Renaldo (84 page)

chickenshit is hurting a whole lot, thanks to me. Last half, I defend, this half,

I score! You owe it to me. I must stay in!”

“De Seta starts! Let’s get out there and play some offensive football this

half,” was Suarez’ only reply.

“You little brownnosing cocksucker!” screamed Cruz at his replacement

sitting on the other side of the room. “What did you do, pay him off to let you

on the field? Well, I’m going to make sure that you don’t look so good if you

make it out of this room at all!”

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RENALDO

In an instant, Cruz was on top of Renaldo De Seta, fists flailing and a

stream of expletives spewing from his mouth. Estes Santos was the first on the

scene, managing to pull the Independiente player upright and back a few paces

from his startled adversary.

Just as Cruz opened his mouth to commence another verbal tirade, a

closed fist came crashing out of nowhere, landing squarely on the restrained

player’s lips. The sickening sound that occurs when hard knuckles meet soft

flesh reverberated throughout the suddenly silent confines.

The look of shock lasted only a second on Cruz’s face before his eyeballs

curled upward into their sockets and he collapsed backward, blood now running

freely through the gaping hole where several of his teeth used to be.

“You should learn to keep your mouth shut when the manager tells you

something, my friend. It is all for the good of the team, for the good of the

nation. We want to win the World Cup, and we must listen to our manager.

Maybe this little lesson will assist you in the future!”

There was no hint of anger in Ramon Vida’s voice as he delivered his

soliloquy to the fallen, unconscious Miguel Cruz. His tone was one of a soothing

parent or teacher. Everyone in the dressing room was startled by the ferocity of

the blow, and many could still hear its terrible sound inside their heads. It was

up to the manager to refocus their thoughts.

“Alright, forget about this shit. We are here for one reason only. To play

and win this football match! There is no room for personal rivalry. When this

tournament is over, I don’t care if you go out and shoot each other. But for the

next week, I own your asses. If you want to be world champions, don’t any of

you ever forget that! Argu, Arguetta, stay here and clean your friend up. If

he needs an ambulance, call the medics. Chacon, do you have anything to say

about this?”

The Ugly One stood silently looking down at his fallen brother-in-law,

shaking his head in disbelief.

“Good, now let’s go show these half-breeds how the sport is played!”

Renaldo De Seta was about to become intimately acquainted with the

current giants of Brazilian football, men he had read about in his adolescence.

Legends backed by the incessant Samba beat. Those drums and whistles! What

an amazing sound they made. And that beat! That beat always touched the

roots of his musical soul, and he knew that it really did have a lot to do with

the artistic beauty of the Brazilian game. He loved their music, their rhythm.

But not now, not for the next forty-five minutes.

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JAMES McCREATH

Suarez’s fears for the rookie’s health were realized within minutes. Number

seventeen was sent to the turf seconds after his first touch of the ball. Never a

pandering showboat when fouled, Renaldo tried to right himself instantly, but

fell to the ground clutching his damaged heel. The offending Brazilian was

nowhere to be seen.

But Juan Chacon was at the boy’s side, for the foul had occurred deep

inside Argentine territory. He said nothing, just looked at Renaldo with disgust,

then took the free kick awarded for the misdemeanor. As the play progressed

upfield into the Brazilian zone, the fallen warrior struggled to stand erect. He

failed to see the retreating enemy forward that just happened to collide with

his tender limb.

Down went the player a second time, his cry of pain piercing the night

air. Again Juan Chacon was at Renaldo’s side, only on this occasion, he was

in Brazilian forward Aleixo Cabral’s face. ‘Killer’ was all over his smaller

opponent, pushing Cabral back several yards with his massive chest while

verbally lambasting the yellow-shirt.

A linesman alerted the referee to the events behind the play, and the senior

official hastily called time and ran to separate the two antagonists. Chacon was

smart enough not to exercise his distaste for the foreigner under the watchful

eye of Mr. Kukla.

A hideous smile and an unfriendly shove were accompanied by the words,

“We will meet again, you yellow bastard!” as the two were separated. No foul

was awarded during the stoppage, for the referee had not seen the incident take

place. A trainer was now at Renaldo’s side.

“How bad is it, son?”

“Ooohh, it’s damn sore. Thank God his aim was off a bit. He got my

ankle not my heel, but he gave me a good whack. I . . . I think the heel is

alright, though. Here, take my hand, help me up.”

“Stay there for a second and I’ll give your foot a shot of aerosol freezing.

Hold still now, that’s a good boy.”

A freezing cloud of relief dissipated on the halfback’s heel and ankle.

The pain retreated instantly, if only for a short time. The trainer checked

the appendage in question for major damage and agreed with the player’s

assessment. His entire foot would be a black-and-blue mess in the morning,

but for the present, Renaldo appeared fit to carry on.

‘Carrying on’ was certainly easier said than done. Every time he put

pressure on his battered limb, the pain sent shockwaves to his brain. The

substitute center half was reduced to hobbling about the midfield like some

lost soul.

Octavio Suarez screamed at the boy from the sidelines to “work it out,”

and to “limber up.” The fact of the matter was that his player could hardly

stand up!

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RENALDO

As play continued, a strange phenomenon unfolded all around number

seventeen in powder-blue and white as he tried to patrol his sector of the pitch.

The Argentine players seemed to treat Renaldo’s designated part of the field

with as much respect as their own goal area. They consciously kept the ball as

far away from the boy’s territory as possible. The home side now took to the

attack, rejuvenated by the bad taste left in their mouths as a result of their

comrade’s pain.

Brazilian goalkeeper Oliveira had to be at peak form to keep his hosts

from taking the lead. For a fifteen-minute span, the ball never crossed into

Argentine territory, and their injured center half was allowed to play back in a

static defensive role while he ‘worked out’ his injury and stood ready to blunt

a counterattack.

Alas, there was to be no poetry on this day. The beat of the Samba and

the staccato cheers of “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!” were drowned out

by a loud chorus of ugly, ill-tempered, retaliatory football. By the thirty-

minute mark of the second half, the last true scoring chance by either side

had been taken. The remaining fifteen minutes were reduced to anticlimactic

hostilities.

‘Killer’ Chacon did manage to keep his promise and renew his friendship

with Aleixo Cabral, however. The Brazilian departed the field with a souvenir

black eye courtesy of his new amigo’s infamous right elbow.

Both teams were battered and bloodied after ninety minutes, but under

tournament rules, the goalless draw would stand in the record books. One

point was awarded each team, and with one group game remaining for both

countries, the future was anything but clear.

There were only three days to heal and regroup before Peru would take

this same field against his warriors, and manager Octavio Suarez knew that

he had his work cut out for him. It was highly possible that goal ratios would

determine the eventual winner of their group, and at this point in time,

Argentina trailed the Brazilians by a one-goal differential. Offense would be

the key against Peru. Total offense, or there would be no tomorrow.

Renaldo De Seta wondered if he was the only one in the dressing roomed

that sensed the difference in this team after the ninety minutes of bedlam.

He had felt it first ascending the stairs to the pitch just after the locker room

incident with Cruz. Chacon had held his tongue and his temper. His cocky,

loudmouth brother-in-law had been put in his place, but more important than

that, the words of manager Suarez seared his mind like a branding iron.

We are here for one reason only. To win this football match!
That is what it all

came down to . . . winning!

Nothing that happened off the field mattered once you set foot on that

green carpet. Old club rivalries, personal disputes, even outright hatred had to

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JAMES McCREATH

be set aside. And tonight, for the final forty-five minutes of play, they had been.

Renaldo De Seta knew that he had just witnessed the formation of a cohesive,

unselfish football team.

It was a collection of small things that manifested themselves in their

new attitude. The willingness to help each other, to stand up for each other,

to protect each other. He had thought that Juan Chacon would have shaken

Cabral’s hand for laying the ‘schoolboy’ out. No one was more surprised in the

entire stadium at the wrath The Ugly One showered on the Brazilian than

Renaldo De Seta. No words were spoken between the disfigured defender and

the injured midfielder during the entire second half, but the younger man

sensed a new form of grudging acceptance from his caustic teammate, perhaps

as a result of Suarez’s words.

How they had helped each other during that last forty-five minutes!

Renaldo had been virtually useless the entire half, unable to hit anywhere

near full stride. Time and time again, his midfield mates pinched into his area

to help out. Likewise, the defenders were constantly coming forward to lend

advanced reinforcements.

While the match was no oil painting, it was a moral success for team

unity and spirit, at least from Renaldo De Seta’s perspective. A warm glow

swept over number seventeen as he sat sipping a coke with his bruised foot in

an ice bath. He knew that things would be different when they took the field

against Peru. He was ready, his teammates were ready, the country was ready.

Victory is at hand! Viva Argentina!

Esquela Perez had been the kitchen maid at Buenos Requerdos for just

over two years. At nineteen, she had grown to be an attractive, even sensuous

woman. Too sensuous for Nana Taseo, the long-time head housekeeper at the

estancia. The gauchos and hired hands were always seeking her favors, hanging

around the servants’ entrance to the main casa in hopes of sharing a bottle of

tequila after work.

The widow Taseo didn’t trust anyone with such a low moral commitment

and warned the girl of dire consequences should she slip up and find herself in

the family way.

“Señora Lydia will not stand for anyone on her staff bearing a child out of