The First Two Stars: The Story of Uruguay’s Olympic Triumphs

In the first of a two-part look at Uruguay’s two Olympic gold triumphs in the 1920s that truly put Uruguayan – and South American – football on the map, Vadim Furmanov explores the story of the 1924 Olympics…

Part 1: Colombes

“Other countries have their history, Uruguay has its football.”

In one sentence, former Uruguay manager Ondino Viera captured the sense of pride that the people of this South American nation feel about their national sport. And for good reason. For such a small country – population estimated at 3.5 million – dwarfed by its more famous neighbours Argentina and Brazil, Uruguay’s record of success is stunning. 

Uruguay’s two biggest clubs, Nacional and Peñarol, have between them eight Copa Libertadores titles and six Intercontinental Cups. For its entire illustrious history Uruguay has produced world class footballers, from José Andrade to Juan Alberto Schiaffino, Enzo Francescoli to Luis Suárez.

With 15 Copa América titles, Uruguay’s national team – the Celeste, or sky-blue – leads the continent. But the crown jewels in the trophy case are, without a doubt, the two World Cups. The first, won on home soil against eternal rivals Argentina in the inaugural edition in 1930; the second, a shocking victory over Brazil in 1950, inflicting the national trauma of the Maracanazo on their neighbours in the process.

But take a look at the crest of the Celeste and you will find four gold stars, not two. Less well-known than Uruguay’s two World Cup titles are their two Olympic titles, conquered at the only two Olympic football tournaments organized directly by FIFA: 1924 and 1928. Uruguay arrived in Europe as relative unknowns. Four years later, having defended their gold medals, they were the indisputable best team in the world.

The Rioplatense Rivalry

Football’s first port of call in South America was the Río de la Plata – the estuary that forms part of the Argentina – Uruguay border and separates the port cities of Buenos Aires and Montevideo by just 200 kilometres. The game was first introduced by British expatriates but spread quickly among the local population.

A local criollo style began to emerge, characterized by individual creativity, flair, and skill. As the legendary Uruguayan author Eduardo Galeano writes in his semi-mythical Football in the Sun and Shadow, the Uruguayans “chose to invent a game of close passes directly to the foot, with lightning changes in rhythm and high-speed dribbling.” 

As football clubs on both sides of the Río de la Plata proliferated, a natural rivalry began to develop between Argentina and Uruguay, both at club and international level. In 1916 Uruguay emerged victorious in the first-ever South American Championship, the predecessor to the modern-day Copa América.

While both sides were adherents to fútbol criollo, a divergence in styles became evident. Argentina were more focused on possession, while Uruguay were more direct and counter-attacking, giving rise to the adage “Argentina attack, Uruguay score.” 

Uruguay won three of the first four South American Championships, with Argentina finishing as runners-up each time. Argentina’s albiceleste were finally crowned champions of the continent in 1921. In 1923, the championship was held in Uruguay for the second time, and the hosts sealed their fourth title with a 2-0 victory over Argentina in the final group match. This time, there were more than just continental bragging rights at stake. The winner would go on to represent South America at the Olympics in Paris.

These early Uruguayan victories were significant not just because they demonstrated Uruguay’s footballing prowess. As Joshua Nadel writes in Fútbol, through the sport Uruguay could “exorcise demons of Brazilian occupation and Argentine interference… the sport offered a small country an opportunity for regional pride, and Uruguay took the opportunity as far as it could go.”  

The Long Road to Paris

The football tournament at the 1924 Olympic Games was the first to be organized by FIFA. The debate over amateurism that had divided South American football was also a point of contention in Europe. In 1923 the four British associations demanded that FIFA accept their definition of amateurism, which considered any player receiving remuneration of any kind to be a professional.” When FIFA refused, the British associations pulled out of the Olympics, as did Denmark.

Austria, an epicentre of the Danubian school of football of Central Europe, were another notable absence. But other continental powers, including Czechoslovakia, Italy, Hungary, and Switzerland, all entered the tournament. Spain, Sweden, the Netherlands, and hosts France were all considered contenders. It may not have had the lustre of future World Cups, but in the 1920s the Olympics were the pinnacle of international football.

On the eve of the Olympics, Uruguayan football was divided. The issue of amateurism had caused ruptures in many South American football associations, and Uruguay was no exception.

Though leagues and clubs maintained their amateur status, in reality, a practice known as ‘brown amateurism’ – through which clubs evaded the ban on payment via other means – was rampant. A group of clubs led by Peñarol took issue with this practice and in 1922 broke off from the Uruguayan Football Association (known by its Spanish acronym AUF) to form the dissident Uruguayan Football Federation (FUF). 

The schism left Uruguayan participation at the Olympics in grave doubt. The Uruguayan Olympic Committee, formed in October 1923, wanted to send a team with the country’s best players, regardless of the affiliation of their clubs. When the AUF and FUF failed to reach an agreement, the Committee decided not to send a team to the Olympics, even though a squad had already set sail. In response, Francesco Ghigliani, Uruguay’s representative to the International Olympic Committee, simply dissolved the local committee and registered the team in Paris. 

Financing the trip was another concern. An association official, Casto Martínez Laguarda, was sent to Europe to arrange friendlies to help finance the trip and pay for expenses, or at least secure room and board. Other association officials did what they could. Numa Pesquera contributed a significant amount from his personal accounts. Atilio Narancio mortgaged his own property. Eventually, barely enough money was raised, and Laguarda sent a telegram from Vigo to Montevideo: “Tour financed. Embark.”

The trans-Atlantic voyage was made on the steamship Desirade in steerage. The goalkeeper Andrés Mazali led the training sessions on the deck. On 7 April, 1924, the Uruguayan squad disembarked in Vigo, in the Galicia region of northwestern Spain. The rest of the journey would be via train – first a whirlwind tour of Spain, then a long trip to Paris. Back in Uruguay, there was debate over whether sending a team to play at the Olympics was a mistake. With no way of knowing how Uruguay measured up to their European counterparts, many feared embarrassment on the world stage. 

They need not have worried. In Vigo, Uruguay became the first South American team to play in Europe. A 3-0 victory over the hosts was an auspicious beginning to their European adventure. They proceeded to win all nine of their friendlies against Spanish opposition. El Mundo Deportivo wrote “without any doubt these South American champions are the best footballers we have seen here,” and dubbed them the favorites for the tournament.

On 1 May, the Spain tour concluded, and they began their thirty-hour journey to Paris. When the players arrived at the Olympic Village, they found the living conditions to be terrible, and immediately sought alternative accommodation. A reserve player and sports correspondent for El Diario discovered a château in the neighboring town of Argentuil owned by a certain Madame Pain. The Uruguayan delegation took residence in the château for the duration of the tournament, and Madame Pain would become the unlikeliest of figures to enter Uruguayan football lore.  

The Arrival of La Celeste

The popular account of the Uruguayan team that traveled to Paris is that they were true amateurs, humble tradesmen who played solely for the love of the game and who arrived as complete unknowns. This legend has been promoted by Galeano, who wrote of the players:

“Pedro Arispe was a meatpacker. José Nasazzi cut marble. “Perucho” Petrone was a grocer. Pedro Cea sold ice. José Leandro Andrade was a carnival musician and bootblack. They were all twenty years old or a little older, though in the pictures they look like old men. They cured their wounds with salt water, vinegar plasters, and a few glasses of wine.”

Galeano surely took some artistic licenses, and they were not completely anonymous. The French press, having heard of the exploits of the celeste in Spain, were excited to see whether the Uruguayans could match the hosts.

Nevertheless, Uruguay certainly had limited resources and were met with little excitement. Little over 3,000 supporters turned out for their opening match against Yugoslavia at the Stade Olympique in the Parisian suburb of Colombes. Pedro Cea had expected 50,000, and could not hide his disappointment and anger at the meagre turnout. There was more to come – the Uruguayan flag was displayed upside down, and the Brazilian national anthem was played. 

The disappointment and anger of the Uruguayan players was channeled into a stunning performance. Before the match, as the story goes, a group of Yugoslavian players had spied on a Uruguayan training session. The Uruguayans, noticing their soon-to-be opponents, feigned incompetence, kicking the ball into every direction and comically flailing to the ground at every opportunity.

At the end of the session a Yugoslavian player came up to the Uruguayans and said “what a pity, boys, that we have to play you, you came from so far away.”

Uruguay won 7-0. L’Auto, the predecessor to L’Équipe, immediately declared them favourites. The players got a night off and went for a night on the town. They were spotted by the recently eliminated Spaniards, who castigated the Uruguayans for not taking the competition seriously enough. After that incident, according to Cea, “we understood and we locked ourselves in.” There would be no more partying until after the tournament.

For Galeano, the victory over Yugoslavia was a symbolic moment when the old elite took notice of the Latin American upstarts for the first time: “something like the second discovery of America occurred.”  

In the next match, against a United States side that Mazali described as “big and strong, trained, but naive,” Uruguay ran out comfortable 3-0 winners. There was a much bigger crowd now, a sell-out of 11,000 at the smaller Stade Bergeyre, as word started to spread of their prowess. The New York Herald wrote that the Uruguayans were approaching perfection and that at times it seemed like the match was 50 against 5.

All three goals came in the first half, the opener by José Andrade. Andrade, the ‘Black Pearl’, was the first black footballer many Europeans had ever seen. He was regarded as one of the best in the world, perhaps football’s first-ever superstar. Galeano’s poetic description is striking:

“Uruguayan José Leandro Andrade dazzled everyone with his exquisite moves. A midfielder, this rubber-bodied giant would sweep the ball downfield without ever touching an adversary, and when he launched the attack he would brandish his body and send them all scattering. In one match he crossed half the field with the ball sitting on his head.”

Argentina were absent from the tournament – Uruguay were South America’s sole representative – but some Argentine journalists made the journey. Josué Quesada of the Buenos Aires newspaper La Razón called the Uruguayans “unrivalled” and wrote “this match has banished all doubt regarding the final victory of the South American team.” The journalist’s attempt to frame Uruguay’s success as a victory for the continent foreshadowed coming debates in Rioplatense football.

France awaited in the quarterfinals – the local press had gotten their wish. Over 30,000 supporters greeted them, eager to support the home side but also to witness and admire the skill and flair of the Uruguayans, whose reputation was growing every match. Uruguay entered the ground carrying their own flag as well as the French tricolore, a nod of appreciation toward the hosts. 

They were less gracious on the pitch. Les Blues were swept aside 5-1. There is a story promoted by a Spanish journalist that Uruguay had agreed not to win by more than one goal, so as not to embarrass the French. The score was 2-1 at halftime, but early in the second half, Andrade was whistled by the supporters after committing a foul.

Andrade, angered at this treatment, proceeded to tear the French defense apart and set up three goals for his teammates. After the match, when asked to explain Uruguay’s dominance, he replied that the squad practiced by trying to catch chickens. 

The semi-final against the Netherlands was the only difficult match faced by the Uruguayans. The sparse crowd of 7,000 was a surprise, given the hype surrounding the now-favorites. 

Uruguay had perhaps underrated the Dutch, who were difficult to break down and took the lead in the 32nd minute. This was the first time the celeste found themselves behind during the tournament. Laguarda, the man who did so much to ensure Uruguay could make the trip, gave a half-time talk where he reminded the players of the crowds in Montevideo who were anxiously awaiting news of the match. 

Uruguay came back, courtesy of two controversial goals. The first, by Cea, which the Dutch claimed to be offside. The second, a penalty converted by Héctor Scarone after a disputed handball. They both counted – Uruguay were through to the final. 

Putting Uruguay on the Map

Barely 3,000 were at the Stade Olympique in Colombes for that opening round match against Yugoslavia. By the time of the final against Switzerland, 10,000 were turned away. A nearby printing house even distributed Uruguayan flags to supporters.

The first half was cagey, with Uruguay 1-0 thanks to a ninth minute strike from Pedro Petrone. The entire stadium applauded. But the rest of the match is pure Uruguayan dominance. “It was said that in the second half the Uruguayans played with a panache that had never graced a football pitch,” writes Andreas Campomar in Golázo, his monumental history of Latin American football. 

Cea doubled the advantage in the 65th minute, before Ángel Romanomade it three from a corner five minutes before full-time. The crowd invaded the pitch, celebrating together with the Uruguayan heroes as they tried to do a lap of honour amidst the pandemonium. 

They could barely believe what they had just accomplished. “We thought it was a lie,” recalled Cea. “When we saw that huge flag of ours being raised between Switzerland and Holland, and going up, going up, until it was higher than all the others, we felt that we had done something great.”

The foreign press reacted with universal acclaim. Gabrliet Hanot, future editor of L’Équipe, wrote  

“The Uruguayans are supple disciples of the spirit of fitness rather than geometry. They have pushed towards perfection the art of the feint and swerve and the dodge, but they know also how to play directly and quickly. They are not only ball jugglers. They created a beautiful football, elegant but at the same time varied, rapid, powerful, effective.”

The Uruguayan government declared a national holiday and issued commemorative stamps. The triumph transcended sporting significance, a “cultural success and proof that the New World could compete with the Old,” as Jonathan Wilson writes in Angels with Dirty Faces. A prominent Uruguayan who had mortgaged his house to pay for the trip to Paris said “we are no longer just a tiny spot on the map.” 

Uruguay, in the worlds of Galeano, had been pulled by football “out of the shadows of universal anonymity.”

More glories were on the horizon.