Renaldo
Copyright © 2006 James McCreath
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4196-3918-8
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JAMES
McCREATH
RENALDO
2006
Renaldo
For My Ladies: Annie, Kari, Carly, Christie, Coco, and Isabella.
You Are The Sunshine Of My Life.
Chapter One
Córdoba, Argentina. December 5, 1977.
The young Porteño had never been this terrified in his life. The monster
surged from behind, almost engulfing them at times. He knew that he
could easily outrun the deadly creature, were it not for the slower members of
his group who stumbled and groped their way down the narrow alley.
Gordo was the worst, far too obese to keep up the frantic pace. The red
and black torrent was gaining on them, hurling insults along with rocks
and bottles. The boy knew all too well what would happen should they be
overtaken, for this monster was both human and inhuman.
A narrow lane intercepted their path, and he could see that his amigos had
swung off to the right. But Gordo had missed the turn and plunged straight
ahead, knocking over several refuse cans in the process.
It was hard to believe that just thirty minutes earlier, this same corpulent
straggler, now panting and pallid from exertion and fear, had taunted a stadium
full of enraged Córdobans. With cocky bravado, he had boldly questioned their
mothers’ virtue, the size of their cojones, and worst of all, their team’s penchant
for dull, defensive football. The first two insults the locals could dismiss from
this fat fool, but the third, perhaps because it was bitingly true, set the mob
upon them.
Gordo was a well-known lawyer back in Buenos Aires, a self-important,
larger-than-life figure with an overinflated ego. His sharp tongue had often
gotten him into uncomfortable situations, but this was by far the most
serious.
Like the majority of his peers that had made the journey to Córdoba,
Gordo was a Porteño, or ‘person of the port.’ He was an Argentine national,
born and bred in Buenos Aires. Born and bred or not, all the men that had
accompanied him this day were impassioned supporters of the Newton’s
Prefects Football Club. A trainload of fans had traveled the five hundred miles
to this quaint provincial capital for the championship game of the Argentine
premier soccer league.
The atmosphere had been electric as the Prefect partisans staked out
their tiny corner of the menacing Córdoba Stadium. Deep inside the lair of
the monster, seething with forty-five thousand rabid adversaries, the brave few
hundred manifested their colors defiantly to the hordes on the terraces.
JAMES McCREATH
“Preeeeeefects! Preeeeeefects! Preeeeeefects!” was the call to battle that
accompanied the brandishing of their inflammatory black-and-white flags,
scarves, hats, and banners. This display summoned even louder venom-
filled jeers, taunts, and shouts from their hosts. Gordo led the rebuttal with
a boisterous Prefect fight song. That made him a man marked for ‘special’
attention.
Throughout the game, the Prefect supporters in general, and Gordo in
particular, were subjected to bottles and smoke bombs, insults, and incendiaries.
The visitors remained steadfast in their resolve, however, with an unflinching
belief in the ultimate destiny of their team.
They had waited so long in obscurity for a chance to, once again, reach the
pinnacle. That moment was now at hand, and in the minds of each and every
Porteño, the championship trophy belonged back in Buenos Aires, not in this
city of peasants and farmers! Perhaps that is why the less refined Córdobans
truly hated the arrogant, urbane boasters from the nation’s capital. They were
so impudent in their team’s support!
It mattered little to the hometown fanatics that the Prefect organization
was one of the most tradition-steeped clubs in the entire nation. As a founding
member of the Asociacion Del Futbol Argentino in 1893, the Newton’s
Prefects Football Club was originally formed to offer a recreational outlet to
the offspring of British scientists and investors who had played such a large part
in developing and modernizing this vast country.
The very first teams were made up exclusively from the graduating class
or ‘prefects’ of the Sir Isaac Newton Academy of the Sciences. This renowned
English language preparatory school in Buenos Aires was established in 1865
as an old-world safe haven, intent upon salvaging a proper ‘English’ education
for the male children of United Kingdom transplants.
Newton’s all-British professional side was the dominant master of the
game in the early years of formal competition. But as so often happens in
sports, a glorious beginning eventually gave way to mediocrity, then near
obsolescence as native-born players took to the game of football with unbridled
Latin passion. The foreigners finally succumbed to using a sprinkling of home-
grown Porteño talent to increase fan support and stave off bankruptcy, but by
the 1920s, the once-proud side had been relegated to third division status, a
place where it would remain for nearly five decades.
The team’s fortunes began to change for the better with aggressive new
ownership in the mid 1970s. The purse strings were opened to acquire more
highly skilled players. This rekindled the long dormant interest and affection
for the ‘Black and White.’ The signing of two world-class professionals at the
start of the 1977 campaign, striker Ruben Gitares from the River Plate Club,
and defender Jorge Calderone from the Boca Juniors, turned out to be just the
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RENALDO
tonic needed to raise the efforts of the team’s supporting cast to their highest
levels.
The Prefects had finished fourth in the premier division standings, then
upset the highly favored first place Independiente club in a brutally rugged
semifinal fixture that saw several people killed in its acrimonious aftermath.
The victory over Independiente set the stage for this pilgrimage to Córdoba,
whose heroes had disposed of River Plate in the other semifinal game.
Now, with the ultimate prize beckoning, the event set to take place inside
this boiling concrete cauldron was far more than just the playing of a football
game. This was blood sport! The blood of your ancestors and family against
the invaders. Pride and passion. And so it would be on this beautiful afternoon
in Córdoba.
The home team, Talleres F.C. of Córdoba, clad in their all-red strip with
black numerals, showed a stubborn willingness to defend their honor and their
goal with great spirit and courage. For a while, the ‘Reds’ did manage to bring
the Córdoba
ns to their feet, but it was all in the realm of the negative . . .
defense!
Little by little, the tension in the ranks of the red defenders grew. Their
goalkeeper, a gangly, mustached custodian named ‘Puente,’ made several
inspired saves, but he was also quick to chastise his cohorts. The finger-pointing
and verbal dressing-downs escalated with every Prefect sortie into Córdoban
territory. Puente pleaded for some offense from his teammates, but the best the
Reds could do was to clear the ball either out of play or far upfield, yielding
possession to the waiting Prefect midfielders.
Finally, in the twenty-first minute, Gitares, the brilliant Prefect striker,
was sent through on a pinpoint pass from Calderone. One-on-one with the
keeper, he feinted to his left, then sure-footed the ball into the top right corner
of the net from twenty yards out. The spirit of the huge crowd seemed to
deflate en masse, except for that tiny corner filled with the now even more vocal
visitors. There, Gordo was waving his monstrous all-black flag while shouting
insults at his enemies just beyond the eight foot high, barbed wire topped
barriers.
Three more Prefect goals followed in the second forty-five minute half,
sending the majority of the local patrons on their not-so-merry way before the
conclusion of regulation time. Not the Newton’s Prefect supporters though!
They remained on the terraces to soak up every blissful moment. At the final
whistle, Gordo managed to avoid the disinterested security forces standing
idly on the warning track and marched onto the pitch, his huge flag waving
defiantly to and fro above him.
His Newton’s Prefects were the champions of Argentina, and the
celebrating would start right now! Taking the fat man’s lead, more and more
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JAMES McCREATH
Prefect supporters converged on their victorious heroes at midfield, singing,
hugging, dancing, and scavenging pieces of the lush green carpet.
From where he stood on the terrace, Renaldo De Seta could see the trouble
coming. In the far corner of the stadium, a mob of vocal, young Córdobans
was also making its way onto the pitch, angered at the insult of having these
buffoons on their sacred turf. The security forces remained stationary on the
perimeter of the field, allowing the Córdobans to swiftly set upon the still
reveling visitors.
In an instant, elation became hysteria. An incendiary flare exploded in the
midst of the Prefect supporters, and the screams of the burnt victims could be
heard by Renaldo fifty yards away. He could barely see the mêlée through the
thick, maroon smoke, but he knew that his compatriots were in serious trouble.
The observer quickly looked for the nearest escape route, then leapt into action.
Gliding over the barriers, he soon reached what looked to be a senior officer in
the National Guard.
“Why do you stand here and do nothing? People are going to get
hurt! Surely you have eyes, you must be able to see that yourself! Please do
something!”
The officer looked at Renaldo with disinterest and disdain, shrugged his
shoulders, then started to turn away. The commotion on the field was getting
louder by the second, and it was only the report of several gunshots that startled
the officer into action.
“Please help them get out of the stadium,” Renaldo pleaded.
There was a fire in the young man’s eyes that the officer could not ignore.
He looked past the youth out onto the pitch. At that very moment, a Prefect
supporter staggered out of the smoke bleeding profusely from a gash to his
head.
The visitor is right! the officer thought. If he didn’t save these rabble-rousers
it could ruin his career, and they certainly weren’t worth that.
A piercing blast of the military man’s whistle brought several subordinates
running to his side. Renaldo stepped back as the uniformed group held a brief
conference. A lieutenant screamed into his walkie-talkie as the officer turned
to Renaldo.
“We will try to separate them and cordon off an escape route through the
nearest tunnel. After that, you are on your own.”
The warning track that surrounded the field was now teaming with
guardsmen, bayonets affixed to their carbines. A corporal handed the lieutenant
a loudspeaker, into which he screamed several commands. As one, the soldiers
then advanced toward the smoke-obscured chaos.
Renaldo, having done his best to get help, sprinted past the guardsmen to
see if he could find his friends and get them started toward the escape tunnel.
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RENALDO
It was pandemonium on the field. More smoke flares had been ignited,
and the boy could hardly distinguish the Córdobans from his own companions.
Some groups were engaged in hand-to-hand combat, while others stood staring
each other down, using verbal abuse as a prelude to a more physical display of
their machismo. Renaldo had wisely discarded the black-and-white scarf that
he had worn all afternoon, and he was able to streak through the midst of his
would-be assailants without being detected as a Prefect invader.
Confusion reigned supreme until miraculously, through a clearing in the
smoke, the boy caught a glimpse of what he thought was Gordo’s huge Prefect
flag surrounded by both friends and foes. Renaldo pushed his way further into
the maroon mist until he found himself face-to-face with Gordo and a throng
of his dazed blood brothers. The men had formed a tight circle around Gordo’s
insolent object, for to lose the colors would be a great dishonor no matter what
the outcome of the game had been.
Gordo, although sweating profusely, had lost none of his loud, aggressive
bearing. He continued to insult his detractors, all the while taunting them
with his sacred cloth.
“We must get out of the stadium now or we won’t have a chance!” implored
Renaldo.
“I would not give these peasants the satisfaction of driving us from this
place. This is our field of victory!” spat the fat man defiantly.
“It will be our field of doom if we do not leave right now!” the newcomer
retorted.
Gordo did not stand convinced, but just as he was about to resume his
verbal tirade against the provincials, the first jet of water slammed into the
group of men immediately to their left.
“Water canon!” screamed one of the combatants.
All at once, it seemed as if the sky had opened up and let loose a torrential
downpour. Men were thrown to the ground or propelled into one another with
terrifying velocity. The National Guard officer had made good on his promise
to separate the antagonists, but he was employing a most vicious method of
doing so.
A water canon mounted on an armored military vehicle was randomly
sweeping the pitch with devastating effect. The National Guardsmen had
halted after advancing only a few paces, then formed a corridor leading to the
escape tunnel. The officer in charge was no fool. He would not risk the safety
of his soldiers by sending them into the smokey fray. Besides, the water canon
m
ade for great spectacle, something to amuse his troops and take their minds
off the sad defeat that the home team had suffered.
Renaldo knew he had to act quickly or his friends would be separated and
left alone to make their way to safety. In one swift motion, he grabbed the flag
5
JAMES McCREATH
from Gordo’s grasp, pushed him around, and pointed in the general direction
of the tunnel.
“Brave amigos, follow me to glory!” he shouted.
To think that he was leaving the field in glorious fashion was somehow
satisfying to Gordo, and he motioned for the group to follow Renaldo and the
fluttering standard. That was not altogether an easy task, through the jumble
of men, the spray of the canon, and the dissipating smoke. The flag, however,
served as their beacon, and most of the Porteños made it to the warning track
where the guardsmen stood nervously awaiting their arrival.
Only Prefect supporters were allowed through the corridor of soldiers
formed where Gordo’s pennant swung proudly as a rallying point for the men
from Buenos Aires. Many of those assembling there had been bloodied, but
their wounds were looked upon as proud souvenirs of a great and glorious
victory.
When Renaldo was satisfied that a full complement of the Prefectos, as
they called themselves, were in the narrow tunnel, he led them swiftly down
the passage and out into the stadium concourse. From there it was an easy walk
past the entrance gates and into an open air plaza.
Relief swept over the rescuer as he watched his fellow Porteños file into
the bright sunshine. It was an emotion that would be short-lived. Renaldo still
held the giant battle colours in his right hand. As he stood surveying the ranks
of the rescued and talking to a member of his group, the standard was suddenly
torn from his grasp. A young street urchin clad in Córdoban colors sped away
down the plaza into a gang of hostile ruffians. Instantly, the flag was set ablaze,
then waved defiantly at its owners as it disintegrated into flaming pieces.
The stunned Prefectos could only watch in silence as their colors turned
to burning embers. But mute disbelief was soon replaced by Gordo’s booming
voice, chiding and chastising the vile arsonists. The locals returned Gordo’s
salutations with their own invectives, and it was all too evident that the
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