Renaldo (56 page)

forward Enrique Rios. Ramon Vida sat with his musical partner on the bench.

Cruz was set upon at once by two aggressive Uruguayan forwards, but he

managed to slide the ball through to Carlos Castillo on the left wing. There

was no one within twenty yards of the halfback from Talleres Córdoba, and the

whole left side of the pitch was clear of opponents all the way to the penalty

area. Castillo’s peripheral vision caught Daniele Bennett streaking up the field

from his back position, and things looked perfectly set for the old give-and-go.

The pass to Bennett was perfect, but as Castillo planted his kicking foot to

turn upfield and join in the attack, a sickening crack that was loud enough for

the approaching Uruguayans to hear echoed from the Argentine’s ankle. The

visiting player fell to the turf instantly, shrieking in agony. The Chilean referee

had heard the joint snap as well, and wasted no time in summoning the doctor

and stretcher bearers onto the pitch.

Octavio Suarez agonized on the bench. Another halfback! First Galvani

goes, and now this. Castillo had been a huge part of this team. A steadying

influence who had played the most inspired football of his career. He was truly

irreplaceable!

The job of substituting for the thirty-year-old Castillo went to twenty-two-

year-old Leopoldo Anariba. Suarez was giving up eight years of international

experience, but he had no other option at this point. Anariba looked like a

fish out of water after only two minutes of play, and the host nation set out to

exploit his inexperience with relentless thrusts up his wing. The substitute was

beaten cleanly and left sprawling on the green grass as his opposite number

potted the first tally after eleven minutes.

Argentina had left its offense back across the river it seemed. Miguel Cruz

was invisible on the field after Castillo went down, and Suarez could tell that

the injury had unnerved his entire team. The visitors were lucky to escape the

first half down only 1-0. With only one substitution available, Suarez inserted

De Seta for Cruz, hoping that the boy could turn the flow of the game around

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JAMES McCREATH

with some of his magical passes. As the team lined up in the passageway to the

field before the second half, Juan Chacon gave Renaldo a piece of advice.

“Hey, baby face. You think you can do something that my brother-in-law

couldn’t? You better have eyes in the back of your head then, because you have

more than the Uruguayans to worry about if you do. Keep your head up, my

beauty!”

The word ‘beauty’ was accompanied by a powerful squeeze of the younger

man’s cheeks and jaw by The Ugly One. Renaldo instinctively batted Chacon’s

fist away from his face with his outer forearm. A toothless, hateful laugh was

the only reaction of the antagonist.

Uruguay kicked off the second half and went right to work where they

left off, straight at Leopoldo Anariba. Calix was called on early and often to

keep the visitors from falling further behind, and the continued play in their

defensive zone brought Renaldo into constant contact with his nemesis.

“What the fuck are you doing out here anyway, De Seta? Shouldn’t you

be back in grade school by now?” was just a sample of the friendly chatter that

Chacon would scream for all to hear during a pause in the action. He never let

up. Every stoppage was greeted with some words of wisdom from the deformed

defender.

The Uruguayan players could not believe what they were hearing at first.

None of them wanted to provoke ‘Killer’ Chacon into one of his savage moods,

but the home side had never imagined that one of Chacon’s own teammates

would be the butt of his stinging slurs. Eventually the comments got so

outrageous that the Uruguayans started to break down laughing whenever

Chacon opened his mouth. The referee warned the Argentine defender that he

would be booked for delaying the game and unsportsmanlike conduct if he did

not button his lip right away. That forced ‘Killer’ to adopt a new tactic.

Renaldo was able to find a small amount of room every so often to take

the ball across the centerline, but once on foreign turf and without Ramon

Vida to work with, it seemed that there was never any support. Where was

center forward Rios? Had he dug a hole to hide in? Gitares was on the bench,

Suarez not wanting to waste his best forward on a day that he had had a

premonition about. It told him things would go poorly across the river, so he

acted accordingly and sat down several A squad players.

Every advance the visitors could muster was stymied and turned aside.

The play remained almost exclusively in the Argentine end. A Uruguayan

free kick from thirty-five yards out at the seventy-first minute brought more

trouble. Juan Chacon dared the young center half to join him in the wall to

block the ball’s path. The rookie took the dare, lining up ten yards from the

ball, arm and arm with the ‘Killer.’

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“So what are you going to protect with your hands, my beauty, your balls

or your face? You wouldn’t want to get la pelota smacked against your pinup

good looks, would you? Here, let me hold your balls with one of my hands so

that you can play hide and go seek.”

Renaldo felt the defenders hand brush against his shorts in a mock attempt

to grab his privates. He twisted his torso to avoid the exploring fingers. At

that instant, the ball struck the player’s shoulder who was locked onto number

seventeen’s right arm. As that player, big Ignacio Suazo, recoiled from the

direct hit, he pulled the smaller rookie off balance before they could unlock

themselves. Renaldo felt totally out of control. Chacon maintained his lock

hold on the left side, and Suazo was falling to earth and taking him along on

the right side.

The twisting tumble was bad enough, but just as the center half hit the

ground, a piercing sting shot through the back of his left heel. Chacon gave

the boy a less than affectionate shove to free himself and headed back to his

defensive position. Suazo pushed Renaldo off his chest and scrambled to his

feet. The rookie tried to right himself and rise, but as soon as he put pressure

on his left foot, the heel exploded once again. Renaldo called out in anguish.

“My heel! Someone . . . you bastard, Chacon! You cleated my Achilles’

heel! I can’t get up. Damn . . . someone, help me up!”

Play had been halted, and for a second time, the stretcher bearers were

forced to do their frightful calling. Ramon Vida had to be physically restrained

by his teammates on the bench. The boy from Boca had sensed trouble the

minute De Seta and Chacon had lined up side-by-side in the wall. But he was

not the only one to witness the foul deed that had transpired after the kick.

Octavio Suarez was, for once, powerless to avoid this disaster. These two

men were teammates for the National Team of Argentina. The manager had

idealistically hoped that they would temporarily put aside their petty differences

and play together for their nation. No such luck. Chacon was indispensable on

the back line, and the boy had real talent, even if it was in a substituting role.

They had to learn to play together, or so Suarez had hoped up until the free

kick. Chacon wanted the younger man gone, banished from the team, and it

looked as if he had achieved his goal.

There were tears in Renaldo’s eyes as he was carried off the pitch to the

stadium infirmary. Ramon Vida was at his side, clutching his friend’s right

hand.

“I’m going to kill that animal. Don’t worry about a thing. If you can’t

play in the World Cup, he sure as hell isn’t going to play either. I promise you,

amigo. I will set things right!”

“Don’t, Ramon, please don’t do anything stupid. You can make this team.

Don’t do anything that would jeopardize your chances of that happening. He’s

not worth it!”

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JAMES McCREATH

“I’ve come up against scum like him before, man, and do you know where

they are now? Six feet under the ground! That asshole doesn’t scare me. He’s

just an ugly bully. I have a thirty-eight magnum that I’m going to introduce

him to. We’ll see how brave he is then. The stupid cocksucker!”

“That’s smart, really smart, Ramon. So instead of being on the field at

River Plate Stadium next month, you will be in a jail cell or worse. Don’t do

this, my friend. It is craziness!”

“People like him don’t deserve to live, man. They make a beautiful sport

as ugly as they are. You forget about him and get your foot back in shape.

I’ll spare his miserable life if you can get back on the field by the start of the

tournament. But if you’re gone for good, I’ll waste the bastard. On the Holy

Virgin’s name, I swear it!”

Eight days later, back across the Rio de la Plata, the final act in Renaldo’s

downward spiral was played out. The medical news had been bad. He had

a partially torn Achilles’ tendon, not ruptured, thank God, but still painful

enough to necessitate crutches. There was no active cure to speed up the healing

process, no surgery, no miracle antibiotic, nothing! Only rest and painkillers.

“Stay off that foot for the next two weeks,” the team orthopedic surgeon

had told him. And so he had. Away from the training facility, his teammates,

and the game he loved. Octavio Suarez had sent him home, home to his mother,

as many had predicted.

“I do this to cleanse your mind, as well as your body. Away from the

afflictions that you have been forced to suffer at the hands of those who would

pretend to wear the National Team jersey with honor and good sportsmanship,”

Suarez had said as the boy slipped out of the compound unseen, on the night

after their return from Montevideo. Coach Luque was to drive him directly to

Casa San Marco. Only Astor Gordero had been apprised of the move. He had

concurred with Suarez’s decision.

“I am not blind, son. I am aware of everything that has gone on here. But

in sport, as in life, it is better to fend for yourself without external interference.

Respect will be your ultimate reward. If you can concentrate all your energies

on the recuperation of that heel without having to play their mind games,

then I think that we will see you back here before the tournament begins. The

physio specialist will see you on a daily basis. Work hard, concentrate. Do not

let yourself get distracted by hatred. I will call you in a week. Good luck.”

With that, he shut the back door of the car and disappeared into the

shadows, for he had his own demons to deal with.

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The 2-0 loss in Uruguay had turned the whole nation on its collective

ear. Not only was their team no longer undefeated, but the naysayers, doubters,

and pessimists were jumping off the euphoric bandwagon at a frantic pace.

No matter that two players were carried off the field on stretchers, both with

possible career-ending injuries. No matter that the home side had played ninety

minutes of flawless football in front of a vocal, supportive crowd.

‘Pretenders’ blared the headline of the Clarín. La Nacion trumpeted

‘Without Garcia, We Are Doomed.’ The bubble had burst, and everyone was

second guessing Octavio Suarez. There were even calls for his ousting by some

of his old, but still influential detractors. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed and

nothing was changed, thanks largely to some vigorous behind-the-scenes

lobbying by Astor Gordero.

It pained Suarez greatly to send his youngest player home. While Renaldo

had remained stoic and never complained to anyone of his treatment at the

hands of the Independiente roughnecks, the manager knew that there was a

much better chance of Renaldo returning to full form if he didn’t have to put

up with any of their bullshit. The game movies were inconclusive in laying the

blame for the center half’s injury at Juan Chacon’s doorstep. All that could be

seen was a man in the defensive wall, Ignacio Suazo, lurching backwards after

the ball had struck his shoulder, and in doing so, twisting the unfortunate