THE Argentine coach moved slowly into Tysoland, a Swedish Tahiti ... a halfway house to Utopia ... a kind of paradise.
The town was built along the semi-circular bay with its miles of golden sands, green forests and blue ocean. The buildings were compact, red roofed with white walls.
Tree-lined avenues led into the town from four directions. Flower-beds decorated the sidewalks and the effect was like a dream in technicolour.
After they’d stared at the flowers, the players con-centrated on the women, driving in big luxury cars, sauntering along the sidewalks or even riding bicycles.
There seemingly wasn’t one who hadn’t stripped down to the bare essentials and, in . their sun-suits, they looked like the chorus from some exotic musical.
The effect they had upon the Argentinians was startling.
To these, dark, fiery Latins, the pale, cool blondes of Sweden were literally something from another world.
It wasn’t necessarily that they were more attractive than the girls of Argentina . . . simply that they were different.
Totally uninhibited, regarding sex as the most natural thing in all the world, they were a frightening contrast.
Not for them, the all-concealing, calf-length dresses of South America. When the sun shone, they bared their bodies with pride . . . and the sun was shining today.
In this, the long, hot summer of ’58, those smooth, golden limbs were, to the Argentinians, a challenge hard to resist . . . like a glimpse of cool, clear water to thirsty men.
And watching all this, Angel Labruna, the 40-year- old veteran of the party, sighed.
He felt that Argentina had problems enough, without this.
Just a few brief months before, they had been poised on the mountain peak . . . South American champions and, for many people, the favourites for the World Cup.
But since then they had been plundered by the Italian Clubs.
Many of their key players had gone to Europe, including their inside-forward trio of Maschio, Angelillo and Sivori, the famed “Angels with Dirty Faces”.
So, in desperation, they had recalled inside-left Labruna to arms and, like the old war-horse that he was, he’d answered the call.
He had steered them safely enough through the qualifying rounds and now, once more, hopes were high.
In this demi-paradise called Tysoland, there was just one cloud on the sun-filled horizon ... the hos¬pitality of their hosts.
For these fiery Latins, Sweden was a paradise of blondes.
Too late they found wild nights and tough soeeer do not mix
Invitations poured into the Argentinian camp and, although the intentions were kindness itself, the sum result was a problem for a team that badly needed a spell of quiet concentration for the battles ahead.
On the second day, for instance, when all they wanted to do was lie in the sun and watch the girls go by, there was a particularly aggravating duty call to be paid on a dowager named Mrs. Carlsson . . .
Yet they were advised that it would be diplomatic to go. Mrs. Carlsson, it seemed, practically owned the town. So with a few muttered curses about dowagers and battleaxes, they went.
They were driven to a mansion that was pure Holly¬wood . . . long patio, a wall of solid glass, a swimming pool and velvety lawns that reached as far as the eye could see.
The battleaxe was wearing a strapless white gown and gazing out of the window when they arrived.
Then she turned white, even teeth flashed behind ripe, red lips that curved in a smile as she said softly “Hello, you. I’m Girda”.
The battleaxe was in her early twenties, and beautiful.
Compared to Girda, Jayne Mansfield would be rated flat chested and Sabrina a little underfed.
The other guests were predominantly female, very female. Gay, friendly and anxious to make their South American guests feel at home.
The players stayed, dancing, talking, happily enough. Then as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, they started to make their farewells.
The dowager would have none of this. “But you don’t understand,” she said, “this is a swimming party. You must at least try out my pool.”
A few of them were lent costumes. Then they all trooped out, Girda prancing in the lead, wearing a white, itsy-bitsy bikini that would have looked daring on a slim-lined tomboy.
“No suits in my pool” she called gaily, “who’s brave enough to be first in?”
There was quiet for fully five seconds. The Argentinians looked at each other foolishly, as though still suspecting that it would all turn out to be a joke.
Then Girda yelled “All right, I’ll be the brave one!”
She laughed, unhooked the bikini top, pulled it away from her body and stood posing there for a moment, silhouetted against the setting sun.
She stood motionless for long seconds, then put her hands on the brief bikini trunks, slowly slid them down from her hips and kicked them into the pool.
That really broke the ice and the other girls quickly peeled off their suits too and dived in, followed in turn by most of the men.
Two of the Argentinians went in too, but the rest remained by the poolside, hesitant, undecided, caught up in a situation not of their own choosing.
Its impact on a group of highly trained sportsmen who had been rigorously segregated from their women-folk for weeks, if not months, was pure dynamite.
You can be sure that when they eventually returned to their hotel that night, it wasn’t the World Cup that dominated their thinking.
They were in the grip of temptation.
Still, as yet, there was no hint of this in their play. They had been drawn in one of the tougher groups with Germany, the reigning world champions, North¬ern Ireland and Czechoslovakia.
Two of the four teams would go into the quarter¬finals and the Argentinians were planning to move on with the Germans.
So they were in no way worried when Germany beat them, 3—1, in the opening match.
They had deliberately fielded a slightly under¬strength side and rested Angel Labruna so that he would be fresh for the game against the Irish.
Ireland had just beaten the Czechs and so everyone felt that the coming game would prove to be the decisive one in the group.
The Irish had been warned by misguided well- wishers that the Argentinians were huge and tough and ruthless.
Instead they found waiting for them in the tunnel, as an Irish forward described them later “a lot of little fat men with stomachs, smiling at us, and pointing and waving to the girls in the crowd”.
Within three mintues of the start, Ireland were ahead with a goal from McParland.
Panic touched the Argentinians.
They tried to fight back, but terri¬torially it was all Ireland.
And then from out of the mists of time came Angel Labruna, no pale, cultured genius today . . . simply a fighting man.
At.times, he seemed to be standing virtually alone. Falling back in defence, he was the rock upon which they thundered and fell.
In attack, he was the spearhead of a line that had lost faith with itself.
Fie was everywhere and yet still found time to steady the men around him.
Then Corbatta scored from a penalty to level the score and the danger had gone.
From that moment on, Argentina playing classic, flowing football, were in command.
They scored two more in the second half and, if they’d taken full advantage of Labruna’s skills, might have made it half-a-dozen. But two was enough.
Their only game now left in the group was against the Czechs who had already been beaten by the Irish.
And as fate would have it, there was another party and another invitation from that ash-blonde dowager up in the hills. This time, they needed no persuading.
A very happy, very tired bunch of Argentinians crept back into their hotel, as dawn was breaking.
An equally tired, jaded team stepped out to face the Czechs that selfsame day.
Trouble came fast. As against the Irish, they were a goal down with only minutes gone.
They had rallied before, they said, so they’d rally again. But somehow, nothing would go quite right today. Every pass, every move was just a flicker of a second too slow.
Even Labruna, battling like a hero, couldn’t save them now. By half-time, they were three goals down and clearly beaten.
After the interval, they did get one back from Cor¬batta, but the Czechs rammed home three more to record a 6—1 victory and by far the most decisive result in the whole competition.
They were flown home in disgrace. And just as their plane was taking off, the Irish were underlining the whole affair, by again beating the Czechs in the play-off.
When they touched down at Buenos Aires, the unfortunate Argentinians were stoned by the waiting crowd.
Perhaps, even worse, a dozen of them were sus¬pended indefinitely from international football.
Of course, it’s easy enough to blame them, to point out that they failed Argentina in her hour of need, that they weren’t dedicated enough for this brave, new world of soccer.
But it would be perhaps fairer to blame the long, hot summer of ’58 . . . the pale, cool blondes of Sweden . . . and a kind of paradise called Tysoland.