Renaldo (50 page)

ajar, the locking mechanism lying on the threshold. Celeste was sitting by the

window, a surprisingly placid look on her face. Lonnie did a double take when

he saw the blonde lady. He looked at the number on the door. It was his room,

and that was Celeste, but Celeste as a blonde.

She had told him that she planned to cut her hair, but the color?

“Are you alright? I heard on the street that the National Guard searched

every building. How did you avoid them?”

Without saying a word, she pointed to the dresser. He walked over and

looked behind it.

“You were able to fit behind this thing, and they didn’t see you? My

God, you are the smartest, luckiest, not to mention the sexiest little blonde

terrorist that I have ever met. Now get your things. We have to go quickly. I’ve

always been horny for blondes, and since you had to throw away that red wig,

I thought I was stuck with a brunette. They say blondes have more fun, and if

we don’t get moving I will want to have my way with you before we even start

our journey to Tigre. Once we make it there, well, I have a private little cabin

down by the river that I think you will find more conducive to romance than

our present surroundings.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her gently. She was trembling. Lonnie

had thought her incapable of fear. The crying from the room across the hall

made it painfully evident just how close she must have come to joining the

ranks of those who would soon be known as ‘The Disappeared.’

Mar del Plata. Argentina’s Riviera. World-famous beach resort mentioned

in the same breath as Cannes, Miami Beach, and Rio’s Copacabana. Five miles

of beaches, chock-a-block with brightly colored umbrellas. The most exclusive

private beach clubs known to man. The largest casino in the world. Seventy

thousand hotel rooms. A population that swells from three hundred thousand

people in the off-season, to close to two million in January and February.

232

RENALDO

Nonstop night life in a playground by the sea. An adult fantasyland of sun,

surf, and sex.

Unfortunately, none of the twenty-two hopefuls for Argentina’s National

World Cup team would have a chance to sample any of these pleasures. Octavio

Suarez was no fool. He had chosen the team’s initial training site for one reason.

Climate!

Cool, moderating winds blowing in from the Atlantic sent soft summer

breezes onshore, a welcome relief from the oppressive humidity and pollution

of the capital. Thirty miles southwest of Mar del Plata, the small family

resort town of Miramar offered the same climatic conditions without all the

distractions that the larger city provided. Particularly appealing was the total

lack of nightlife, which the city elders encouraged to promote safe, family-

oriented vacations. Just the kind of ‘vacation’ that Octavio Suarez wanted for

his charges.

A secluded resort, Empresa Rio de la Plata, had been selected as the team’s

headquarters months in advance, and millions of government dollars had been

invested in updating the facility to enable it to welcome its distinguished

guests. Security precautions were of the utmost concern. Therefore, the resort

was cordoned off with a twenty-foot high, electric barbed wire fence around its

entire perimeter. Continuous patrols by special canine commando squads of the

elite Compania 601 Special Forces Squadron were in evidence even before the

team arrived. Concrete barriers blocked all entrances to the compound, and an

elaborate telecommunications and surveillance system was installed to monitor

the activities in and around the facility.

Once inside the compound, the atmosphere changed drastically. Beautiful

wooded glens offset the two training pitches that had been lovingly and

painstakingly leveled and sodded over the past year. They were sodded with the

same turf that would grace the newly renovated forty-two thousand seat Mar

del Plata Stadium. The entertainment facilities for the team were extensive.

Televisions in every player’s room, pool and ping-pong tables, a fully stocked

library, massage and physiotherapy rooms, swimming pools, tennis courts,

basketball hoops, bocce courts, and hundreds of board games.

The kitchen had been modernized to provide the best nutritious fare that

the top-flight chefs could offer. Nothing had been left to chance. Every detail

had been checked, and double-checked. The press center was a building just

inside the perimeter, close to the main entrance. It was far enough away from

the players’ quarters to ensure that the scribes would not be a constant bother,

and it was the only building that the working press had access to inside the

compound. The rest of the facility was restricted, off-limits by orders of Octavio

Suarez.

233

JAMES McCREATH

This news was not at all well received by the hacks, for as much as the

press was locked out, the inmates were certainly locked in. Players could not

leave the compound unescorted under any condition. Written approval for leave

had to be obtained from the manager himself, and no one else. This was a bitter

pill for the media, for it meant that there would be no exclusive interviews with

this player or that player at a local cantina or restaurant.

Wives and families were encouraged to visit the players on Sunday

afternoons, but there were no overnight conjugal visits. Eight weeks of abstention.

Not a real problem for Renaldo De Seta, for the memory of his embrace with

Simone was enough to keep the fire burning in his heart until they met again.

But for some of the veteran players, eight weeks was an eternity. As Renaldo

learned on his very first night, even some of the younger players thought it the

most draconian and undemocratic of rules.

“Man, how am I going to sneak some pussy into my room? I will never

last. I will be cut from the team due to sexual frustration. My balls will be so

big from lack of use that they will drag behind me as I try to run down the

field. I can’t stand this. It’s only the first night, and I’m going crazy.”

Ramon Vida was pacing around Renaldo’s room. “I wish I had a cigarette.

Damn! How about you, man. You got a girlfriend yet?” Renaldo blushed

slightly, not knowing what to say.

“Well, not exactly. There is one girl who is very special to me, but nothing

has come of it yet.”

“Don’t worry. Just wait until you’re a big star, a World Cup champion.

Then they will all fall on their knees before you. My girl, oooo la la, did she

give me a going away party! Toni is her name. I have a picture. Here, take a

look.”

He tenderly pulled the photo from his wallet. To Renaldo’s amusement

and stimulation, it turned out to be a full frontal nude picture leaving nothing

to the imagination.

“She is very pretty, and well built it seems.”

“Man, you can’t even see her best asset. She just loves to give head, can do

it for hours. God, I’m going to miss her. I think I’m going crazy already. How

about some music?” With that, he was gone, soon to return with his oversized

portable cassette machine, the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive” pumping from the

speakers.

“Hey, baby, do you know how to disco? These Bee Gees are amazing.

They just make me want to get down!” He was strutting and twirling around

the room. Then he cranked the volume switch without missing a beat. “Stayin’

Alive, Stayin’ Alive, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive.”

The music had attracted other players from the single-level complex.

Soon, Renaldo’s room was jammed with his would-be teammates, singing,

234

RENALDO

dancing, clapping, and laughing through the entire album. Ramon even gave

disco lessons to a few of the more cement-footed onlookers.

Renaldo was an unwilling participant in Señor Vida’s school of modern

moves and received good-natured jibes about the necessity of being more

proficient with his feet for the morning’s dancing lessons. For those, Octavio

Suarez would be the dance instructor, and the ballroom floor would be the

newly laid green carpet outside their dormitory windows.

Estes Santos was the first sight Renaldo focused on at 6:45 a.m. the next

morning.

“The adventure begins!” Santos shouted at the top of his voice as he

entered the room. There were no locks on the doors at the Empreza de la Plata.

Octavio Suarez was a firm believer in curfews and bed checks. In Estes’ case, it

was more likely that he would break the rules than be in a position to enforce

them. But the goalkeeper coach had undertaken his new position with a serious,

workman-like attitude. He knew that this would be his one chance to grab the

golden ring. Renaldo looked at his watch.

“You are early. I’ve still got fifteen minutes to sleep. Go away and leave

me alone,” he moaned.

“The early bird gets Señor Suarez’s favor. He is already in the dining hall

waiting to see the order and state of alertness that you Nañdus show up in. He

watches everything. Start off on the right foot, my friend. Get down there!” He

yanked the covers off the naked player. “Now!”

Renaldo groaned as the image of the scrawny Nañdu bird flashed through

his mind.

Sure enough, Octavio Suarez sat in a corner of the dining hall, chain

smoking, drinking repeated cups of coffee, and scribbling intermittently in his

binder. No one spoke to him or acknowledged his presence.

Number seventeen was not the first player to make his way to the dining

room. Four other veterans were already half finished with their light meal of

fruit, juice, high fiber breads and cereals, topped off with gallons of piping hot

coffee. The cafeteria-style facility appealingly displayed its bounty for all the

pampered patrons. Coffee, juice, and a slice of toast was all the extra baggage

Renaldo felt like carrying today. He took a table by himself after being ignored

by the older players. The room slowly filled up, with Ramon Vida and defenders

Daniele Bennett and Julio Paredes joining Renaldo at his table.

All were dressed in new light-grey sweat suits that had been distributed

the evening before. These togs would be the standing uniform of the camp. Long

sweatpants and grey sweat tops at all meals, meetings, and training sessions.

Personal clothing could be worn only in the dormitories during leisure hours

and on visitor’s day. Powder-blue and white-striped National Team jerseys and

dark-blue soccer shorts could be worn on the training pitch during actual on-

field play.

235

JAMES McCREATH

Control! Octavio Suarez was in total control here, and every man in the

compound knew it.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Señors Luque, Santos, and I welcome you all

and wish you all the best of luck in your upcoming audition. You have all had

ample opportunity to digest the theory and tactical analysis laid out for you in

your training bibles. Today, we are going to transfer what is written on paper

to poetry on grass. You will see, if you have absorbed the written material,

that theory will become tangible physical movement, and tactics will become

a flowing art form!”

It was evident by the squirming around the room that the professor’s

students were having trouble making sense of his cerebral philosophy. The

puzzling stares made Suarez redefine his lecture strategy.

“In short, we will be using a 4-3-3 formation with two lateral attacking

backs. Let us not worry about who is present here today and who is not. Just

do the job that your position demands, while keeping focused on our system

and the goals of the team. I repeat, the goals of the team, for this is, and always

will be, a team!”

Rules, regulations, schedules, and procedures were reiterated to the

assembled mass. The rest of the morning was spent with the team doctors

on an individual basis. General practitioners, physiotherapists, psychologists,

“everything but proctologists and gynecologists,” one player was overheard

saying.

Those pronounced physically fit were told to report to the playing fields

to commence their individual physical evaluation. This included timed sprints,

timed laps, sit-ups, push-ups, footwork drills, and finally, an obstacle course.

The players were then sent to shower and have a light lunch, followed by two

hours of siesta time. At three o’clock, they were to assemble once more in the

dining hall, which would become a multipurpose classroom, lecture hall,

auditorium, and of course, gastronomic gallery. When everyone was present,

they would be led by their coaches in a ceremonial walk down to the training

fields to commence the first group workout of Argentina’s 1978 World Cup

Soccer Team.

Renaldo had little trouble with any of the sessions. He much preferred the

physical trials to being poked, prodded, and pounded by the medical men. The

psychologist had worried about his youthfulness. Would he miss his mother,