Renaldo (42 page)

and equal opportunity to achieve a starting position on the team. Work hard,

do your best, and don’t worry about your competition. Keep focused on what

your job is, on what I have asked you to do, and you should succeed. So, that

is it for now. Good luck, stay healthy until we meet again, and keep your lips

sealed. I will start the individual meetings in the interior office now. Estes,

check the list and bring in the first gentleman!”

Renaldo De Seta took a deep breath and sat back against the folding chair

that was one of thirty-odd arranged in rows for the players. He looked around

the room self-consciously, for he knew that he was truly a babe in the woods

among seasoned veterans. Men whom he had watched play ten years ago were

seated next to him, legends of the game in Argentina, some with the experience

of two World Cups under their belts.

Ubaldo Luque was circulating around the room, handing out binders and

rosters and engaging in friendly banter with the players he was familiar with,

which was almost everyone. When he came to Renaldo, he smiled warmly and

held out his hand.

“We have never met before, have we, son? You must be Renaldo De Seta.

It’s not hard to pick you out in this crowd of old men. I see that you already

have your bible. Here are the roster lists and the exhibition match schedule. You

are number seventeen on the list, so you will have a little time to kill before you

go in to see Octavio. Relax, socialize with the others. There are coffee and soft

drinks being brought in right now. Nice to meet you. Good luck.”

He handed Renaldo two sheets of paper stapled together and moved on

to the next man. It was evident from scanning the lineup that the boy from

Newton’s Prefects Under Twenty-One team was the youngest player on the

roster by four years. He tried to place the players on the list with the faces in the

room. His eyes ran down the names one line at a time, then searched the room

for the corresponding countenance. Octavio Suarez’s hopefuls included:

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Several surprises, but on the whole a fairly competent group of professionals,

Renaldo thought to himself. Most of the surprises stemmed from names that

were not on the list at all. The three players still in Europe had already been

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explained. The problem was that if they were unable to join the team in the

near future, the consequences of their absence would certainly be felt down the

road.

Defender Réné Dolmo playing with Real Madrid in Spain, and halfback

Americo Galvani, currently with St. Etienne in France, had abundant

international experience that was bound to be an asset to the team. But more

critically, the nation’s all-time leading goal scorer, Nicodemo Garcia, was at

this moment plying his trade for Catalonia in the Spanish league. Garcia was

the one impact player who Octavio Suarez was really counting on to make his

team a true contender. Without ‘Nico’s’ leadership by example and deft touch

around the goal, the Argentine squad would resemble only a shadow of the

team that they could have been, had forces outside Argentina not conspired

against them.

There were some shocking names omitted from those players who were

now in Argentina. Long-time international goalkeeper Hugo Bravo was said to

have retired after a well-publicized spat with Octavio Suarez. Former National

Team captain Dante Capurro had refused to report because his wife was due to

deliver their first child the following June, right in the midst of the tournament.

Capurro’s leadership and savvy would be sorely missed, but Octavio Suarez had

been unable to change his mind.

Other names that were omitted seemed to fall into the ‘prima donna’

category that Suarez would not tolerate. Without the return of the European

players, however, Renaldo wondered how long Octavio could resist the pressure

to forget the conflicting egos and field the best team available. So many questions

remained to be answered over the next few months. The press, relentless in

their quest for information, would hound the team’s manager day and night

until they received those answers. The list of exhibition fixtures were scheduled

as follows:

It looked like a fairly rigorous schedule that Octavio Suarez had devised

for his charges. The good thing was that it gave them a good taste of both

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European and South American competition. Two Copa Roca games were also

tentatively scheduled against Brazil in March, but confirmation of the dates

and locations of those fixtures had not yet been resolved.

All in all, it was an exhilarated Renaldo De Seta that sat waiting for

his turn in the inner sanctum with his new mentor. The other players had

seemed to all break off into their club team cliques, Independiente players in

one huddle, River Plate players in another, and so on. Calderone and Gitares

from the Prefect’s professional team made no effort to welcome their young

understudy, so Renaldo remained seated and alone.

“Hi, man, I’m Ramon Vida, from Boca Juniors. You must be De Seta. I

can tell because none of those assholes have come over to welcome me either.

I’m the only one from Boca Juniors left now that Bravo quit and Capurro won’t

report. I’m afraid that our manager might paint me with the same brush just

because we were on the same club team. I follow you on the list, so I thought

that we might as well wait together and get to know each other.”

Vida held out his hand, which Renaldo shook from a half standing, half

sitting position. The Boca player was shorter in stature than Renaldo, standing

just under six feet. His body was svelte, almost wiry, and his black hair was

worn short and combed straight back into a cute little duck tail. That was the

only thing ‘cute’ about Ramon Vida. He exuded Latino self confidence, and

while his face bordered on handsome, it also contained several small scars from

past wars. And those eyes, dark mysterious pools that could easily be read to

say, “Don’t mess with me, or else . . . ”

When both men were seated, Vida asked the question that was on the

minds of all his new training mates.

“So, how did you manage to get yourself selected to the training roster? Is

it true that you have never played a first division game?”

“Yes, it is true. The Under Twenty-One side that I played on won the

National Championship, and when Señor Suarez contacted me, he simply told

me that he was having trouble with several of his veteran players, and that he

wanted to look at some ‘new blood.’ I had taken some clinics from him over the

years, and he remembered me. So here I am, for the time being, anyway.”

“Well, don’t feel badly. I sat on the bench my first two years with Boca

watching Nico Garcia tear up the league. Luckily, he got a fat check to go to

Spain this past season, and that was the break I needed. I guess I fit into the

‘new blood’ category, along with you.”

Renaldo was starting to warm up to Vida. He had an easy manner and a

quick smile, and having just turned twenty-two, was the closest player on the

roster to his age. At least he had been friendly enough to introduce himself and

keep Renaldo from looking like the solitary wallflower of the group.

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“So, what do we have over here? How many caps, or maybe we should say

bonnets, baby bonnets, do you two infants have for your country?”

The two young players looked up from their conversation into the distorted,

hideous smile of ‘Killer’ Juan Chacon. ‘Killer’ was a legendary fullback for

Independiente, tough, ruthless, mean-spirited. He had been booked more times

than any player in the history of the Argentine first division. He never shied

away from physical contact, perfecting his style of play to the point of being

known as ‘the king of the cheap shot artists’ in the Argentine first division. If

‘Killer’ became incensed with a rival player, he was more than willing to use

his fists to drive home his point.

It was said by those who opposed him on the field of play that his greatest

defensive asset was his supreme ugliness. A face that was severely disfigured

after biting into an electrical cord as a toddler seemed to give him a persona

with which to identify. Add to that his dominating physical presence, standing

six foot, five inches tall, and one could see why he relished taking on all those

hotshot, pretty boy forwards that earned three times his salary. Let them dare

to bring the ball into his territory on the pitch!

Legend had it that one self-centered dandy of a forward who bleached his

hair and fancied himself as a matinee idol once made a comment on ‘Killer’s’

nightmarish looks to the press before a game. He described Chacon as the

‘ugliest man on earth,’ and stated that no woman would ever want to spend

a night with such a hideous creature. The scene was set for all-out war the

following day.

As the grudge match unfolded, however, the handsome boaster went out of

his way to keep a good distance from the ugly defender. But the Independiente

fullback would not be denied his revenge. With the clock running down to

the final minutes and his team hanging on to a one-goal lead, ‘Killer’ Chacon

finally had an opportunity to extend his greetings.

A corner kick in the Independiente end had brought all the opposing

players to the goalmouth to try for the equalizer. As the ball floated high

in the air, making its way with an outward curve to the spot where ‘Señor

Handsome’ waited to volley in the tying goal, ‘Killer’ Chacon leapt with

perfect timing and headed the orb away from his goalmouth. Unfortunately for

‘Señor Handsome,’ the full force of Chacon’s knee hit him square in the face. It

would be El Blondo
’
s last professional soccer game. The braggart had suffered

a broken jaw, a broken nose, and the loss of several teeth. Now it was debatable

just which of the two antagonists was the ugliest following their tryst. The

Football Association reviewed the matter and agreed with the referee that fair

contact had been made with the ball by Chacon, and that the injury had not

been deliberate.

Not one of ‘Señor Handsome’s’ teammates had come to his aid or accosted

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RENALDO

‘Killer’ Chacon immediately following the incident. No one on that field of play

wanted to pursue the matter. The man was too ugly, too ferocious, too ‘loco’ to

risk personal injury. The ‘Killer’ Chacon legend had grown from that day on,

and now Renaldo and Ramon were staring at ‘His Ugliness’ himself.

“You babies can’t speak either? We can order in some formula bottles

instead of coffee, if you like. I don’t believe what they have given us to play

with here. A combination of has-been old men and wet-behind-the-ears rookies.

You, you there! Did your mama have to write you a note to let you come and

play with the big boys?” He was addressing Renaldo, a fierce look of contempt

on his loathsome face. His teammates from Independiente had formed a circle

around the two younger players.

“Why don’t you fuck off and leave him alone. He doesn’t know you, and