Renaldo (88 page)

the Brazilians. Mallory Russell anxiously scanned the Argentine bench to make

sure he was not injured. She was relieved to see him jogging and flexing on the

sideline. The home side manager must know more than he let on to the news-

hungry press. Managers always had that ability to confound the ‘experts’ with

their player selection. Miss Russell sincerely hoped that the player she really

came to see would make an appearance before the ninety minutes elapsed.

When Renaldo De Seta took to the pitch to start the second half of play,

Mallory was not the only person in Rosario stadium that was elated. The trilled

drone that started in the far corner of the amphitheater soon spread to the decks

and terraces.

“RRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo? Yes, that’s what they are saying! Yes, there it

is again.” The lady English football executive was duly impressed. She turned

to her statistical form book and double-checked the boy’s bio.

“Young!” she barely breathed the word. “So young to have his own

cheer.”

“What was that, love?” Reggie inquired.

“Oh, nothing, sorry.” She must try to be more objective, to watch the

entire field of play, not just that gorgeous specimen of a man wearing the black

numerals ‘one-seven.’

She felt her heart miss a beat when he was fouled in the early minutes.

The bio had referred to an Achilles’ heel injury, and there was no doubt that

the Brazilians were privy to the same information. The boy basically did not

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participate in the majority of play after he went down a second time, but Mallory

kept her binoculars trained on his form, particularly his damaged limb.

She was impressed with two things while the debacle of a game played

itself out. Firstly, how the Argentine players seemed to rally around their stricken

teammate and cover his space. Ramon Vida was a torrent, always coming back

to help. Humberto Velasquez had steadied after his opening jitters and was

now an authoritative force to be reckoned with. Leopoldo Anariba, for his part,

gave up the hand-to-hand combat that had dominated his thinking in the first

half. He now took more time with the ball, steering it away from the center

midfielder. It was a vision of real teamwork!

Secondly, she was impressed with the strength of the injured player’s limb.

As the game progressed, she noticed that Renaldo De Seta seemed more and

more at ease with the pain he must have been experiencing. He was always

testing the foot’s durability, performing quick sprints to work it out when the

ball was safely away. Jumps and leaps for imaginary headers often followed a

stoppage in the action.

At the cessation of hostilities, Mallory Russell kept her optical enhancers

trained on number seventeen as he limped gingerly toward the tunnel steps,

then hopped one-footed down out of sight. Her father was nattering on once

again about the “pathetic state of South American football.” She wasn’t listening

though, for her thoughts were in the future, three days in the future when she

would again occupy these same seats and watch the young man from Buenos

Aires ply his trade.

She gave a silent prayer that the boy’s foot would be full measure by the

time his team faced the Peruvians. It would take a good showing by her favorite

to convince her father that Renaldo De Seta was, in fact, the diamond for whom

they were looking. But then, she knew one thing for certain. No matter what

her father’s opinion, she had to have this handsome warrior for the Canaries . .

. and for herself!

Whiling away the hours under such pressure was something new to

Renaldo De Seta. Locked inside the team’s secretive headquarters in Rosario,

the involuntary confinement reminded him of an extra long detention back at

the Newton Academy. The tension was evident throughout the compound as

the National Team of Argentina gathered around a battery of television sets to

watch their fate unfold that bright June day.

The two early games commenced at 1:45 p.m., while the all-important

Brazil-Poland game kicked off at 3:45 p.m. Argentina would play, once again,

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JAMES McCREATH

at 7:15 in the evening. For fans throughout the country, as well as the players

involved directly, this day was to be a football feast the likes of which Argentina

had never experienced!

Renaldo preferred to stay by himself in the morning and early afternoon.

He took a solitary jog around the practice field at 8:00 a.m., then retired to his

room with a tray of fruit, juice, coffee, and breads.

The foot was adequate, adequate enough for Octavio Suarez to announce

De Seta as his starting center half at the noon-day press conference.

The boy sat on his bed slumped over his guitar in a soulful connection.

Softly strumming his favorite Jobim tunes, he would every once in a while add

off-key lyrics to the melody. His ‘do not disturb’ sign hung on the outer latch,

and for once, the world respected his request for privacy.

Strangely, Renaldo’s thoughts were not of his injury or of football at all,

for that matter. It was Simone’s image to which he played his songs of love. He

tried to recall how she looked, and especially how she felt in his arms when they

were last together, so long ago.

He was desperate to drink in the scent of her, to listen to the sound of her,

and hold her close to him once more. Not a soul knew of his anguish. Not a

soul knew how his heart ached as only a young man’s aches when he first tastes

love. So bittersweet, so tender, so full of lust!

Renaldo was mistaken, however, as to the secrecy of his emotions. He

had forgotten about one extremely obese ‘facilitator,’ who at that very moment

ignored the posted request for privacy and knocked on number seventeen’s

door.

“Renaldo! Renaldo, it’s Astor Gordero. I have something of interest that I

was asked to pass on to you today. Please open the door and give your humble

servant an audience.”

Gordero rapped on the portal with his walking stick again. His client

stood in the doorway before it was necessary to strike a third time.

“My profuse apologies if I am disturbing you from something earth-

shattering, but I did feel that you might want to avail yourself of this as soon

as you possibly could. I have a premonition it may be something containing

‘inspirational stimulus!’”

He pulled a pink envelope from his portfolio and started to hand it to his

client. The Fat One suddenly withdrew the offering and looked at the younger

man.

“First, just a bit of business. How is the foot? You will be starting tonight,

and I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that there have been inquiries as

to your availability after the tournament. Inquiries from countries outside of

South America.” Gordero paused to let the last sentence sink in.

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RENALDO

“Your future, my young friend, is starting to crystallize very nicely. A

strong showing tonight could propel you into the economic stratosphere on the

transfer market. At your age, with so much of life to experience for yourself,

you would be crazy to let the opportunity pass you by.” Again The Fat Man

paused to make sure that his message was being understood.

“I will handle your mother and the education problem. One could consider

what you will be doing as ‘studying abroad.’ The world can be at your doorstep,

Renaldo. Tonight must be your night! Your foot must be strong, and your eye

must be true. Remember, head and feet as one!”

And there it was again. That ham hock fist with those chubby fingers

intertwined! Head and feet as one, head and feet as one!

The player assured his agent that the limb was close to top form, and

affirmed that the obvious importance of the forthcoming fixture had not

escaped him. As for playing abroad, that would mean leaving Argentina, his

family, and Simone. The thought had never crossed his mind until Gordero

mentioned it, and he found the notion unthinkable, even distressing.

The Rotund One pulled a chained pocket watch from the vest of his

Brooks Brothers blue pinstriped suit. He was teasing the boy now, posturing

on about football tactics while he knew that his listener had thoughts of the

pink envelope alone.

It seemed an eternity to Renaldo before the figure large enough to block

out the sun finally exited his room. The ceremonial handing over of the

envelope had been Gordero’s final parting gesture. The lovesick player inhaled

the essence held by the pink folder before delving any deeper. His knees felt

weak with expectation, and his sweaty hands trembled as he clumsily tore open

the back flap. The perfume overwhelmed him, and he collapsed back on his

bed, taking time to breathlessly focus on her written script.

‘Darling Renaldo,

I am so proud of you! I have watched every game, every minute staring at

the television for the slightest glimpse of you. Your performance against Poland

made me weak with excitement and anticipation, anticipation of the moment

we can be together again, alone!

I have been so busy with concerts and promotions and state dinners. It has

left me exhausted. It is only the vision of your handsome face that lifts up my

heart and carries me through.

I fear for your safety. The games seem so rough. When I saw you go

down against Brazil, my heart stopped. Astor told me the next day that you

were recovering nicely, but I am still worried for you. Astor also told me that

the game against Peru could be a big stepping-stone in your career if you have

a good night. He said you might be able to use some extra inspiration, so he

has flown me to Rosario to watch you play tonight. How do you like that

surprise?’

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JAMES McCREATH

Renaldo had to stop reading.
“Simone, here in Rosario? In the stands tonight?

Here to watch me play? My God, it’s incredible!”

He held the letter to his chest and imagined her cheering as he scored the

winning goal. That would be heaven on earth.

“Simone, Simone!”
He dared to let his eyes continue on their journey.

‘I wish you all the luck in the world tonight, my love. Please know that

I will be there to cheer you on. Hold that thought in your heart to give you

strength and protection.

I would love to see you following the game, but I must return to the

capital immediately afterwards. I now have to prepare for the special ceremonies

preceding the World Cup final. They have told me that I will be performing in

front of the largest television audience in world history! It makes me nervous

even thinking about it.

Take heart, dear Renaldo. My thoughts are constantly with you. I will be

praying for a victory tonight that will bring you back to Buenos Aires for the

championship game and into my arms.

Until that moment, I await you anxiously,

Con amore, Simone.’

It was two hours later that Ramon Vida stood knocking on Renaldo De

Seta’s door.

“Hey, man, open up. Suarez sent me to get you. You’re late for the team

meeting, and the boss is pissed. What the fuck are you doing in there, man?