It was 1969. Peñarol was playing Estudiantes from La Plata.
Rocha was at the center of the field, marked by two players, with his back to the enemy area, when he got the ball from Matosas. He put it to sleep on his right foot, spun around with the ball still there, slipped it behind his other foot, and escaped his markers Echecopar and Taverna. He made three quick dashes, left the ball to Spencer, and continued running. The return pass came in high in the semicircle. He trapped it with his chest, broke free of Madero and Spadaro, and volleyed a shot before it hit the ground. The goalkeeper, Flores, did not even see it.
Pedro Rocha slithered along like a snake in the grass. He played joyfully and his joy was infectious: the joy of the play, the joy of the goal. He did whatever he wanted with the ball, and she believed every bit of it.