping the 2-3-5  and playing a defensive game. It’s more like a 5-3-2 now: eight players behind the midfield protecting Weil, except for two good runners upfront,  Katz and me, hoping for a stray pass during occasional counterattacks. In  the glory days of fútbol such a strategy would have been considered half  manly. But in the early sixties the Italians won the World Cup against Brazil  one to zip, astonishing the soccer world by scoring early and then  retreating to defend for the remainder of the game. It was boring but it got  them their Cup, and the world followed. Once the Italians did it, it became  acceptable, and manhood was no longer an issue. The strategy is known as  il cattenaccio, the padlock, and is copied widely. In our local version of it, the plan continues being, as always: GET.THE.BALL.TO.KATZ.  The cattenaccio holds, and the Cordobeses do not known what to do.  They are used to aggressive, dancing opponents, since they are better  dancers, but they do not know how to deal with these tactics that we have  imported from the land of Verdi. They advance and advance, attack and  attack, yet to no avail. We are impenetrable. They try every secret they  know but cannot get through our blockade. Our Black Spider is a miracle  man, stopping every kick and every shot at goal. Only once do they get  through, and that is not Weil’s fault. Kantor loses his concentration for a  second, the colorado runs past him and Weil has no chance. That's how  they tie the game, 1-1.  

There are now only a few moments left, mostly added to regulation  time. I am running along the right sideline inside their half of the field hoping for a pass when I look up and see the ball coming. I make sure that  I’m not offside before I start sprinting. I see one defender other than their  goalie between me and the goal line, so I’m OK. It’s a beautiful high shot  from Katz, as he alone knows how to make them. It heads precisely toward  my chest, and I am the only forward who is free. My marker starts running  toward me, frantic in his realization that he is the last obstacle between me  and his goalie. I’m sure he can hear my exhaustion, since by now I am  randomly gulping bits of air, having lost any ability to breathe. My face is  red, sweat pouring out of every corner. The Cordobeses had studied my  combinations with Katz and had marked both of us most of the game. But  they missed this one pass! It is late and even these artistes of fútbol are  spent.  

The local fans at the sidelines are desperate: "Stop him! Stop him!" they  holler. The kitchen help is quiet.  

Time becomes sluggish and everybody starts moving in slow motion.  Things look blurred and noise is distended. For a moment, I panic. Oh, my  God, I think, It's up to me! What if I screw up? I remember the coach's  instructions, GET.THE.BALL.TO.KATZ, but that’s not going to work. I just  got the fricking ball from Katz! I’m it. I hear the coach inside my head, in a  bloated voice, "Think ! . . . Control the ball . . . think!" I try hard to think, but  there are no thoughts there. 

My marker,  the colorado, having recovered from my Pelé-like dribble, is  running after me. It’s now or never. I kick the ball toward the goal. It’s one  of those magical kicks that starts straight and just when the goalie thinks  it’s going to go above the horizontal, the ball bends down and slides into  the upper right-hand corner of the frame, just under the crossbar. The  goalie cuts a dramatic figure flying diagonally between his posts as high as  he can, but he is a second too late. The ball is beyond his reach and across  the goal line. He hits the ground in a cloud of dust. 

The colorado collapses in defeat next to me. I fall on my knees, fists  pointing at the sky, whooping "Gooooooooool!"  I know that the rest of the  team will be on top of me any moment now and I savor these seconds  alone. It’s my dream come true. 

When I look up, anticipating pandemonium, I see the long faces of Katz and  the rest of the guys approaching slowly. I instantly can tell that the goal has  been annulled, and my heart sinks. 

“The rabbi blew the whistle after my pass . . . didn’t you hear it?” says Katz. “I think he called you offside.” 

“No, I was not offside!” I whine loudly. “When I got the pass, the colorado was between me and the goal line.” 

“I know,” says Katz looking resigned. 

Schnock comes over shaking his head in disbelief. “What a great shot,”  he mumbles, “too bad it doesn’t count,” and he adds, “You were not offside  and Hirsch knows it. He blew the whistle because if was full time . . . the  game’s over, 1-1.” 

Exhausted and heartbroken, I drop next to the colorado and, with both  of us on our backs, we shake hands. Well, it’s more like we slap hands. 

It’s from the ground that I notice the Man of God standing at the other end  of the field smiling and talking to the Cordobeses’ coach, proudly enjoying  this, his most Solomonic of calls.