The Golden Lighthouse of La Coruna 

Spain is one of the world's leading soccer countries. Soccer plays an important role in its public life and soccer clubs are markedly respected and influential. The central government and local authorities pay serious attention to the development of this sport.

This was actually the reason for my meeting with Joaquim Lopez Menendez, Alcalde (mayor - Ed.) of La Coruna. He is a Rightist, which is characteristic of Galicia, the area in which La Coruna is a provincial capital. Mr. Menendez's desire to visit me was a surprise but I agreed immediately, because this Spanish region jutting out far into the Atlantic had long attracted my curiosity.

As we talked the Alcalde voiced his regret that the Spanish Civil War had severed all contact between our countries for so long and that he was very glad that things were finally getting back to normal. He also came with a specific proposal aimed at developing Spanish-Russian relationships - and not in the economic or political but in the soccer field. There is an old tradition in La Coruna, he explained: a soccer tournament held regularly, in accordance with a special formula. Only four teams take part. One from La Coruna, another hand-picked from among the strongest Spanish teams, and two other leading teams from abroad. The Alcalde asked if I could help arrange for a major Soviet soccer team to vie in the tournament in 1981.

"We have staged 35 such tournaments," he told me. "The fans of La Coruna have seen soccer teams from almost all over the world, except the Soviet Union. You can just imagine how eager they are to see your players."

I liked the idea. I knew about the tournament and that it was very popular in Spain and attracted very strong soccer teams. The Embassy succeeded in presenting the case in Moscow and soon we received a telegram reading: "Accepted. Kyiv Dynamo will arrive." They could not have chosen a better team. Led by Valery Lobanovsky, Dynamo was confidently climbing to the top of the ladder. As for the Alcalde, he was ecstatic.

"I hadn't hoped for an answer," he admitted, "and the answer came quick and positive. We are all looking forward to the event."

Prior to the tournament (in early August) my wife, my assistant V. Kolomin, and I left for La Coruna. Galicia is emerald-green, much damper than the rest of Spain. All of it is turned toward the ocean and its seafood has a special reputation. After you are served besugo fried in garlic at the Chocolate Restaurant you are convinced you have never tasted anything better in your life. There is another dish which is by right called "gastronomic lottery." Pimentos de Padron, pepper fried in olive oil. A bowl full of it is placed on the table. A multitude of small green berries looking exactly alike, except that some are sweet and others extremely pungent. An unforgettable experience as your mouth alternates between sweet paradise and burning hell.

La Coruna is Spain's westernmost port. People emigrated from here en masse as they did from Seville, settling in Latin America. It was precisely Galicians that inhabited Cuba, among them Fidel Castro's ancestors. One of the piers is called the Embarcadero of Tears. It was from here that the local poor left on long voyages to "do America" as the local idiom goes. Some would return and build homes on vantage points to show off their "wealth" earned overseas.

A grand lighthouse towers on the very edge of the rocky shore. It was built by Romans and is the pride and symbol of La Coruna. The Alcalde said the lighthouse would be the prototype of the tournament's prize. The man was smiling with an air of mystery, intimating that the trophy would be very special. I was puzzled but only slightly and soon forgot about it; after all the prize did not matter as much as did the publicity. However, my wife thought differently, especially after we arrived and the Alcalde showed us the trophy. A miniature lighthouse, except that miniature was hardly the word; it was a meter tall, cast in pure silver, weighing about 20 kilos, worth over $20,000, let alone its artistic value as the thing was the exact replica of its prototype.

"Our country must have this prize, no matter what," my wife spoke her mind in no uncertain words. "Our team must be explained the situation."

Kyiv Dynamo had to switch flights and got to La Coruna several hours before the game. The lads were tired and it showed on the field. The referee had hardly signaled the kickoff when the Dynamo goalie missed a ball. I saw that Valery Lobanovsky, sitting in the guest tier close-by, remained unperturbed. The first half was over and the score remained the same, 1:0, one strong point against the trophy ever reaching the USSR.

During halftime my wife (she sat with Kolomin, away from us) pounced on me and Lobanovsky.

"This is insufferable! We must have the prize! I will go and talk to the team."

She did and returned barely a minute before the second half began.

"What did you tell them?" I asked.

"Everything. I foretold their victory and not only today. They will win the tournament. "

In the second half Kyiv Dynamo launched a counteroffensive. They pressed on with a balanced concerted effort. Their shots at the opponent's goal became more and more frequent, and finally they tied the score, one to one. The tension in the field and audience was palpable and mounting. Both teams were doing their utmost, using up all the reserves of energy. It looked as though the game would end in a draw, but shortly before the final whistle Dynamo made a mighty breakthrough and scored. I sat beside the Alcalde, with Spaniards on all sides, and had to hold myself in check, wearing a smile meant to convey either joy or polite sympathy. In the tier nearby Kolomin was jumping so high my wife had to grab him by the ankles to keep him from toppling over, although I could tell she was eager to join him.

Dynamo won the tournament and took away the beautiful and costly prize. But it was just the beginning. La Coruna rules stipulate that the winning team is automatically invited to the next tournament and perforce the following one until it is defeated. The Alcalde explained all this and asked me to arrange for Dynamo to vie in the next round. I noticed, however, that the man lacked his original enthusiasm. I would have let it pass but then he said they had decided to change the trophy.

"What do you mean change?" I blurted out. Somehow I felt responsible.

"Oh, don't worry," the Alcalde noticed my concern. "We've just decided to cast the prize in gold, meaning that the size will be smaller. The cost will remain the same, of course."

Gold? Why not? I was relieved. The Embassy sent a message to Moscow, explaining the situation. Once again the answer was positive. Kyiv Dynamo came again and won a second time, although I could not be present at the game and did not see the prize.

A while later the Alcalde came to visit me in Madrid. The man looked worried. By that time we had become friends, so he did not beat about the bush. He had problems, political ones.

"Yes, political ones, Mr. Ambassador, and it's all because of your soccer team."

"But the team behaved well, there have been no complaints," I was surprised. "The fellows never got involved in anything political."

"You are right," Joaquim Lopez nodded and sighed. "But I had a hard time getting the city's conservative soccer leadership to invite a Soviet team the first time. And now what? Our local soccer moguls believed that the exotic team from far north would visit just once. Instead it visited twice and won both times. They even asked whether I had joined the Communist Party. And they really meant it."

The Alcalde felt silent, then seemed to cheer up. "Never mind. These are my problems. You must do your best to have Dynamo come a third time, and I will try to find another team that maybe will save my political career."

And so Dynamo flew in again and the Alcalde arranged for Milan to vie in the tournament. That year the Italians were ranked the world's best players. They lived up to the image and won the tournament. Joaquim's opponents were satisfied and left him in peace. Despite the defeat, La Coruna's respect for my country remained high.

Once, it was in 1997, I was invited to watch a game at Kyiv's Dynamo Stadium. Valery Lobanovsky was also there. We embraced and recalled the old days.

"What about the Spanish trophies?" I asked.

Valery had no idea, so we made inquiries.

"There it is," a girl, secretary in the office of the stadium manager, pointed to a shelf. There it stood, a miniature gold copy of La Coruna's lighthouse. I had to become Ambassador to Ukraine to finally see the prize.

It was a fine goldsmith's work, standing out among the other trophies. No one knew about the silver prize. They would find out. As for Lobanovsky, he was his usual unperturbed self, confidently guiding his team from one victory to the next.