Renaldo (55 page)

Renaldo would have none of it.

“Everyone is just trying to make this team and they don’t care how they

go about it,” he had responded to Vida. “I won’t go bellyaching to Suarez like

some mama’s boy. That’s already what they think I am. I can handle it. What I

do on the field will state my case! All that other shit, well, don’t worry. I won’t

give them the satisfaction of breaking me.”

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All that other shit included the ransacking of his room on several occasions,

for there were no locks on the doors at Suarez’s behest. Renaldo’s equipment was

tampered with, causing him to report late to the training pitch more than once,

but the most serious offence concerned the cleats of his soccer boots, which

just happened to have an unauthorized adjustment. The resultant bleeding and

blistered feet were not a pretty sight. The verbal abuse was constant, with most

of it coming from Chacon and Cruz. Renaldo would just turn the other cheek

and walk away.

The Independiente players also presented him with several on-field

trophies for his troubles. A blackened right eye, delivered personally by Señor

Chacon, a lovely gouged shin, with love from Miguel Cruz, and an assortment

of bumps and bruises from the supporting cast. The cooler Renaldo remained,

the more livid Ramon Vida became.

“We have to do something about those assholes, man! They are driving

me crazy, and it’s you that they are attacking,” Ramon implored as he once

again, lifted his teammate upright after another rough encounter.

“Don’t get involved, amigo. They are not out to steal your position on the

team,” a winded, aching Renaldo advised. “They only want to make sure that

Cruz gets his! They won’t break me, Ramon. You can count on that!”

Estes Santos finally visited Renaldo’s room one night to talk about the

Independiente problem. The situation hadn’t gone unnoticed by the coaching

staff, but so far, Octavio Suarez had not intervened.

“Are you alright, my captain? They’ve been riding you fairly hard, I

understand. Can I do anything to get them off your back? Suarez is impressed

with you, in case you didn’t know. Every position is still wide open as far as he’s

concerned. The boss has been testing you with this, to see how far you’ll let

them push you. Some say you will pack your bags and go home to your mother.

But I don’t think so! And more importantly, neither does Suarez!”

“Estes, thank you, but I’m not going anywhere! Unless I’m released from

the team, that is. In that case, I won’t have to worry about the rotten apples in

the barrel, will I?”

“Renaldo, you’re not going to be cut from this team, so you’ll have to deal

with this situation right now. It won’t go away until you do. In order to earn

the starting center half position, you’ll just have to tough it out in Suarez’s eyes.

We both know that is your goal, isn’t it? The starting position, not riding the

bench.” Their eyes met at that moment. Old friends, teacher-student, a special

relationship. Santos smiled warmly, then continued.

“But these guys are pussy cats compared to butting heads with the Italians

or Brazilians. Rough treatment isn’t all that bad a thing for you to get used to

on the training pitch. It’s all the off-field shit that I want stopped. You’ll let me

know if the heat gets too intense, won’t you?”

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“Again, thank you, Estes. I’m OK, really! There are some good players on

this team. It should do pretty well. There are some nice guys, too. New friends,

friends like I’ve never had before. Interesting people, all of them.” Renaldo

smiled back reassuringly at the older man. “I have to get through this myself,

Estes. I knew when I came to camp that this would be the toughest thing I

had ever done in my eighteen years, and it is! But it is also the most exciting

thing that I have ever done. To stand at center field in River Plate Stadium and

start the second half representing my country against the Peruvians was an

indescribable feeling. Goose bumps. Every young Argentine’s dream. When

I was little, playing in our garden at the casa, I was always playing for the

National Team in my mind. The dream became reality, Estes, and I want to

keep that reality alive. So don’t worry about me. Besides, Ramon Vida says he’s

going to ‘fucking kill the ugly cocksuckers’ if they lay a hand on me again. I

bet that tough bastard would, too. He grew up on the streets of Boca as a gang

leader. He’s told me some stories . . . Anyway, how are things going with you?”

Renaldo thought it time to deflect the conversation somewhat.

“It’s a bitch, to tell you the truth! After all this time, five international

games, Calix and Martinez have allowed the same number of goals with exactly

the same amount of playing time. Calix should be the starter, but his feet have

turned to cement a few times and his clearing has been erratic. Martinez is

cockier. I think he wants it more. I like his style better, too. More vocal, a real

field general. Calix never says boo unless someone is breathing down his neck.

At this point, I don’t know, it’s a coin toss.”

They said their good-byes with the coach promising to keep an eye out for

his former captain, but the matter was never discussed again.

Lady Luck was not with Octavio Suarez in the days leading up to the

fixture with Eire. One of the first permanent changes to the A squad roster was

to be the inclusion of ex-patriot Americo Galvani at wing half, replacing the

defensive-minded, often lead-footed, Humberto Velasquez. The fleet Galvani

had returned to his native Argentina from St. Etienne of the French league in

enough time to dress for the Irish encounter. On the seventeenth of April, two

days before his first international appearance in two years, Galvani received a

phone call from St. Etienne saying that his wife and two daughters had been

hurt in an automobile accident. A distraught Americo Galvani phoned Octavio

Suarez from the airport minutes before his flight to Paris took off. He bluntly

informed the manager not to figure him into the National Team’s plans. Suarez

was calm and reassuring to the departing husband and father, and insisted that

his spot would be held for him if he could make it back, no matter how long

it took.

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The manager was a realist, though, and he knew that the talented halfback

would not don a National Team jersey in the foreseeable future. It was deflating

news, news that would force him to rethink his midfield strategy.

The word was no better up front. Center forward Nicodemo Garcia

remained mired in a cesspool of politics and intrigue, with Catalonia demanding

outrageous compensation for his release. The Spanish team had booked a

summer tour in the United States to play several of the new North American

Soccer League teams such as the Cosmos. They claimed that Garcia was their

marquee player, and that gate receipts would suffer if he was not a participant

in the tour.

The fact that the tour was a hastily booked ploy was known throughout

the soccer community, and diplomats, presidents, and even royalty were caught

up in the soap opera saga of freeing Nico Garcia from Spain. Octavio Suarez

remained confident to anyone that would listen to him. Garcia would return

and in time to train before the opening of the tournament. The center forward

spot was his to claim. All he had to do was show up.

In the meantime, the battle for Garcia’s backup was leaning toward young

Ramon Vida. Independiente’s Enrique Rios showed flashes of danger, but his

play had so far been mostly uninspired. No one could say that about the one-

man hurricane named Vida. He made things happen, and what was more, he

was a deadly closer.

The crowds that saw Vida play certainly loved him, but the entire nation

awaited the return of Nico Garcia to lead them to the Holy Grail. Privately,

Octavio Suarez had a nagging feeling that he would never lay eyes on the

nation’s most capped player in his dressing room. Only time would tell.

The Eire match was little more than a walk through for the home side.

An easy 3-1 Argentina victory over a weak opponent seemed to make the press

and public restless and grumpy rather than elated over remaining undefeated

in the warm-up games. “The opposition has been of a low caliber in each of the

matches!” the Clarín daily newspaper declared. Some felt the team had yet to

be tested seriously, and that blame fell on the doorstep of the hated Brazilians.

Their cancellation of the Copa Roca matches had robbed the Argentines of the

type of world-class adversary that they needed to play against.

The score should have been -1, taking the clear scoring chances that the

powder-blue and white stripes missed. The need for Nico Garcia’s finishing

skills had never been more evident. Miguel Cruz hit two posts, but also

managed a goal in a confident showing. Ramon Vida scored once after being

substituted in at the half, but he was frustrated with a few missed passes and

some bad line calls. A yellow card for talking back to the referee didn’t improve

his postgame demeanor.

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JAMES McCREATH

“At least you got onto the field, Ramon. It was pretty painful to watch

that effort from the bench,” was Renaldo’s way of lifting his friend’s spirits.

“You should have been in there, man. That Cruz is a jerk. He wouldn’t

pass me the ball if the goalie had given me an engraved invitation to score on

him. Twice I was wide open, waiting with an open goal in front of me, and

what does he do? Shoots the ball himself, the pig! Missed the fucking net

altogether on one of them. No one sets me up like you do, my friend. The boss

should have put you in at the half as well. Sometimes, I wonder if even Suarez

knows what Suarez is doing.”

With only two substitutes allowed per game, Octavio Suarez had to pick

his lineups, and their potential replacements, with great skill and care. Where

would such and such a player make the most impact? Who had shown the

flashes of brilliance in practice that deserved to be displayed against world-class

opponents? Each position had a different factor to weigh, and different men

fighting for a starting role.

Renaldo’s failure to play did not reflect on his talent, Ramon Vida

proclaimed after he had stopped ranting about Miguel Cruz. It was just a numbers

game, and everyone had to wait their turn. The only positive repercussion of

Renaldo’s bench riding was that the hazing from Chacon and Cruz subsided

to a small degree. It did not, however, make up for Cruz’ increasing arrogance

in proclaiming to anyone who would listen that the center half job was his for

certain, sewn up, a lock, no problem, no contest!

Cruz and Ramon Vida came close to fisticuffs on several occasions

following the Irish visit. Renaldo De Seta just waited for his time to come.

Six days and an overnight ferry ride across the Rio de la Plata later, the

rookie found himself, once again, on the bench as his teammates faced off

against the Uruguayan National Team. One hundred thousand people jammed

beautiful Centenario Stadium in Montevideo to get a firsthand look at the

undefeated World Cup host nation’s side. With their own team having failed

to earn a berth in the global tournament, the Montevideans were expecting to

be dazzled by their Latin neighbors. On this day, however, it would be their

own native sons who would steal the show. The men from across the estuary

would be soundly drubbed! If it was a bad day for the Argentine team, it was

a horrendous day for their youngest player.

The Uruguayans took to the attack from the opening whistle, and only the

diving, leaping saves of a surprisingly vocal Junior Calix kept them at bay. The

keeper pleaded with his mates for help, for closer marking, better clearing, more

communication. Another surprise for Octavio Suarez was the lionhearted play

of the almost deposed halfback Humberto Velasquez. He patrolled his wing,

albeit almost totally in the defensive half of the field, like a man possessed. No

foe would beat him one-on-one. He forced six throw-ins single-handedly. His

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upfield clearing passes always found their mark, and he twice headed the ball

to safety on dangerous corner kicks. Suarez rated him the only player on the

field to be worthy of the National Team jersey at the postgame press conference.

After that, it was all bad news.

The training roster of Argentina’s National Team had remained remarkably

free of debilitating injuries up to their arrival in Montevideo. The usual aches,

sprains, muscle pulls, and bruises were always in existence, but not one player

had been forced to sit out an international game due to injury. That would

change in the first minute after the South American neighbors commenced

play.

Argentina kicked off with Miguel Cruz taking a lateral pass from center