Renaldo (54 page)

A cheer arose from the crowd when the public address announcer

proclaimed that the home side had used its two substitutions. Standing over

the ball at the midfield spot was Ramon Vida, and ten yards to his rear stood

the other half of the R&Rs, Renaldo De Seta.

From the whistle, the Argentines seemed a different team, pressing

forward, always running, shooting at every opportunity. Within minutes, a

beautiful give-and-go between old teammates Castillo and Bennett worked

the magic for which Suarez had hoped. A twenty-five-yard blast from Bennett’s

attacking left foot found the back of the net. Tie score!

Several solid scoring opportunities followed for the men in the powder-

blue and white-striped shirts. Surprisingly, it was often the youngest player on

the pitch spearheading the attack with a precise pass or a dazzling run. The

game winner came off the head of Jorge Calderone, who used his license to

come forward with the play to redirect in a perfect lob from the captain of the

day, Ruben Gitares.

Renaldo was generally pleased with his performance that evening, but

one nagging incident lingered in his mind. It had occurred during a Peruvian

corner kick late in the game. The rookie was back in Argentina’s goal mouth,

marking his opposite number on the Peruvian side. As the ball arched its way

in the air toward the Argentine net, Ignacio Suazo and Juan Chacon leapt to

head it out of harm’s way. Suazo was able to make contact and clear, but as

‘Killer’ Chacon returned to earth, his well-placed elbow collided with the side

of Renaldo’s head, sending the boy sprawling.

“Stay on your feet, pansy. You’re no good to anyone down there.” Renaldo

looked up at the apparition that had felled him, rolled over, and headed upfield

with the play without saying a word.

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RENALDO

“And don’t get too comfortable in that position, sweetheart. It belongs to

my brother-in-law!” were the words that followed him.

It seemed that in the future, Renaldo would have to face both the

opposition and ‘Killer’ Chacon to earn his place in the starting eleven.

The twenty-third of March found the entire National Team high in

the Andes Mountains, inside Nacional Stadium in Lima Peru. With eighty

thousand rabid supporters cheering them on, the Peruvians were expected to

make up for their lackluster showing in Buenos Aires. Drawn into group four

with Holland, Scotland, and Iran, this aging, but experienced team had its

work cut out for it to advance to the second round of the championships. At the

moment, however, they were using these warm-up games to try to blend some

inexperienced, but fresh legs with those of the slower veterans. It did not come

together well on this day in Lima.

Again starting his original A eleven, Suarez’s men took a quick two-goal

lead that they then defended for the rest of the half with great authority. It was,

by far, the best forty-five minutes the A’s had played to date. Miguel Cruz and

Ruben Gitares were the marksmen, and it was Cruz’s strong showing that kept

Renaldo on the bench for the entire match. Ramon Vida replaced Enrique Rios

in the second half and scored a beautiful goal on a setup from Cruz late in the

game. A decisive 3-1 victory for the Argentines made the return trip to Buenos

Aires a high-spirited event for most of the team. One exception was Renaldo

De Seta.

“Come on, man, you’ll show them your stuff next week against the

Bulgarians. Don’t sweat it,” chirped an elated Ramon Vida as he tried to bring

his friend out of a depressed state.

“How can I show them anything, Ramon, if I don’t even get on the field?

The way Cruz played today, my chances don’t look good to see any action next

week, or ever.”

“Oh, man, you sound like a sick old lady. Stop that feeling-sorry-for-

yourself shit. Come on, I feel like singing. Get your guitar down from up above

and the R&Rs will rock and roll, baby!”

Renaldo obliged, and soon the whole entourage, including the coaching

staff, was joining in the course of Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You, Baby.”

Ramon was right, of course, there was no sense worrying about someone else’s

performance. Renaldo could not control how well Cruz played. He could

only make certain that he was ready to play his best whenever given the

opportunity.

To the surprise of the entire team as well as the seventy thousand faithful

that filled River Plate Stadium on the afternoon of March twenty-ninth, it was

the eleven B squad players that took the field against the visiting Bulgarians.

The Europeans had failed to advance to the World Championships, but Octavio

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JAMES McCREATH

Suarez wanted to give his team a good dose of how football was played on the

continent, especially as they faced three European teams in their own World

Cup group. The Bulgarians fit the bill in that they played a style similar to the

French and Hungarians. It was hoped that they would not treat their sojourn

to South America as a tourist trip, but rather as a serious football excursion and

play with attitude and intensity.

Whatever the case, whether it was too much local talent or too much

disinterest on the part of the guest team, the home side ran roughshod over

their iron curtain adversaries. The rhythm was there for all to see, beautiful,

melodic, electrifying. Ramon Vida set a tenacious tempo, being everywhere

the ball was in tallying two goals and an assist in a 3-1 Argentina victory. The

crowd chanted “Vida, Vida, Vida,” from the heights, and it looked like the

nation had itself a new football hero.

Defender Julio Paredes had the other home side marker, set up nicely

by Renaldo on a give-and-go. The rookie’s critique of his game fell into the

so-so category. No goals, one assist, and a scraped shin, courtesy of ‘Killer’

Chacon, who had been substituted in at the start of the second half. The Ugly

One had unnerved him somewhat, and the Bulgarian goal came off a corner

kick that Renaldo’s mark volleyed into the net. The young center half had

been tripped as the ball was in the air, leaving his man uncovered and able to

convert. The boy could have sworn that the leg that sent him to the turf had a

white stocking with light blue rings on it. A ‘friendly’ leg, perhaps belonging

to Juan Chacon?

On the positive side, the Europeans were very loose in their marking,

enabling the rookie to control his team’s offensive flow. The crowd loved it, and

the young player’s performance earned him considerably higher esteem in the

eyes of his manager than in his own self-estimation. The success of the B squad

would certainly make the training sessions more competitive, which is exactly

what Octavio Suarez had hoped.

One week later, another communist block country arrived in the capital

to test the locals. Romania, like its predecessor Bulgaria, had not qualified for

the big event, but their style of play mimicked that of the Italians. That is,

severe defending, with a packed defense in a 1-3-4-2 lineup. Three backs, with

one deep central defender playing the sweeper or catenaccio. This ‘get the ball

upfield at any cost’ role was carried out behind four halves, who were mostly

interested in defending, and only two men up front on the attack.

For the first time, a mixture of A and B players took the field. Ramon Vida

started at center forward, Miguel Cruz at center half. The host nation came out

of the gate lethargically. Some pretty soccer here and there, but no finishing

skills and not much intensity or drama. Tied at nil after the first forty-five, the

two substitutions that Suarez made were certain to cause some resentment in

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RENALDO

the locker room after the game. Little-used Luis Anariba, the recovering but

still tentative twin, replaced Juan Chacon at central defender. That was not so

bad in itself, for ‘Killer’ was guaranteed a spot in the final lineup and Anariba

was on his way out the door. It was the second substitution that would inflict

the discomfort. Cruz out, De Seta in.

The Independiente clique would be very vocal in their disapproval of the

withdrawal of Cruz, who, they felt, was not being given enough playing time

after his stellar match in Lima.

For forty-five minutes, though, Renaldo was free to concentrate on his

skills without looking over his shoulder for the ugliest man on earth. He knew

that he would have to deal with the consequences later, but for now, football

was all that mattered.

The massed defense of the Romanians that had once seemed impenetrable

surprisingly started to crack within a few minutes of the second half whistle.

Ruben Gitares and Ramon Vida cut swaths through the loosened marking,

time and time again, finding space to make their magic. Only an acrobatic

keeper in the visitors’ goal kept the score knotted.

It was B striker Caesar Castro, playing on his home club turf at River

Plate, that put the first one away after a scramble in front of the Bulgarian cage.

The second home side goal was sure to have repercussions.

Substitute Anariba, who had not been severely tested by the offensively

impotent Romanians, managed a swift clearing pass to Renaldo, who, in

turn, headed upfield with his gift. Looking for a teammate to feed the ball

to, he noticed that the center of the field seemed to open up and part like the

Dead Sea. Vida and Gitares were taking their markers to the outside, and the

Argentine center half had an unobstructed run up the middle, until he was

three yards inside the penalty area.

At that point, the now overzealous defenders descended upon the young

one and sent him unceremoniously crashing to the ground. The Columbian

referee pointed to the penalty spot immediately. Ramon Vida was at his prone

teammate’s side at once.

“You OK, man? Check to make sure your dick is still there. That’s all that

matters!” His friend’s offhand and unexpected comment made Renaldo laugh,

even as he rubbed his aching hamstring muscle.

“Take the shot, man. It will look good on your résumé if you make it,”

Vida asserted.

“How will it look if I screw up, Ramon?” the center half replied while

being lifted upright by his vocal partner.

“You will look like the pansy that Chacon says you are, my friend. Just

imagine smashing the ball into his ugly mug. That’s good for a guaranteed

goal!”

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JAMES McCREATH

Sure enough, as Renaldo stood at the spot eyeing an extremely nervous

keeper, he visualized the hideous visage of his antagonist in the upper left

corner of the net. The rest was easy. A swing of his powerful right leg, then

swoosh. Goal! A perfect canon of a shot, upper left corner.

He turned and trotted toward the centerline without any show of emotion.

An enthusiastic Ramon Vida joined him.

“Man, you must have really seen his face up there the way you let that one

go. Ugly cocksucker! I wish it really was right there, right where you put that

ball! Watch yourself, my friend. That Independiente scum will be pissed off.”

“Maybe it would have been better for you to take the damn penalty. You

could have imagined some pussy in the top corner. Guaranteed goal, right?”

Both men chuckled as they resumed their positions.

A 2-0 victory lifted the national spirit throughout the length and breadth

of Argentina. Its team was undefeated in their last five international matches,

and talk of a world championship was quietly circulating in the cafés and bars

around the country.

The players had two weeks to rest and recharge their batteries before

facing their next opponent, Eire, or as some preferred, the Republic of Ireland.

River Plate Stadium and the host side would prove daunting obstacles to the

men of the Republic. They would need more than shamrocks and shelaighlees

on this day in South America.

On the home front there was optimism at all levels, with the possible

exception of the Independiente players currently with the National Team. This

group of men had only one task, one goal to achieve. They set about making

life as difficult as possible for the young center halfback that had been critically

acclaimed in the press after his last two outings. Chacon’s crew wanted the

rookie gone, and the prospect of the ‘pretty boy’ throwing in the towel and

leaving camp spurred them on their miserable way.

Two weeks in hell would be an apt description of Renaldo’s life, following

the Romanian fixture. Both on and off the training field, Chacon and his

buddies were relentless in their baiting and badgering of the team’s youngest

player. Rough treatment on the pitch and psychological warfare off it seemed

to be the order of the day. Ramon Vida pleaded with his friend to take his case

to manager Suarez, “to have those poisonous thorns removed from your feet!”