This L.A. Jolt Is Felt All Over World
It is 3:20 p.m. in Pasadena and 7:20 p.m. in Rio de Janeiro and 20 minutes past midnight in Rome and the World Cup has just been won by Brazil on a shot by Italy.
Ole, ole, ole, ole.
It is 3:21 p.m. in North America and people from South America are singing and Pele is leaping and Dunga is running and Romario is wearing a flag and Brazilian players are doing a madcap jumping-jack dance.
Ole, ole, ole, ole.
It is 3:22 p.m. in the United States and 94,194 people who have been sitting on the edges of their seats are now standing and cheering and crying and hugging and shaking their heads with amazement over a classic climax to a classic drama that had to be seen to be disbelieved.
L.A., L.A., L.A., L.A.
A month of soccer that came down to one final shot.
A scoreless championship game won by one final miss.
A perfectly wonderful tournament with an imperfectly wonderful ending.
It is 3:33 p.m. at the Rose Bowl and 7,000 miles from the Roman Colosseum and Italians are suffering. Franco Baresi is crying in his coach’s arms and Roberto Baggio is in emotional and physical distress and no one back home is singing or dancing.
Italian athletes collapse to the grass. Blue on green. Exhausted. Played out.
All they can do now is watch.
Multicolor fireworks snap, crackle and pop above the bowl. A single-engine airplane hovers overhead, carrying a wing-walker. Brazilian flags flap in the breeze. The triumphant coach, Carlos Alberto Parreira, is being tossed up and down by a human trampoline. The team leader, Dunga, is clutching the golden trophy with both palms as though having just discovered the Holy Grail. He kisses it, then passes it to Mauro Silva, to Branco, to Zinho, to Viola, to Marcio Santos, who all do the same, kiss and pass along, kiss and pass along.
Off they go, running, somehow summoning up life in their legs from some unknown resource, suddenly not tired in the least. They have the strength of a zillion Brazilians. They take a victory lap. They lug with them the 11-pound, 14-inch, 18-carat dingus, the golden goddess of victory, the trophy created by a sculptor, Silvio Gazzaniga, an Italian. But now all any Italian can do is watch.
It is 3:40 p.m. at the end of the road, and Rome is in ruins.
Arrigo Sacchi, coach of the conquered, pats players on the heads, helps them to their feet, takes them into his arms.
He says: “The players were fantastic. They gave everything they had to give.”
They did.
He says: “It has been a wonderful experience. . . . I only wish we could have brought our Italian spectators the championship.”
They did not.
Turn back the clock. It is 12:30 p.m. in Pasadena and no one knows how this will go. Whitney Houston is on a stage belting a number and Kenny G is in a jazzy Team USA uniform blowing sax. And then team captains Dunga and Baresi are exchanging gifts, and goalkeepers Claudio Taffarel and Gianluca Pagliuca are clasping hands, and superstars Bebeto and Roberto Baggio are paying their respects, and at midfield Brazil gets the ball rolling.
And the players give everything they have to give.
Legging all out for a ball, Nicola Berti goes crashing over a rail. A point-blank shot misses and Daniele Massaro pinches his temples in relief. A free kick by Branco shanks wildly and keeps Italy’s goalkeeper on his toes. A dipsy-do by Romario fools opponent Luigi Apolloni, over whose foot Romario goes toppling, face down into the pitch.
No one scores.
It is 1:40 p.m. and we begin the second half. A header by Bebeto sends Pagliuca diving to his right. A long topspinner by Silva yo-yo’s backward off the goal post, which the goalkeeper promptly kisses. A shot by Mazinho has a chance, but the alert Italian keeper smothers it.
And no one scores.
We go overtime. A trainer holds Italy’s Antonio Benarrivo by the ankles and jiggles his limbs, trying to revive them. A teammate splits Marcio Santos’ legs like a wishbone and kicks his thighs, hoping to awaken them. On the ground, Branco douses himself with Evian and shampoos it with his fingers deeply into his scalp. The heat is intense. So is the game.
But no one scores.
We go to penalty kicks. Baresi, a ball, high and outside. Santos, a ball, low and smothered by the catcher.
Demetrio Albertini, a strike, high and hard. Romario, a strike, on the outside corner.
The count is even. Alberigo Evani, a left-footer, goes down the middle to give Italy the lead. Branco answers with a long, long approach and a left- footed shot to the keeper’s left.
Massaro misses, his shot smothered by a tumbling Taffarel. Dunga does not miss, netting one nonchalantly.
It is 3:20 p.m. and Baggio, the best Italy has, steps to the task. It is his game to win or lose. There is no better man for the job, this beatific Buddhist. He concentrates on the ball as millions back home make the sign of the cross. He makes his approach. He makes his mistake. He boots the ball over the net.
The boot of Italy.
It is a Sunday afternoon in suburban Los Angeles and it is a shot heard around the world. The World Cup does not end with a bang. It ends with a blank.
