Scapegoat

On the eve of USA 94 Pele named Colombia over even his beloved Brazil as favourites to win the fourteenth World Cup finals. Suddenly everyone believed this team from the shadow of the Andes Mountains were the real deal. None more than the Colombians themselves.

One defeat in forty one games left them feeling untouchable, Godlike even. Blinded by unhealthy arrogance and inflated egos they swaggered unwittingly into an Ambush. Lying in wait was a magician from the Balkans and the result wanton humiliation.

Orchestrated by the wondrous left foot of Romania's Gheorghe Hagi the Romanians beat Colombian 3-1 with their Captain at his bewitching best. Patiently they waited for that one misplaced pass, or lack of concentration then hit the South Americans three times like lightning, leaving them appearing leaden-footed and slow in comparison.

This much lauded team supposedly destined for glory outclassed. In the steaming mid-afternoon Californian heat, 91,000 watched spellbound as the breathtaking Hagi finally showed the world his true worth. Including a stunning goal of miraculous technique when from fully thirty-five yards out on the far touchline he clipped a heavenly shot high into net.

Hit with such precision the keeper Cordoba could only watch in disbelief. A masterpiece. The little Balkan magician handed the shattered Colombians a reality check of savage proportions, smashing their aura of invincibility into a thousand pieces. They appeared a broken team.

'If we can't beat the gringos then what is the point'? Declared a sullen-faced Colombia supporter to his National newspaper Los Tiempo. After being hailed beyond the stars and tipped as potential World Cup winners, they fell to earth with one almighty bump.

The embarrassing opening defeat by Hagi's brilliant Romania meant victory over host nation USA became essential to stay alive in the competition. After thirty two worrying minutes in Pasadena's Rose Bowl it became increasingly clear something was not right with the Colombians' hearts and minds. Francisco Maturano's heralded superstars appeared listless, strangely bereft of all their usual power, verve and imagination. Scared even.

Pre-match telephone death threats made to Maturana and his assistant Hernan Dario Gomez demanding they drop midfielder Barrabas Gomez were made known to the players and clearly unsettled them. Rumours insisting these calls came from murderous Colombian drug cartels in Medellin whom having bet king's fortunes on winning the World Cup were now attempting to pick the team.

Sensing Colombian unease USA midfielder John Harkes charged down their left hand side. With time to look up Harkes' dangerous low cross was intercepted by full-back Andres Escobar. A gallant, lunging attempt by Escobar to steer the ball round the post ended disastrously as he succeeded only in diverting it past his keeper into the goal.

Of all the Colombian players in the opening half hour only the twenty-seven-year-old defender shown any appetite for a fight as he played alone, covering every blade of grass for teammates seemingly sleepwalking. But caught out of position Escobar's desperation to save a goal against his country ended in disaster.

Back in Colombia they watched aghast as the heavens fall from the skies onto this extremely popular young footballer. A blood-strewn homeland ravaged by drug wars, stained wretchedly by corruption. If Colombia were eliminated on the back of his own goal many in the know feared dreadfully for him.

There is no more dangerous city in the world than Medellin and tragically this reputation was murderously enhanced by the slaughter of Colombian international Andres Escobar. For only ten days after his infamous mistake against the Americans he paid the ultimate price.

On returning from the USA a depressed Escobar had refused to leave his apartment. Embarrassed and ashamed he wished only to bury his head under a pillow and weep. It was only through his girlfriend who convinced him he had nothing to feel guilty about that Escobar returned to the land of the living.

Andres and partner found themselves at the El Indio Restaurant on the city outskirts. Though trying hard to stay incognito they were swiftly recognised and Escobar found himself in a slanging match. Reacting angrily to a tableful of drunks taunting him with accusations of throwing the game for Yankee Dollars he was finally persuaded by his girl and bar staff to leave for their own safety.

However determined to carry on the goading the tormentors trailed him into the car park. The three men, brothers Santiago and Pedro Henao, plus their driver Humberto Munoz Castro again confronted the footballer. Suddenly, as if bored with simply ridiculing Escobar they grabbed hold and threw him against a wall before slamming twelve bullets into his writhing body.

Each shot was followed by the group shouting in unison 'Gol'!
Andres Escobar, the ultimate Scapegoat lay dead. His girlfriend screaming and covered in blood, whilst the murderers laughed. One was heard to exclaim,
'that is for the own goal'. Then a screech of tyres more whooping and the gunmen were gone.

Off into the black, disturbing sanctity of the Medellin night. In that lawless, anarchic place where cocaine counters for currency and life was worth less than a grain of sand, a warped sense of justice was seen to have been served with the gunning down of Escobar. His murder appeased those drug cartels that lost fortunes on Colombia's exit from USA 94.

In that Godforsaken place run by demons football became death.