that instant, the ball struck the player’s shoulder who was locked onto number
seventeen’s right arm. As that player, big Ignacio Suazo, recoiled from the
direct hit, he pulled the smaller rookie off balance before they could unlock
themselves. Renaldo felt totally out of control. Chacon maintained his lock
hold on the left side, and Suazo was falling to earth and taking him along on
the right side.
The twisting tumble was bad enough, but just as the center half hit the
ground, a piercing sting shot through the back of his left heel. Chacon gave
the boy a less than affectionate shove to free himself and headed back to his
defensive position. Suazo pushed Renaldo off his chest and scrambled to his
feet. The rookie tried to right himself and rise, but as soon as he put pressure
on his left foot, the heel exploded once again. Renaldo called out in anguish.
“My heel! Someone . . . you bastard, Chacon! You cleated my Achilles’
heel! I can’t get up. Damn . . . someone, help me up!”
Play had been halted, and for a second time, the stretcher bearers were
forced to do their frightful calling. Ramon Vida had to be physically restrained
by his teammates on the bench. The boy from Boca had sensed trouble the
minute De Seta and Chacon had lined up side-by-side in the wall. But he was
not the only one to witness the foul deed that had transpired after the kick.
Octavio Suarez was, for once, powerless to avoid this disaster. These two
men were teammates for the National Team of Argentina. The manager had
idealistically hoped that they would temporarily put aside their petty differences
and play together for their nation. No such luck. Chacon was indispensable on
the back line, and the boy had real talent, even if it was in a substituting role.
They had to learn to play together, or so Suarez had hoped up until the free
kick. Chacon wanted the younger man gone, banished from the team, and it
looked as if he had achieved his goal.
There were tears in Renaldo’s eyes as he was carried off the pitch to the
stadium infirmary. Ramon Vida was at his side, clutching his friend’s right
hand.
“I’m going to kill that animal. Don’t worry about a thing. If you can’t
play in the World Cup, he sure as hell isn’t going to play either. I promise you,
amigo. I will set things right!”
“Don’t, Ramon, please don’t do anything stupid. You can make this team.
Don’t do anything that would jeopardize your chances of that happening. He’s
not worth it!”
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“I’ve come up against scum like him before, man, and do you know where
they are now? Six feet under the ground! That asshole doesn’t scare me. He’s
just an ugly bully. I have a thirty-eight magnum that I’m going to introduce
him to. We’ll see how brave he is then. The stupid cocksucker!”
“That’s smart, really smart, Ramon. So instead of being on the field at
River Plate Stadium next month, you will be in a jail cell or worse. Don’t do
this, my friend. It is craziness!”
“People like him don’t deserve to live, man. They make a beautiful sport
as ugly as they are. You forget about him and get your foot back in shape.
I’ll spare his miserable life if you can get back on the field by the start of the
tournament. But if you’re gone for good, I’ll waste the bastard. On the Holy
Virgin’s name, I swear it!”
Eight days later, back across the Rio de la Plata, the final act in Renaldo’s
downward spiral was played out. The medical news had been bad. He had
a partially torn Achilles’ tendon, not ruptured, thank God, but still painful
enough to necessitate crutches. There was no active cure to speed up the healing
process, no surgery, no miracle antibiotic, nothing! Only rest and painkillers.
“Stay off that foot for the next two weeks,” the team orthopedic surgeon
had told him. And so he had. Away from the training facility, his teammates,
and the game he loved. Octavio Suarez had sent him home, home to his mother,
as many had predicted.
“I do this to cleanse your mind, as well as your body. Away from the
afflictions that you have been forced to suffer at the hands of those who would
pretend to wear the National Team jersey with honor and good sportsmanship,”
Suarez had said as the boy slipped out of the compound unseen, on the night
after their return from Montevideo. Coach Luque was to drive him directly to
Casa San Marco. Only Astor Gordero had been apprised of the move. He had
concurred with Suarez’s decision.
“I am not blind, son. I am aware of everything that has gone on here. But
in sport, as in life, it is better to fend for yourself without external interference.
Respect will be your ultimate reward. If you can concentrate all your energies
on the recuperation of that heel without having to play their mind games,
then I think that we will see you back here before the tournament begins. The
physio specialist will see you on a daily basis. Work hard, concentrate. Do not
let yourself get distracted by hatred. I will call you in a week. Good luck.”
With that, he shut the back door of the car and disappeared into the
shadows, for he had his own demons to deal with.
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RENALDO
The 2-0 loss in Uruguay had turned the whole nation on its collective
ear. Not only was their team no longer undefeated, but the naysayers, doubters,
and pessimists were jumping off the euphoric bandwagon at a frantic pace.
No matter that two players were carried off the field on stretchers, both with
possible career-ending injuries. No matter that the home side had played ninety
minutes of flawless football in front of a vocal, supportive crowd.
‘Pretenders’ blared the headline of the Clarín. La Nacion trumpeted
‘Without Garcia, We Are Doomed.’ The bubble had burst, and everyone was
second guessing Octavio Suarez. There were even calls for his ousting by some
of his old, but still influential detractors. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed and
nothing was changed, thanks largely to some vigorous behind-the-scenes
lobbying by Astor Gordero.
It pained Suarez greatly to send his youngest player home. While Renaldo
had remained stoic and never complained to anyone of his treatment at the
hands of the Independiente roughnecks, the manager knew that there was a
much better chance of Renaldo returning to full form if he didn’t have to put
up with any of their bullshit. The game movies were inconclusive in laying the
blame for the center half’s injury at Juan Chacon’s doorstep. All that could be
seen was a man in the defensive wall, Ignacio Suazo, lurching backwards after
the ball had struck his shoulder, and in doing so, twisting the unfortunate
De Seta to the ground. Chacon’s legs and feet were not visible to the camera
because of the falling torsos that blocked the view.
‘Killer’ had gotten away with another one, or so he had bragged to his
club team compatriots. Octavio Suarez had witnessed the blasphemous act with
his own eyes though. He didn’t need movie film. The manager would wait and
pick his opportunity to have a little heart-t
o-heart with his feared defender.
Maximum effect. That’s the way Octavio Suarez operated. Wait until you can
achieve maximum effect. Then fire away with both barrels!
“I never realized how much I wanted to be a part of all this until it was
taken away from me,” a downcast Renaldo mumbled to himself as he sat alone,
transfixed to the tiny black-and-white images on the screen.
His mother had welcomed her youngest son home with a ‘I told you so!’
attitude. Florencia De Seta was elated that the timely injury had come just as
the university term was getting into full swing.
“A bright boy like you can make up for the work you’ve missed in no
time. I have kept in touch with the registrar, and a small donation to their
scholarship fund has surprisingly kept one placement open, just for you.”
There was no need to argue with her at the moment, for any talk about
returning to the team would seem like nothing but fantasy. Especially as he
was still unable to put any weight at all on the extremity. What he was about
to watch on the television screen that afternoon did nothing to lift his spirits or
make his return to sporting glory more likely.
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JAMES McCREATH
This was a vastly different Argentine eleven, even though most of the
names were the same. Somehow, they had been transformed. They were now
fluid, poetic, deadly. Gone were the tentative bumblers of Montevideo. In their
place stood men who demonstrated the pace and rhythm at which the game
was meant to be played. Attacking football, beautiful football!
The stadium crowd roared its approval after the first home goal at the six-
minute mark, and the noise never subsided from that point on. It was as if the
fans considered this match to be a dress rehearsal for the big show that was still
a month away. No carnival in Rio could be more raucous than this!
A second goal at thirty-four minutes and a third at sixty-seven made the
final tally 3-0 Argentina. The naysayers would be crawling all over each other
trying to jump back on the bandwagon after this result. What had Suarez said
to them? What rabbits had he magically pulled out of his hat to provoke such
a first-class display? Renaldo wished with all his heart that he could be a part
of it again.
A look at the score sheet was further reason to worry. All three goals had
come off the feet of Miguel Cruz, who, even before the television broadcast went
off the air, was being heralded as “The New Argentine Scoring Machine.” Cruz
had been lucky, if not all that deadly. He was put through on a breakaway by
Jorge Calderone, when a poorly organized offside trap went awry on the visitors.
He then eluded a diving keeper and waltzed home the last ten yards with no
one in pursuit. Two strange bounces off defensive players landed the ball at the
Independiente player’s feet with the gaping goalmouth unobstructed for his
second. But Cruz’s third marker could be attributed directly to the muscle of
his brother-in-law, ‘Killer’ Chacon.
Ramon Vida had played effectively at center forward the entire game.
While he hadn’t figured in the first two goals, he had barely missed several
good chances and was a constant thorn in the Uruguayan defender’s side. With
just over twenty minutes left to play, Vida was set free up the middle, again
by the precise foot of Jorge Calderone. Three strides inside the penalty area,
two visiting defenders converged to foul the Argentine. The referee pointed
immediately to the spot.
Vida was on his feet at once and walking toward the ball to complete the
task when Chacon latched onto his left arm.
“I want my brother-in-law to score a hat trick today, amigo, and if you
really think about it, that is what you want, too,” the ugly defender suggested
to Vida as he led the smaller man away from the penalty spot with an iron
grip.
“Fuck you and your brother-in-law! That is my penalty, and I am going
to take the shot.”
The Boca player tried to wrench his arm free, but the grip was
unflinching.
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RENALDO
“I said, I want Miguel to take that shot! Now shut up, you little shit, or
you’ll end up like your girly friend, Renaldo.”
“You ugly bastard, I’ll fix your . . .”
Their conversation was drowned out in the exultation of Cruz’s third goal.
The center half hadn’t hesitated, simply stepping up to the spot as if it were
his divine right and blasting the ball past a stationary Uruguayan goalkeeper.
Done, hat trick! Welcome the ‘New Argentine Scoring Machine.’
For Renaldo De Seta, it was the bleakest of moments. Cruz did have a lock
on the center half position. Sewn up, no problem, no contest! Everyone would
be singing his praises come the morning, talking about what a team he and
Nico Garcia would be. The invalid’s heart ached as he hobbled up the stairs
to his bed that evening. He had come so close. Now, there was little reason for
hope.
Renaldo took breakfast alone in the garden the next morning. Florencia
had already departed on her day’s agenda by the time the former National
Team member emerged, showered, and dressed. As he sat in the warm solace of
the late fall sun, his thoughts drifting between school and football, there was a
tapping sound on the glass door behind him.
“Señor Renaldo, excuse me for interrupting, but may I have a word with
you?”
“Yes, of course. What’s on your mind, Oli? What is it? Come and sit
down.” He pulled his body upright in the lounge chair as the elderly maid
approached.
“Thank you, Señor Renaldo, but I will stand. I hope that you do not think
me too forward, but Olarti said that I should talk to you.”
“Don’t be shy, Oli. We have known each other too long for that. What is
it?”
“You see, Señor Renaldo, my people, the Querandi Indians . . . my people
grew up on the Pampas. That is where we flourished and multiplied. We were
able to hunt without barbed wire fences and soldiers on horseback with guns.”
Renaldo sensed a faint tone of bitterness and disgust in the old woman’s
voice that he had never heard before. He nodded for her to continue.
“My people did not have horses, only our bare feet in the beginning, and
our feet had to serve us well. They were our only means of transportation.
I remember my grandmother anointing my grandfather’s feet with oil and
massaging them for hours. Even by the time wild horses became plentiful
on the Pampas, many of my people still relied on their feet to hunt and to
fight. When a warrior had a problem with his feet, the medicine elders of the
tribe would put him on a strict diet of certain herbs and juices, and place a
secret poultice on the painful area. Many times I have seen them do this, Señor
Renaldo, and many times the area of pain is on the back of the heel, the same
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JAMES McCREATH
as you. Olarti knows of a man, a man who still practices his medicine and lives
on the Pampas near Pergamino. Olarti thinks that you should go with him to
see this medicine man.
Olarti thinks that he can help you, make you well again
for the football.”
Renaldo was flattered by her concern for his condition, but dismissed the
idea offhand as something associated with black magic or witch doctors. He
thanked her warmly, but stated that he had at his disposal the most up-to-date
technology and research on his injury. His healing would be supervised and
administered by the most knowledgeable doctors Argentina could assemble,
the doctors of its National Soccer Team. Oli did not seem upset at this rebuff
and simply wished him good luck with a caring smile, then cleared away his
breakfast dishes.
The morning talk with his old and trusted servant kept reappearing in
his mind throughout the balance of the day, however. Olarti had brought the
daily newspapers for Renaldo to read, and a front-page picture of Miguel Cruz
with the caption, ‘Señor Goal’ did nothing to raise his spirits. Florencia had
reappeared at siesta time with a list of medical texts and the first-year medicine
course outline. She had obviously paid another visit to the Newton Academy’s
medical registrar, who, once again, had been most helpful, providing her
with the literature to allow Renaldo to commence his studies at home while
convalescing. She instructed her youngest son to complete the marked forms
and check off the list of course options. Olarti would pick up the required texts
at the university bookstore tomorrow.
Florencia once again told her son how happy she was that he was finished
with ‘this football business,’ and informed him that she would be out that
evening at the theater and dinner with Wolfgang Stoltz. In a light, almost
euphoric tone of voice, she suggested that he invite over some of his old school
friends for dinner.
“This will provide you with some company, and also an opportunity for
some scholastically oriented conversation,” she had quipped. The lady didn’t
wait for a response to her suggestion, but simply pecked the boy on his cheek
as he lay on the sofa. Then she was gone, and Renaldo was alone again.
After being with people constantly the past two and a half months, the
solitude of Casa San Marco was unnerving for the ex-National Team player.
His mother was hardly ever home, a development brought about by the sudden
romantic interests of Herr Wolfgang Stoltz. That she had reciprocated with her
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