address. Even Suarez had a broad grin on his face at the thought of pulling a
fast one on the despised media vultures.
“The formal introduction of the National Team will take place at a gala
fundraising event on February the twelfth at the Teatro Colon. It will be carried
live on national television, and you will all have your moment in the limelight
then. The press will be all over you between the gala and our departure two
days later for Mar del Plata, so remember to clear all interviews with me before
you open your mouth. Until the moment you walk on that stage on the night of
February twelfth, no one is officially on the National Team. I refuse to have the
press or anyone else run this program by second-guessing my decisions. There
will be time enough for that in the future.
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Also, be aware that there are three players still playing in Europe who I
want for this team. When they will become available to me, what kind of shape
they will arrive in, and whether or not they will fit into my system remains
to be seen. But their personal jersey numbers, ‘,’ ‘10,’ and ‘15,’ will be given
up by the players who are prescribed those numbers on the first roster list the
moment these men return to Argentina. Understood? You will all have a fair
and equal opportunity to achieve a starting position on the team. Work hard,
do your best, and don’t worry about your competition. Keep focused on what
your job is, on what I have asked you to do, and you should succeed. So, that
is it for now. Good luck, stay healthy until we meet again, and keep your lips
sealed. I will start the individual meetings in the interior office now. Estes,
check the list and bring in the first gentleman!”
Renaldo De Seta took a deep breath and sat back against the folding chair
that was one of thirty-odd arranged in rows for the players. He looked around
the room self-consciously, for he knew that he was truly a babe in the woods
among seasoned veterans. Men whom he had watched play ten years ago were
seated next to him, legends of the game in Argentina, some with the experience
of two World Cups under their belts.
Ubaldo Luque was circulating around the room, handing out binders and
rosters and engaging in friendly banter with the players he was familiar with,
which was almost everyone. When he came to Renaldo, he smiled warmly and
held out his hand.
“We have never met before, have we, son? You must be Renaldo De Seta.
It’s not hard to pick you out in this crowd of old men. I see that you already
have your bible. Here are the roster lists and the exhibition match schedule. You
are number seventeen on the list, so you will have a little time to kill before you
go in to see Octavio. Relax, socialize with the others. There are coffee and soft
drinks being brought in right now. Nice to meet you. Good luck.”
He handed Renaldo two sheets of paper stapled together and moved on
to the next man. It was evident from scanning the lineup that the boy from
Newton’s Prefects Under Twenty-One team was the youngest player on the
roster by four years. He tried to place the players on the list with the faces in the
room. His eyes ran down the names one line at a time, then searched the room
for the corresponding countenance. Octavio Suarez’s hopefuls included:
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Several surprises, but on the whole a fairly competent group of professionals,
Renaldo thought to himself. Most of the surprises stemmed from names that
were not on the list at all. The three players still in Europe had already been
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explained. The problem was that if they were unable to join the team in the
near future, the consequences of their absence would certainly be felt down the
road.
Defender Réné Dolmo playing with Real Madrid in Spain, and halfback
Americo Galvani, currently with St. Etienne in France, had abundant
international experience that was bound to be an asset to the team. But more
critically, the nation’s all-time leading goal scorer, Nicodemo Garcia, was at
this moment plying his trade for Catalonia in the Spanish league. Garcia was
the one impact player who Octavio Suarez was really counting on to make his
team a true contender. Without ‘Nico’s’ leadership by example and deft touch
around the goal, the Argentine squad would resemble only a shadow of the
team that they could have been, had forces outside Argentina not conspired
against them.
There were some shocking names omitted from those players who were
now in Argentina. Long-time international goalkeeper Hugo Bravo was said to
have retired after a well-publicized spat with Octavio Suarez. Former National
Team captain Dante Capurro had refused to report because his wife was due to
deliver their first child the following June, right in the midst of the tournament.
Capurro’s leadership and savvy would be sorely missed, but Octavio Suarez had
been unable to change his mind.
Other names that were omitted seemed to fall into the ‘prima donna’
category that Suarez would not tolerate. Without the return of the European
players, however, Renaldo wondered how long Octavio could resist the pressure
to forget the conflicting egos and field the best team available. So many questions
remained to be answered over the next few months. The press, relentless in
their quest for information, would hound the team’s manager day and night
until they received those answers. The list of exhibition fixtures were scheduled
as follows:
It looked like a fairly rigorous schedule that Octavio Suarez had devised
for his charges. The good thing was that it gave them a good taste of both
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European and South American competition. Two Copa Roca games were also
tentatively scheduled against Brazil in March, but confirmation of the dates
and locations of those fixtures had not yet been resolved.
All in all, it was an exhilarated Renaldo De Seta that sat waiting for
his turn in the inner sanctum with his new mentor. The other players had
seemed to all break off into their club team cliques, Independiente players in
one huddle, River Plate players in another, and so on. Calderone and Gitares
from the Prefect’s professional team made no effort to welcome their young
understudy, so Renaldo remained seated and alone.
“Hi, man, I’m Ramon Vida, from Boca Juniors. You must be De Seta. I
can tell because none of those assholes have come over to welcome me either.
I’m the only one from Boca Juniors left now that Bravo quit and Capurro won’t
report. I’m afraid that our manager might paint me with the same brush just
because we were on the same club team. I follow you on the list, so I thought
that we might as well wait together and get to know each other.”
Vida held out his hand, which Renaldo shook from a half standing, half
sitting position. The Boca player was shorter in stature than Renaldo, standing
just under six feet. His body was svelte, almost wiry, and his black hair was
worn short and combed straight back into a cut
e little duck tail. That was the
only thing ‘cute’ about Ramon Vida. He exuded Latino self confidence, and
while his face bordered on handsome, it also contained several small scars from
past wars. And those eyes, dark mysterious pools that could easily be read to
say, “Don’t mess with me, or else . . . ”
When both men were seated, Vida asked the question that was on the
minds of all his new training mates.
“So, how did you manage to get yourself selected to the training roster? Is
it true that you have never played a first division game?”
“Yes, it is true. The Under Twenty-One side that I played on won the
National Championship, and when Señor Suarez contacted me, he simply told
me that he was having trouble with several of his veteran players, and that he
wanted to look at some ‘new blood.’ I had taken some clinics from him over the
years, and he remembered me. So here I am, for the time being, anyway.”
“Well, don’t feel badly. I sat on the bench my first two years with Boca
watching Nico Garcia tear up the league. Luckily, he got a fat check to go to
Spain this past season, and that was the break I needed. I guess I fit into the
‘new blood’ category, along with you.”
Renaldo was starting to warm up to Vida. He had an easy manner and a
quick smile, and having just turned twenty-two, was the closest player on the
roster to his age. At least he had been friendly enough to introduce himself and
keep Renaldo from looking like the solitary wallflower of the group.
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JAMES McCREATH
“So, what do we have over here? How many caps, or maybe we should say
bonnets, baby bonnets, do you two infants have for your country?”
The two young players looked up from their conversation into the distorted,
hideous smile of ‘Killer’ Juan Chacon. ‘Killer’ was a legendary fullback for
Independiente, tough, ruthless, mean-spirited. He had been booked more times
than any player in the history of the Argentine first division. He never shied
away from physical contact, perfecting his style of play to the point of being
known as ‘the king of the cheap shot artists’ in the Argentine first division. If
‘Killer’ became incensed with a rival player, he was more than willing to use
his fists to drive home his point.
It was said by those who opposed him on the field of play that his greatest
defensive asset was his supreme ugliness. A face that was severely disfigured
after biting into an electrical cord as a toddler seemed to give him a persona
with which to identify. Add to that his dominating physical presence, standing
six foot, five inches tall, and one could see why he relished taking on all those
hotshot, pretty boy forwards that earned three times his salary. Let them dare
to bring the ball into his territory on the pitch!
Legend had it that one self-centered dandy of a forward who bleached his
hair and fancied himself as a matinee idol once made a comment on ‘Killer’s’
nightmarish looks to the press before a game. He described Chacon as the
‘ugliest man on earth,’ and stated that no woman would ever want to spend
a night with such a hideous creature. The scene was set for all-out war the
following day.
As the grudge match unfolded, however, the handsome boaster went out of
his way to keep a good distance from the ugly defender. But the Independiente
fullback would not be denied his revenge. With the clock running down to
the final minutes and his team hanging on to a one-goal lead, ‘Killer’ Chacon
finally had an opportunity to extend his greetings.
A corner kick in the Independiente end had brought all the opposing
players to the goalmouth to try for the equalizer. As the ball floated high
in the air, making its way with an outward curve to the spot where ‘Señor
Handsome’ waited to volley in the tying goal, ‘Killer’ Chacon leapt with
perfect timing and headed the orb away from his goalmouth. Unfortunately for
‘Señor Handsome,’ the full force of Chacon’s knee hit him square in the face. It
would be El Blondo ’ s last professional soccer game. The braggart had suffered
a broken jaw, a broken nose, and the loss of several teeth. Now it was debatable
just which of the two antagonists was the ugliest following their tryst. The
Football Association reviewed the matter and agreed with the referee that fair
contact had been made with the ball by Chacon, and that the injury had not
been deliberate.
Not one of ‘Señor Handsome’s’ teammates had come to his aid or accosted
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‘Killer’ Chacon immediately following the incident. No one on that field of play
wanted to pursue the matter. The man was too ugly, too ferocious, too ‘loco’ to
risk personal injury. The ‘Killer’ Chacon legend had grown from that day on,
and now Renaldo and Ramon were staring at ‘His Ugliness’ himself.
“You babies can’t speak either? We can order in some formula bottles
instead of coffee, if you like. I don’t believe what they have given us to play
with here. A combination of has-been old men and wet-behind-the-ears rookies.
You, you there! Did your mama have to write you a note to let you come and
play with the big boys?” He was addressing Renaldo, a fierce look of contempt
on his loathsome face. His teammates from Independiente had formed a circle
around the two younger players.
“Why don’t you fuck off and leave him alone. He doesn’t know you, and
he certainly hasn’t done anything to deserve this shit!” Ramon Vida had risen
to his feet in defense of his new friend. He still could not believe how truly
grotesque the man was, especially from only inches away.
“That’s alright, Ramon. It is an honor to meet a legend like Señor Chacon in
person. Without a man of his stature on our team, I am sure that our opponents
would take liberties with the likes of you and me. We can rest assured that they
won’t with ‘Killer’ Chacon on the field. It is my pleasure, Señor.”
Renaldo grasped the stunned defender’s hand and shook it with
enthusiasm.
“Well, now, here is a man that knows true talent when he sees it! But go
to hell anyway! I hate all pretty boys, and you look like a real sweetheart. Big
blue eyes, such nice long curls. You’re too cute to be a real man. Maybe you
should try out for the women’s soccer team. Or maybe you should pull your
pants down and show us that you belong here with the men. What’s your name
anyway, my gorgeous little chicken?”
“Renaldo De Seta, Senor Chacon. And this is Ramon Vida from Boca
Juniors.”
“I know this pissant already. How many goals did you score against me
this year, rookie? Not even one, right? We kicked Boca’s ass every time we
met this season. Maybe you’ll find the Brazilian defense more to your liking,
rookie!” Chacon was literally spitting the words out only inches from Vida’s
reddening face when suddenly his wrath was diverted. “Oh, look over there, it’s
the retarded Anariba twins. They say one of them can only tie shoelaces while
the other one can only do up buttons. They have to dress
each other every day.
Let’s go have some fun with them.”
With that, the five players from Independiente focused their attention on
the unfortunate twins seated together across the room. The Anariba brothers
had played well together for Racing Club two seasons earlier, until a knee
dislocation had forced Luis to the sidelines early in the 1976 campaign. When
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his rehabilitation took much longer than hoped for, Racing Club let the
somewhat ‘dim’ player out of his contract. He had remained unattached to any
club right up until Octavio Suarez had to prepare his invitations to training
camp. Rumor had it that Luis was ready to make a comeback, however, and
the National Team manager had nothing to lose by offering the twins a chance
to rediscover their past competence with his squad. Thus, the two introverted
brothers were there at Velez Sarsfield that day.
“Man, you sure handled that ugly bastard with ease. I thought he was
going to give us a full dose of his tough-guy shit. I’ve seen him do it before.
I still have a scar on my calf from his personal ‘welcome’ to the big leagues
early last season. You’re some cool cat, Renaldo. I was all set to kick the ugly
cocksucker in the balls if he didn’t lay off.”
“It’s nothing, really. My father used to call it the ‘bee’ rule. He used to say
that ‘You can catch more bees with honey than vinegar,’ even big, ugly bees,
it seems.”
Luckily for the Anariba twins, Juan Chacon was called in to see manager
Suarez only moments after they had descended upon the unsuspecting brothers.
Without their fierce leader, the rest of the Independiente men dissipated to
various corners of the room.
Every now and again, a player from one of the smaller, less represented
teams would come over and introduce themselves to Renaldo and Ramon. They
would stay and exchange pleasantries until they, in turn, were called for their
audience. Finally, it was Renaldo’s turn. He said good-bye to Ramon Vida,
telling him that he would watch for him on the night of the gala, February
fourteenth. Then it was into the lion’s den.
The manager and two coaches greeted Renaldo with enthusiasm.
“It seems you have already made a very good impression on Juan Chacon.
Renaldo Page 32
