Renaldo (32 page)

I will be a celebrity just for being able to tell my friends the story of what

happened today. That is enough for me, because that is reality. I prefer to live

in the real world, Estes, not someone else’s fantasy.”

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RENALDO

Estes Santos just shook his head and stared at his charge for a moment.

Suddenly he addressed the cabby.

“Driver, pull over right here for a moment, please.” He then turned to his

backseat companion.

“Well, I have some ‘business’ to attend to right now. Sitting with that

lovely señorita all afternoon has made me . . . Well, you know what I am

talking about. Anyway, Renaldo, don’t forget what your sexy idol just told you

back there during lunch. Believe in yourself, the way others do, and there will

be no stopping you! Remember that, my friend. I will see you in the morning.

Take care.”

He was out of the cab and into the lobby of the Hotel Presidente in seconds.

Renaldo was thankful to finally be alone. After telling the driver to proceed to

Casa San Marco, he pulled his new treasure from his jacket pocket. He stared

down at the sultry picture on the cover for several seconds. Slowly then, with

trembling fingers, he raised the flap to reveal its hidden message.

A smile came to his face as he read the inscription.

“To Renaldo. We will meet again, you can count on it! Believe in the

future! Love, your new friend, Symca.”

He was delirious with joy as he told his assembled amigos of that day’s

unbelievable adventure. They had been hastily summoned to Casa San Marco

for beer and pizza, as well as the promise of a story they would not soon forget.

Renaldo did not disappoint his schoolboy peers, although by the time the party

broke up in the early morning hours, he was chagrined to find that Symca’s

momento had collected some additional pizza-stained fingerprints as a result of

being passed among the unbelievers all evening.

It was fortunate that he remembered to set his alarm clock, for the

early morning meeting had been relegated to the back of his mind by his

preoccupation with the charms of the beautiful Symca. The new teen celebrity

had not related that portion of the day’s events to anyone. He lay partially

clothed, semi-inebriated, and totally elated on his bed, staring up at her

poster.

No matter what happens with Octavio Suarez in the morning, he thought grinning

broadly, this has been the most memorable day of my life!

14

A shiver ran the length of the worshipper’s spine as he left the darkness of

the vestibule and walked the twenty or so yards to the edge of the vast

expanse. Standing now in blinding sunlight, he shielded his eyes, then

raised them to view the upper reaches of the sacred temple. Silence cascaded

down around him. The spirits were there, though, he could feel them.

He walked further into the open space, trying to imagine the events of

six months hence. How different the temple would be then. Seething with

emotion, deafening in its enthusiasm, a literal sea of humanity.

Would those worshippers be elated or deflated? That was the ultimate

question!

Now he was inside the circle where it would all begin. Would he be

here again in June? Down here on the pitch instead of up there in the pews of

the temple? He had thought it ridiculous before this very moment, ridiculous

to think that there was even the faintest possibility that such a thing could

happen. But somehow now, standing here inside the midfield circle of River

Plate Stadium, standing on the exact spot were the first touch of a black and

white ball would commence the greatest sporting event known to man . . . now

he knew in his heart that he wanted to be a part of it.

He was all alone. The thousands of workers that were racing against time

to complete the renovations of what had been known as ‘Monumental Stadium’

were gone for the Christmas break. The cranes and massive machinery stood

silent in the sun.

Monumental is a name befitting of this place
, he thought as he scanned the

entire circumference of the upper terraces. Seventy-five thousand hearts would

beat here in unison, hoping that the spirits of past champions could help

their current-day heroes in what everyone knew was a ‘monumental’ task . . .

becoming champions of the world!

He turned his attention to the playing surface itself. New sod had been

laid and not a single cleat had desecrated the beautiful green turf, one hundred

and twenty yards in length from goal line to goal line. Eighty yards in width

from touch line to touch line. The worshipper was mystically drawn toward

the goal area. As he walked the righteous path to glory, the same path that he

hoped to travel at full speed in only a few months, the field markings came

into view.

JAMES McCREATH

First, the penalty arch, beyond which no player could venture preceding

that moment of high tension, the penalty shot. Then, the dreaded penalty area

itself, running along the goal line for eighteen yards from either side of the two

upright goal posts, then extending eighteen yards out onto the pitch to form

a large rectangle. It was within these markings that unsportsmanlike conduct

was punished with instant and often dire consequences. The yawning goal net

beckoned him closer. Eight yards wide from inside upright to inside upright.

Eight feet high from the pitch to the underside of the crossbar. So invitingly

large when empty, so terribly small when a world-class keeper stood defiantly

under its shadow. He came upon the penalty spot next, twelve yards from the

goal line, in the dead center of the field. The place of ultimate drama, shooter

versus goalkeeper. One on one, matching wits, nerve, and luck. Glory for the

triumphant, agony for the vanquished.

“Renaldo, it’s time! He is ready for you now!”

Estes Santos had to yell at the top of his voice to enable his message to

carry from the entrance tunnel to where Renaldo stood at the penalty spot.

Astor Gordero had taken Estes in to meet Octavio Suarez first, immediately

upon their arrival at the stadium some thirty minutes prior.

Before he headed toward the sideline, Renaldo considered taking a small

divot of turf as a lucky memento, but thought better of such sacrilege when a

gust of wind blew open his jacket and tossed his necktie over his shoulder. This

was a sign. Respect this holy place, and respect may just be offered in return.

He turned from the spot and jogged to Estes’ side.

As usual, it was Astor Gordero who made the formal introductions as

Renaldo stood cautiously in the manager’s doorway.

“Good, good, come in, my boy. Renaldo De Seta, I would like to introduce

you to Argentina’s newly appointed World Cup team manager, Señor Octavio

Suarez.”

The boy stepped forward and held out his hand to Suarez, who remained

seated behind an old metal desk heaped with piles of manila file folders and

newspapers. The manager slowly extended a limp arm to meet that of the

younger man. The handshake was impersonal and without enthusiasm.

“Would you gentlemen excuse us for a few minutes, please. I would like

to talk to Renaldo in private, if you don’t mind.”

The visitor’s young heart sank when he heard Suarez request privacy.

This is it!
he thought silently,
The game is over. How could I have ever let myself

think for an instant that there was the slightest chance of joining the team? Damn, what

a gullible fool I have been
.

Renaldo studied the man behind the desk as Gordero and Santos made

their departure. He must have been at least fifty years old, with long, thin,

greying hair hanging in straggles and strands down past his shoulders. His face

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RENALDO

resembled that of a horse, elongated, with small, darting eyes behind black,

horn-rimmed reading glasses.

He looked more like an absent-minded professor than the most victorious

manager in the history of the Argentine Football Association. A career of

almost twenty-five years had garnered fifteen First Division Championships,

seven Libertadores Cup titles for the best club side in South America, and

two postings to Argentine World Cup staff as Assistant Manager in 1966 and

194.

He was an obvious choice to head the contingent in 194, but he was

known as an outspoken individualist who would not always toe the association

line. His players loved him, and he, in turn, would go to bat for them, but

bureaucrats and football executives drove him crazy. His appointment to the

1974 team came only after a virtual player revolt on the eve of the Munich

competition. Wisely, the association had not waited until the very last minute

to give him full and absolute control of the national program for World Cup

‘8.

A cigarette hung from the headman’s lips, and judging by the overflowing

ashtrays that were scattered throughout this dank, poorly lit cubicle of an

office, he must be a chain-smoker. Styrofoam cups of coffee, many half empty

with cigarette butts swimming in them, were also a prominent decoration.

Suarez continued to rummage through a stack of files strewn helter-skelter

over the desk. Renaldo could see his frustration growing by the second until

miraculously, out of the bottom of the mess, he retrieved the errant folio.

“Aah . . . good, here we are. Pull up a chair, son. Just throw those files on

the floor.”

Suarez motioned to a barely visible chair in the corner of the room, stacked

to its limit with more of the same folders that covered his desk. By the time

Renaldo had moved the chair and was seated, Suarez was deep in wordless

thought, studying the contents of his newly found document.

Several minutes passed before he abruptly closed the folder, lit another

Marlboro, and focused his attention on the visitor.

“I have seen you play many times, son. You are good, very good! But as

you know, you have never faced the kind of competition that we will be up

against in the World Cup.”

He paused to take a long drag on his Marlboro. Renaldo noticed that his

demeanor had changed once he started to talk about the tournament. Those

darting eyes seemed to come to life, and there was a new enthusiasm in his

voice. He gestured around the tiny room with a sweep of his arm.

“The organizing committee has promised me a proper office and support

staff right after Christmas, but the whole situation is in such a shambles that I

decided to start the day they hired me. This was the only room that they could

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give me. I’ve been here for three days and nights now. I suppose I will have to

go home for Christmas or my wife will kill me. I can only tell you that things

are even worse than they are reporting them to be in the press. The program

is in disarray!” Suarez paused to look in several white cups for a sip of coffee.

There was none to be found.

“I have players squabbling about money already. How much will they

make if they grace us with their presence on the National World Cup side?

‘I demand to be paid more than so and so, because I am a better player,’ or ‘I

have more international caps,’ or ‘I am being paid more by my club team,’ or

‘I have laid more girls, so you had better pay me more than anyone else or I

won’t come.’ ”

That was a great imitation of a spoiled, whiny, little girl,
Renaldo thought.

“I have no idea who will be released from the European teams in time

to train with us,” the boss continued. “We open training camp on February

fifteenth in Mar del Plata. That gives me a little over a month to pull this

mess together! Already I know of a few barracudas who are just waiting for

me to slip up, so that they can walk in and take over the manager’s position.

Barracudas after only three days! Three days on the job and the vultures are

circling already. Well, fuck the whole bunch of them!”

His face was flushed with anger at the thought of someone hunting for his

scalp already. He tried to compose himself and force the unwanted thoughts

from his mind. He sat silently studying his guest for several seconds, then

continued.

“Luckily, no one in the press knows where to find me. I insisted that the

organizing committee tell them that I wouldn’t officially take over until the

twenty-seventh of the month. So I bought myself a few days anyway.”

He stood up and stretched his lanky frame. Renaldo recalled how tall the

man was from some of the clinics he had attended in the past. At least six foot

three, maybe taller.

“I need new blood, Renaldo. New faces with a fresh attitude. I will not

field a team of prima donnas. The old guard will find that out soon enough. I

know that you are young and untested, but if you are willing to work for me

without bitching and moaning, then we will see what magic I can craft with