glance told them that the room was unoccupied. There was nowhere else to
look, no bathroom, not even a closet. Only a chair and a dresser. They moved
on down the hall.
Being slight in stature sure has its benefits. This was Celeste’s first coherent
thought after she heard the guardsmen move on. How stupid they are, was her
second thought. They had looked under the metal cot to see if someone was on
the floor, but that was it. The junta’s lackeys had failed to search the dresser,
which would have yielded them Celeste’s knapsack with her ID in it. But more
importantly, they hadn’t looked behind the dresser, where the petite terrorist
had been holding her breath to save her life. An artistically beveled baseboard
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adorning the dresser had been enough to shield the cute contortionist’s feet
from view.
It was over an hour before the room’s occupant was able to move from her
cramped position, but as long as she could hear the commands and screams
from the street below, she was perfectly content to endure a little claustrophobia.
When Celeste finally freed herself, the only sounds that could be heard were
the sobbing and wailing of the relatives left behind. Their loved ones had been
taken away, away on a journey to Hell.
Lonnie tore up the steps and into his former tenement. The door was still
ajar, the locking mechanism lying on the threshold. Celeste was sitting by the
window, a surprisingly placid look on her face. Lonnie did a double take when
he saw the blonde lady. He looked at the number on the door. It was his room,
and that was Celeste, but Celeste as a blonde.
She had told him that she planned to cut her hair, but the color?
“Are you alright? I heard on the street that the National Guard searched
every building. How did you avoid them?”
Without saying a word, she pointed to the dresser. He walked over and
looked behind it.
“You were able to fit behind this thing, and they didn’t see you? My
God, you are the smartest, luckiest, not to mention the sexiest little blonde
terrorist that I have ever met. Now get your things. We have to go quickly. I’ve
always been horny for blondes, and since you had to throw away that red wig,
I thought I was stuck with a brunette. They say blondes have more fun, and if
we don’t get moving I will want to have my way with you before we even start
our journey to Tigre. Once we make it there, well, I have a private little cabin
down by the river that I think you will find more conducive to romance than
our present surroundings.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her gently. She was trembling. Lonnie
had thought her incapable of fear. The crying from the room across the hall
made it painfully evident just how close she must have come to joining the
ranks of those who would soon be known as ‘The Disappeared.’
Mar del Plata. Argentina’s Riviera. World-famous beach resort mentioned
in the same breath as Cannes, Miami Beach, and Rio’s Copacabana. Five miles
of beaches, chock-a-block with brightly colored umbrellas. The most exclusive
private beach clubs known to man. The largest casino in the world. Seventy
thousand hotel rooms. A population that swells from three hundred thousand
people in the off-season, to close to two million in January and February.
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Nonstop night life in a playground by the sea. An adult fantasyland of sun,
surf, and sex.
Unfortunately, none of the twenty-two hopefuls for Argentina’s National
World Cup team would have a chance to sample any of these pleasures. Octavio
Suarez was no fool. He had chosen the team’s initial training site for one reason.
Climate!
Cool, moderating winds blowing in from the Atlantic sent soft summer
breezes onshore, a welcome relief from the oppressive humidity and pollution
of the capital. Thirty miles southwest of Mar del Plata, the small family
resort town of Miramar offered the same climatic conditions without all the
distractions that the larger city provided. Particularly appealing was the total
lack of nightlife, which the city elders encouraged to promote safe, family-
oriented vacations. Just the kind of ‘vacation’ that Octavio Suarez wanted for
his charges.
A secluded resort, Empresa Rio de la Plata, had been selected as the team’s
headquarters months in advance, and millions of government dollars had been
invested in updating the facility to enable it to welcome its distinguished
guests. Security precautions were of the utmost concern. Therefore, the resort
was cordoned off with a twenty-foot high, electric barbed wire fence around its
entire perimeter. Continuous patrols by special canine commando squads of the
elite Compania 601 Special Forces Squadron were in evidence even before the
team arrived. Concrete barriers blocked all entrances to the compound, and an
elaborate telecommunications and surveillance system was installed to monitor
the activities in and around the facility.
Once inside the compound, the atmosphere changed drastically. Beautiful
wooded glens offset the two training pitches that had been lovingly and
painstakingly leveled and sodded over the past year. They were sodded with the
same turf that would grace the newly renovated forty-two thousand seat Mar
del Plata Stadium. The entertainment facilities for the team were extensive.
Televisions in every player’s room, pool and ping-pong tables, a fully stocked
library, massage and physiotherapy rooms, swimming pools, tennis courts,
basketball hoops, bocce courts, and hundreds of board games.
The kitchen had been modernized to provide the best nutritious fare that
the top-flight chefs could offer. Nothing had been left to chance. Every detail
had been checked, and double-checked. The press center was a building just
inside the perimeter, close to the main entrance. It was far enough away from
the players’ quarters to ensure that the scribes would not be a constant bother,
and it was the only building that the working press had access to inside the
compound. The rest of the facility was restricted, off-limits by orders of Octavio
Suarez.
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This news was not at all well received by the hacks, for as much as the
press was locked out, the inmates were certainly locked in. Players could not
leave the compound unescorted under any condition. Written approval for leave
had to be obtained from the manager himself, and no one else. This was a bitter
pill for the media, for it meant that there would be no exclusive interviews with
this player or that player at a local cantina or restaurant.
Wives and families were encouraged to visit the players on Sunday
afternoons, but there were no overnight conjugal visits. Eight weeks of abstention.
Not a real problem for Renaldo De Seta, for the memory of his embrace with
Simone was enough to keep the fire burning in his heart until they met again.
But for some of the veteran players, eight weeks was an eternity. As Renaldo
learned on his very first night, even some of the younger players thought it
the
most draconian and undemocratic of rules.
“Man, how am I going to sneak some pussy into my room? I will never
last. I will be cut from the team due to sexual frustration. My balls will be so
big from lack of use that they will drag behind me as I try to run down the
field. I can’t stand this. It’s only the first night, and I’m going crazy.”
Ramon Vida was pacing around Renaldo’s room. “I wish I had a cigarette.
Damn! How about you, man. You got a girlfriend yet?” Renaldo blushed
slightly, not knowing what to say.
“Well, not exactly. There is one girl who is very special to me, but nothing
has come of it yet.”
“Don’t worry. Just wait until you’re a big star, a World Cup champion.
Then they will all fall on their knees before you. My girl, oooo la la, did she
give me a going away party! Toni is her name. I have a picture. Here, take a
look.”
He tenderly pulled the photo from his wallet. To Renaldo’s amusement
and stimulation, it turned out to be a full frontal nude picture leaving nothing
to the imagination.
“She is very pretty, and well built it seems.”
“Man, you can’t even see her best asset. She just loves to give head, can do
it for hours. God, I’m going to miss her. I think I’m going crazy already. How
about some music?” With that, he was gone, soon to return with his oversized
portable cassette machine, the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive” pumping from the
speakers.
“Hey, baby, do you know how to disco? These Bee Gees are amazing.
They just make me want to get down!” He was strutting and twirling around
the room. Then he cranked the volume switch without missing a beat. “Stayin’
Alive, Stayin’ Alive, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive.”
The music had attracted other players from the single-level complex.
Soon, Renaldo’s room was jammed with his would-be teammates, singing,
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dancing, clapping, and laughing through the entire album. Ramon even gave
disco lessons to a few of the more cement-footed onlookers.
Renaldo was an unwilling participant in Señor Vida’s school of modern
moves and received good-natured jibes about the necessity of being more
proficient with his feet for the morning’s dancing lessons. For those, Octavio
Suarez would be the dance instructor, and the ballroom floor would be the
newly laid green carpet outside their dormitory windows.
Estes Santos was the first sight Renaldo focused on at 6:45 a.m. the next
morning.
“The adventure begins!” Santos shouted at the top of his voice as he
entered the room. There were no locks on the doors at the Empreza de la Plata.
Octavio Suarez was a firm believer in curfews and bed checks. In Estes’ case, it
was more likely that he would break the rules than be in a position to enforce
them. But the goalkeeper coach had undertaken his new position with a serious,
workman-like attitude. He knew that this would be his one chance to grab the
golden ring. Renaldo looked at his watch.
“You are early. I’ve still got fifteen minutes to sleep. Go away and leave
me alone,” he moaned.
“The early bird gets Señor Suarez’s favor. He is already in the dining hall
waiting to see the order and state of alertness that you Nañdus show up in. He
watches everything. Start off on the right foot, my friend. Get down there!” He
yanked the covers off the naked player. “Now!”
Renaldo groaned as the image of the scrawny Nañdu bird flashed through
his mind.
Sure enough, Octavio Suarez sat in a corner of the dining hall, chain
smoking, drinking repeated cups of coffee, and scribbling intermittently in his
binder. No one spoke to him or acknowledged his presence.
Number seventeen was not the first player to make his way to the dining
room. Four other veterans were already half finished with their light meal of
fruit, juice, high fiber breads and cereals, topped off with gallons of piping hot
coffee. The cafeteria-style facility appealingly displayed its bounty for all the
pampered patrons. Coffee, juice, and a slice of toast was all the extra baggage
Renaldo felt like carrying today. He took a table by himself after being ignored
by the older players. The room slowly filled up, with Ramon Vida and defenders
Daniele Bennett and Julio Paredes joining Renaldo at his table.
All were dressed in new light-grey sweat suits that had been distributed
the evening before. These togs would be the standing uniform of the camp. Long
sweatpants and grey sweat tops at all meals, meetings, and training sessions.
Personal clothing could be worn only in the dormitories during leisure hours
and on visitor’s day. Powder-blue and white-striped National Team jerseys and
dark-blue soccer shorts could be worn on the training pitch during actual on-
field play.
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Control! Octavio Suarez was in total control here, and every man in the
compound knew it.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Señors Luque, Santos, and I welcome you all
and wish you all the best of luck in your upcoming audition. You have all had
ample opportunity to digest the theory and tactical analysis laid out for you in
your training bibles. Today, we are going to transfer what is written on paper
to poetry on grass. You will see, if you have absorbed the written material,
that theory will become tangible physical movement, and tactics will become
a flowing art form!”
It was evident by the squirming around the room that the professor’s
students were having trouble making sense of his cerebral philosophy. The
puzzling stares made Suarez redefine his lecture strategy.
“In short, we will be using a 4-3-3 formation with two lateral attacking
backs. Let us not worry about who is present here today and who is not. Just
do the job that your position demands, while keeping focused on our system
and the goals of the team. I repeat, the goals of the team, for this is, and always
will be, a team!”
Rules, regulations, schedules, and procedures were reiterated to the
assembled mass. The rest of the morning was spent with the team doctors
on an individual basis. General practitioners, physiotherapists, psychologists,
“everything but proctologists and gynecologists,” one player was overheard
saying.
Those pronounced physically fit were told to report to the playing fields
to commence their individual physical evaluation. This included timed sprints,
timed laps, sit-ups, push-ups, footwork drills, and finally, an obstacle course.
The players were then sent to shower and have a light lunch, followed by two
hours of siesta time. At three o’clock, they were to assemble once more in the
dining hall, which would become a multipurpose classroom, lecture hall,
auditorium, and of course, gastronomic gallery. When everyone was present,
they would be led by their coaches in a ceremonial walk down to the training
fields to commence the first group workout of Argentina’s 1978 World Cup
Soccer Team.
Renaldo had little trouble with any of t
he sessions. He much preferred the
physical trials to being poked, prodded, and pounded by the medical men. The
psychologist had worried about his youthfulness. Would he miss his mother,
his family, his dog? Could he stand to live with real men, many of whom
were less than paternalistic in their outlook on life? The egos, the tempers, it
was all part of what he was about to experience in the next eight weeks. He
had thanked the doctor and assured him that he would confide his innermost
traumas, should any arise.
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The only trauma that the youngest player in camp was experiencing at
the moment was one of anticipation. After so much waiting, so much talk, so
much speculation, just what would it be like when he finally took the field with
the best players in Argentina? Would he embarrass himself? Would he find out
that he was in over his head as his mother had suggested? Would he be sent
packing with his tail between his legs?
Three o’clock. The moment of truth had arrived.
Drills commenced with limbering up and callisthenic routines. This
sequence would be repeated in the same order through to the end of the
tournament. Ball drills were next. Short passing, long passing, dribbling,
corner kicks, free kicks, penalty kicks. Next, defensive marking systems were
discussed, and finally, the twenty-two were divided into ‘A’ and ‘B’ squads, two
full teams of eleven men each.
Renaldo was placed on the B squad along with Ramon Vida. The A squad
members were the veteran players, or the perceived first team. Players that
manager Suarez had seen play many times, players that were known quantities
to the headman. The B squad was comprised of the young, unproven players
plus the old, perhaps too-long-in-tooth veterans.
The style of play would emphasize ball control. Short, controlled passes
resulting in a slow offensive buildup, complemented when appropriate, by
the attacking outside backs joining the push forward. There would be one
deep back, known as the libero, whose job was purely defensive. This player’s
primary duty was to sweep the ball upfield and out of harm’s way when his
territory was threatened.
The tempo and flow of the game would be dictated by the ball’s proximity
to their own goal. The further away the ball traveled, the more leisurely and
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