Renaldo (72 page)

beaten to the ball by a fleet red-shirt, or being reprimanded by the referee for

an obstruction or a foul. Not one of the three Argentine forwards had touched

the ball in the entire first half of play, a happenstance that Octavio Suarez

had never encountered before. There was no flow, no rhythm, no attack. The

manager was permitted only two substitutions, and he knew that the outcome

of the game and perhaps his team’s fate in the entire tournament rested on how

wisely those selections were made.

It was clear that Independiente halfback Ricardo Arzu was out of his

element on this night, and in his place, Suarez called upon defensive specialist

Humberto Velasquez to stem the Hungarian offensive tide. His options were

much more limited for the second substitution. How could he take out a

forward when none of them had been tested yet? The back line was holding

up well under severe pressure, so the only alternative was to add another new

halfback.

Miguel Cruz had to stay in the game, for he was their leading goal scorer

and a potential catalyst to ignite the offense. ‘Señor Gol’ had to produce in the

second half, there was no doubt about that. The other wing half spot, currently

occupied by Francis Argueta, had to be the second change. But who would go

in to replace him? A look around the somber dressing room stopped at the

player wearing number seventeen on his tracksuit.

That could be it! Brilliant, brilliant!
thought Suarez as he called the

player to his side. “If only that foot holds up, this might be our spark,” Suarez

commented under his breath.

“De Seta! Get over here!”

The occupant of seats 1 & 2, row 8, field level section 365, raised the

field glasses he was holding to his eyes. It was fortunate that he had been

able to persuade the army captain in charge of security in this section of the

stadium that the metal armrest between his two seats should be removed in

the interest of national security. He was, after all, a high-ranking colonel in the

army reserves, with direct links to the president and the junta.

He had insisted the previous day that the armrest be removed, indicating

that he would take full responsibility. The young captain had no recourse other

than to oblige the colonel’s request. Looking at the resplendently dressed tub of

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lard in all his finest military regalia conjured up images of his enormous girth

blocking the escape route in an emergency. It also occurred to the captain that

he would have to deal with this windbag for the entire tournament. It might be

best to take heed of him in order to make the experience bearable.

That discussion had taken place on the afternoon of June first, just over

twenty-four hours earlier. When the boisterous colonel and his entourage

arrived to take their seats for the opening ceremonies and initial match of the

1978 World Cup, it was found that his militarily clad bulk would not fit into

the newly renovated seats.

The colonel claimed that this was an outrage, that these same seats had

been in his family for many years, and that there had been nothing wrong with

the continual bench-style seat that had always been there. He had personally

sat in seat numbers 1 and 2, right on the aisle, since the days of his youth.

From here, he had been able to lead the cheers for the entire section and wave

his huge blue and white flag with the Newton’s Prefect insignia in place of the

usual shining sun. A quickly located crowbar bent the armrest sufficiently to

allow the colonel to half squat in his usual surroundings. But the oversized

military man and his party left in a huff just before halftime when the dull,

erratic game between West Germany and Poland made sitting in the cramped

confines unbearable. A final word was had with the captain before departing,

reminding him how serious the order to remove the arm rest was.

“If there happened to be a national crisis, I would be needed immediately

at the Presidential Palace. Should I be delayed in the slightest by any

‘inconvenience’ at the stadium, it would be your head that would roll.”

Yes, Astor Gordero was gratified that the captain had played the game

properly. Other than the seat incident, he had thoroughly enjoyed the pomp

and circumstance of the opening ceremonies. Massed military bands, dancers,

balloons, and finally, doves for peace.

Cute, very cute,
he had thought to himself. But all of it, even the seat

incident, was insignificant today. Nothing that had happened prior to this day

mattered now! It was the day of Argentina’s first World Cup match. It was this

team that mattered, all that mattered!

Two questions whirled in The Fat Man’s mind as he scanned the Argentine

players to pick out the substitutes as the teams returned to the pitch for the

second half. Had he prepared young De Seta well enough for this moment, and

had he planted the boy’s name firmly enough in Octavio Suarez’s mind?

Renaldo De Seta’s recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, although

his young client had only been back training with the team for six days and

kicking a soccer ball for just three of those. Nevertheless, Astor Gordero was

willing to take the lion’s share of the credit for his protégé’s unexpectedly quick

return to the national side. After all, was it not he who had personally arranged

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for the top therapist in the nation to visit the boy on a daily basis? And was it

not he, Astor Gordero, who kept the boy’s emotional spirits high by delivering

those silly love letters from Simone at precisely the right moment?

The urgency surrounding the boy’s recovery increased dramatically

when it became crystal clear that Nicodemo Garcia would never again wear

an Argentine jersey. There would be an opening to fill in the starting lineup,

and Renaldo De Seta was no good to anyone sitting on the bench. Forget the

fact that it was highly unlikely one month ago that he would even be walking

by this time. The Garcia incident must be exploited, and this colonel-lawyer-

promoter knew just how to go about it.

Astor Gordero simply gave counsel to Octavio Suarez at every possible

opportunity, apprising the manager of his young star’s progress and helping to

devise strategy and tactics. Suarez suffered The Fat Man’s interference calmly,

for if he had to share his thoughts with anyone in authority, Astor Gordero

was the best choice. At least he knew something about football and the psyche

of the Argentine people. It was also true that should things fall apart for the

National Team, a friend of Astor Gordero’s stature would be invaluable.

For once, Gordero was speechless when his binoculars picked up the

handsome, curly-haired player who was removing his warm-up suit emblazoned

with the number seventeen. ‘El Hombre Gordo’s’ heart was in his throat.

Suarez is putting the boy in! Lady Luck is certainly sitting with me on this day,

the rotund one thought to himself. He had come to the stadium for this game

dressed, not in his military splendor, but in his favorite Prefect supporter,s garb

. . . an oversized black leather jacket crested with the Prefect’s logo, baggy blue

jeans, and black, silver-tipped cowboy boots. A large powder-blue and white

flag and a matching scarf completed the ensemble.

This prominent football fan was indistinguishable from scores of others

on this night of nights, and that is exactly how Astor Gordero wanted it. His

entourage this evening consisted of Wolfgang Stoltz and a handful of business

and military associates similarly dressed down for the occasion. Argentina’s

pride and honor were about to be tested on the green grass of River Plate

Stadium, and this battle called for real men to wear the attire of real football

fans.

Once The Fat Man comprehended that his client had actually been

substituted into the game, he was speechless. The only sound that he was able

to mutter was a trilled ‘R’ that preceded the rest of the word ‘Renaldo.’ Herr

Stoltz looked at his employer.

“What was that sound you just made, Astor? It sounded like

‘RRRRRRRenaldo.’”

“Look, Wolfie. The boy is going into the game!” Gordero pointed a beefy

hand in the direction of the Argentine bench. “He is truly going to play!

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JAMES McCREATH

In my wildest dreams I didn’t think it was possible tonight. RRRRRRRe-

naaaaaaaalllldo. That’s it! That’s what I said! RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo.

Come on, Wolfie, do it with me. Maybe it will inspire the boy.”

Herr Stoltz looked a touch bewildered, but nevertheless joined his boss in

a long, ‘trilled R’ version of number seventeen’s name. The sound was inspiring.

The Latin penchant for trilling their R’s made the first letter of the boy’s

name escape the throat as an increasingly load roar. Standing in the aisle now,

Gordero pointed to the young substitute’s name on the scoreboard and goaded

the surrounding spectators into accompanying him in the newly anointed

salutation. As the expression picked up more and more support, it began to

take on a haunting, pleading nature.

“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

Many of the faithful knew not what they were chanting or why, for

Renaldo De Seta was, by no means, a household name in Argentina. Since his

injury, he had been kept totally out of the spotlight by Astor Gordero, and the

press continued to report the initial assessment of his injury. namely, that it was

impossible for the boy to recover in time to rejoin the National Team. But here,

against all odds, stood Renaldo De Seta on the pitch at River Plate Stadium,

about to play the most important forty-five minutes of football in his lifetime.

Gordero thought of the strange Indian salve that the boy was constantly

applying to his damaged heel. Tito had found nothing disagreeable in the

mixture of plants, powders, and oil, so Gordero had allowed Renaldo to continue

with the unusual remedy. Tito had come to Gordero’s office after the first week

that the holistic medicine had been used.

“The tendon has shown remarkable improvement, Señor Gordero. I have

never in all my years seen anything like it. He claims that the salve was used

by native warriors in the Pampas to soothe their bare and battle-scarred feet. If

I were you, Señor, I would have the mixture analyzed and patented, for I have

no other explanation for the progress that I have seen in these seven days. It is

truly astonishing, Señor.”

Never one to miss a potential marketing opportunity, Gordero had Tito

bring him one of the used lamb skin bandages that was, in turn, sent to a

chemical laboratory for analysis. Still extremely skeptical, Astor Gordero could

only thank his lucky stars that something had enabled his client to be standing

on this football field, instead of watching the game at home on the couch at

Casa San Marco.

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RENALDO

The foot felt adequately sound as Renaldo did short sprints and hops to

limber up before the referee pointed to Enrique Rios and blew his whistle to

commence the second half. He knew that the heel had never been tested in real

action, but with any luck, the obscurity of the last month and his lack of previous

international experience could prove to be a blessing in disguise. Surely the

Hungarians new nothing about him. He had displayed only fleeting glimpses

of his real talent in the few warm-up games in which he had participated, and

hardly anyone had seen the magic that he and Ramon Vida could create when

they were paired together.

Behind him, the fans were shouting “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!”

in a quick staccato clip, but from the opposite side of the stadium came a

strange rumbling noise. The substitute could not make out exactly what was

being said, so he quickly tried to turn his attention back to the tender limb.

The setting was awe-inspiring, but at the same time, somewhat distracting

to the boy. Powder-blue and white banners and flags ringed the entire stadium.

Ticker tape and confetti littered the warning track and often blew onto the

pitch. One could feel that something dramatic was going to happen. It was in

the air!

He remembered his dear father. How proud he would be of his son, if only

he had lived to see this day. He wanted to play well for him, for the memory

of Peter De Seta. He also remembered that day several months ago when he

first met Octavio Suarez and stood on this same green carpet. That morning

he had looked up to the Football Gods in the furthest reaches of the upper

deck. Tonight they were still there, but they appeared in the form of fanatical,

flag-waving human beings. He hoped that those Gods would be with him

tonight.

The one major tactical adjustment for Renaldo was the fact that he was on