Memory and That Bergkamp Goal in Marseille
It was July 4th, 1998. That summer was filled with soccer and travel. A camp at Rhodes College in Memphis. A five-day trip to California to visit my sister. Paducah for a family reunion. Then rushing to Lexington for a week-long soccer camp at the University of Kentucky. I was, I told myself, making up for lost time. The previous summer, I was laid up in bed and on the couch with a cast up to my hip–a tib-fib spiral fracture while playing soccer. But that’s another story.
Nestled between all that traveling, as both background noise and the main theme, was the World Cup hosted by France. And on that warm summer day at a hotel situated between the Kentucky Oaks Mall and Interstate 24 with cousins and uncles and everyone else in between crowded into our hotel room, we watched, both passively and intently, the quarterfinal battle between the Netherlands and Argentina as they duked it out in Marseille.
Bergkamp’s first touch. (Photo by Michael Steele/EMPICS via Getty Images)
It was an intense affair played between two serious teams with compelling arguments for winning the whole thing. Argentina on the downswing after the high of the late 80s. The Netherlands seeking a return to their apex–if not for the magistery of a Zidane-led France, maybe they could have been champions of at least one tournament in the late 90s.
Memory is such an odd thing. I remember the players having cramped up, several throughout the last ten minutes, succumbing to the pain of stiffening muscles due to the unrelenting heat and the nature of the competition–winners elevated to national heroes. But, I could find no mention of that in any of the reporting.
None of that matters, though, because even without the cramping, the last five minutes are dramatic enough. The Tangerine Dream down a man, pressing a bit, while trying to absorb pressure. La Albiceleste making their own efforts to finish the match off before extra time.
Then a rush of blood and the whole match flips on its head. Star Argentine playmaker Ariel Ortega failing to legitimately beat Dutch defender Japp Stam, took to the dark arts of football and attempted to trick the match official into giving a penalty. There was some contact and maybe today VAR would have given it, but his trick was and is well known. Push the ball past a defender, then drag one or both of your legs in an effort to initiate contact with the defender while simultaneously falling. It didn’t work.
As the Argentine player remained on the ground, Dutch goalkeeper Edwin van der Sar sprints over to him, letting him know just how naughty of a boy he’s been. And somehow, Ortega finds a way to compound matters by leaping to his feet and planting the top of his head squarely on the bottom of van der Sar’s chin. The referee, within point-blank range of the whole thing, was left with no other option other than to send off the Argentine.
Almost as quickly as the match eventually restarts, it is put to bed. All before Ortega has had the chance to do more than collapse into his locker and hang his head in shame.
Bergkamp’s match winner against Argentina.
From the ensuing free kick, well inside the Dutch goal box, Frank de Boer carries the ball forward, picks his head up, sees retreating Argentine players moving into soccer’s version of the Prevent defense, and almost immediately picks out Dennis Bergkamp with a looping diagonal ball in behind Argentina’s backline.
The room fell silent. Folks no longer questioning Ortega’s head butt. Now, filled with anticipation of what was possible.
The Dutch striker, having already accentuated his genius with his assist for the opener, leaps into the air, cushioning de Boer’s pass with an outstretched right foot. The ball lands, he regains control, and hooks the ball back across his body with the same right foot, beating a defender's exhausted challenge.
He takes another step, cutting ever so slightly back toward the middle of the box. A second defender is closing. Bergkamp opens his hips and reaches out his right leg, striking the ball with the outside of his right foot, curling it around the Argentine goalkeeper, and into the back of the net.
The room exploded, quiet conversations ended, full attention on the TV and what had just happened. Fans preferring the traditional troika of American sports instantly became fertile fields for future appreciation of the game I loved and still do.
Game. Set. Match. Holland. All in the blink of an eye. On the cusp of extra time, in the immediate aftermath of a rush of blood, in the hot Marseille sun. A masterclass of technique, yet another example of brilliance from a footballing genius.
Family members hooked. A memory seared for a lifetime. This is what the beautiful game is all about.
