was punished with instant and often dire consequences. The yawning goal net
beckoned him closer. Eight yards wide from inside upright to inside upright.
Eight feet high from the pitch to the underside of the crossbar. So invitingly
large when empty, so terribly small when a world-class keeper stood defiantly
under its shadow. He came upon the penalty spot next, twelve yards from the
goal line, in the dead center of the field. The place of ultimate drama, shooter
versus goalkeeper. One on one, matching wits, nerve, and luck. Glory for the
triumphant, agony for the vanquished.
“Renaldo, it’s time! He is ready for you now!”
Estes Santos had to yell at the top of his voice to enable his message to
carry from the entrance tunnel to where Renaldo stood at the penalty spot.
Astor Gordero had taken Estes in to meet Octavio Suarez first, immediately
upon their arrival at the stadium some thirty minutes prior.
Before he headed toward the sideline, Renaldo considered taking a small
divot of turf as a lucky memento, but thought better of such sacrilege when a
gust of wind blew open his jacket and tossed his necktie over his shoulder. This
was a sign. Respect this holy place, and respect may just be offered in return.
He turned from the spot and jogged to Estes’ side.
As usual, it was Astor Gordero who made the formal introductions as
Renaldo stood cautiously in the manager’s doorway.
“Good, good, come in, my boy. Renaldo De Seta, I would like to introduce
you to Argentina’s newly appointed World Cup team manager, Señor Octavio
Suarez.”
The boy stepped forward and held out his hand to Suarez, who remained
seated behind an old metal desk heaped with piles of manila file folders and
newspapers. The manager slowly extended a limp arm to meet that of the
younger man. The handshake was impersonal and without enthusiasm.
“Would you gentlemen excuse us for a few minutes, please. I would like
to talk to Renaldo in private, if you don’t mind.”
The visitor’s young heart sank when he heard Suarez request privacy.
This is it! he thought silently, The game is over. How could I have ever let myself
think for an instant that there was the slightest chance of joining the team? Damn, what
a gullible fool I have been.
Renaldo studied the man behind the desk as Gordero and Santos made
their departure. He must have been at least fifty years old, with long, thin,
greying hair hanging in straggles and strands down past his shoulders. His face
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RENALDO
resembled that of a horse, elongated, with small, darting eyes behind black,
horn-rimmed reading glasses.
He looked more like an absent-minded professor than the most victorious
manager in the history of the Argentine Football Association. A career of
almost twenty-five years had garnered fifteen First Division Championships,
seven Libertadores Cup titles for the best club side in South America, and
two postings to Argentine World Cup staff as Assistant Manager in 1966 and
194.
He was an obvious choice to head the contingent in 194, but he was
known as an outspoken individualist who would not always toe the association
line. His players loved him, and he, in turn, would go to bat for them, but
bureaucrats and football executives drove him crazy. His appointment to the
1974 team came only after a virtual player revolt on the eve of the Munich
competition. Wisely, the association had not waited until the very last minute
to give him full and absolute control of the national program for World Cup
‘8.
A cigarette hung from the headman’s lips, and judging by the overflowing
ashtrays that were scattered throughout this dank, poorly lit cubicle of an
office, he must be a chain-smoker. Styrofoam cups of coffee, many half empty
with cigarette butts swimming in them, were also a prominent decoration.
Suarez continued to rummage through a stack of files strewn helter-skelter
over the desk. Renaldo could see his frustration growing by the second until
miraculously, out of the bottom of the mess, he retrieved the errant folio.
“Aah . . . good, here we are. Pull up a chair, son. Just throw those files on
the floor.”
Suarez motioned to a barely visible chair in the corner of the room, stacked
to its limit with more of the same folders that covered his desk. By the time
Renaldo had moved the chair and was seated, Suarez was deep in wordless
thought, studying the contents of his newly found document.
Several minutes passed before he abruptly closed the folder, lit another
Marlboro, and focused his attention on the visitor.
“I have seen you play many times, son. You are good, very good! But as
you know, you have never faced the kind of competition that we will be up
against in the World Cup.”
He paused to take a long drag on his Marlboro. Renaldo noticed that his
demeanor had changed once he started to talk about the tournament. Those
darting eyes seemed to come to life, and there was a new enthusiasm in his
voice. He gestured around the tiny room with a sweep of his arm.
“The organizing committee has promised me a proper office and support
staff right after Christmas, but the whole situation is in such a shambles that I
decided to start the day they hired me. This was the only room that they could
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JAMES McCREATH
give me. I’ve been here for three days and nights now. I suppose I will have to
go home for Christmas or my wife will kill me. I can only tell you that things
are even worse than they are reporting them to be in the press. The program
is in disarray!” Suarez paused to look in several white cups for a sip of coffee.
There was none to be found.
“I have players squabbling about money already. How much will they
make if they grace us with their presence on the National World Cup side?
‘I demand to be paid more than so and so, because I am a better player,’ or ‘I
have more international caps,’ or ‘I am being paid more by my club team,’ or
‘I have laid more girls, so you had better pay me more than anyone else or I
won’t come.’ ”
That was a great imitation of a spoiled, whiny, little girl, Renaldo thought.
“I have no idea who will be released from the European teams in time
to train with us,” the boss continued. “We open training camp on February
fifteenth in Mar del Plata. That gives me a little over a month to pull this
mess together! Already I know of a few barracudas who are just waiting for
me to slip up, so that they can walk in and take over the manager’s position.
Barracudas after only three days! Three days on the job and the vultures are
circling already. Well, fuck the whole bunch of them!”
His face was flushed with anger at the thought of someone hunting for his
scalp already. He tried to compose himself and force the unwanted thoughts
from his mind. He sat silently studying his guest for several seconds, then
continued.
“Luckily, no one in the press knows where to find me. I insisted that the
organizing committee tell them that I wouldn’t officially take ove
r until the
twenty-seventh of the month. So I bought myself a few days anyway.”
He stood up and stretched his lanky frame. Renaldo recalled how tall the
man was from some of the clinics he had attended in the past. At least six foot
three, maybe taller.
“I need new blood, Renaldo. New faces with a fresh attitude. I will not
field a team of prima donnas. The old guard will find that out soon enough. I
know that you are young and untested, but if you are willing to work for me
without bitching and moaning, then we will see what magic I can craft with
you. Gordero and Santos are very high on your ability. They told me there
might be some problems with your mother, however. Are they solvable? It
would be a shame to let an opportunity like this pass you by on that account.”
Suarez lit another Marlboro, then walked around to the front of his desk.
He then abruptly sat down on the edge of its metal top, only inches from
Renaldo’s chair. His voice took on a more fatherly tone.
“We all have to cut our mother’s apron strings sometime, my boy! What
do you think? Can I count on you to show up here on January fifteenth for the
initial team meeting and medicals?”
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Suarez was right. He had to follow his own destiny, and he might as well
cut the apron strings sooner than later.
“Yes, Señor Suarez, you can count on me to be here on the fifteenth of next
month. I will have dealt with my mother by that time. Thank you for having
faith in me, for giving me this chance. I suppose I have been my own worst
enemy as far as doubting myself. I have had a secret dream for many years, since
the death of my father. I now realize that you have just given me the means
with which I can make that dream reality. For that, I am most grateful. I will
not let you down, Señor Suarez.”
Tears welled in the boy’s eyes as the emotion of the moment overcame
him. Octavio Suarez stood and rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
“I am thankful for that, son, for I will need an abundance of help myself
to make my dreams into reality. The road will not be smooth, and the glare
of the lights will make weak men run for shelter. Be strong, have faith, and
dreams may just become reality!”
He walked over to a large cardboard box in the corner of the room, stooped
down and pulled out a thick binder.
“This is your training manual. It will be your bible for the next six months.
Guard it with your life, for without its knowledge, your life is worth nothing
to me. Start on the training regimen tomorrow. I want you in good physical
condition by the fifteenth. Follow the dietary instruction stickly and don’t do
anything stupid with the young ladies. I have lost more than one potential
superstar with a case of the clap. Keep your fly zipped up until next July! Now,
I believe that you have a plane to catch, so I will see you on the fifteenth. I am
going to keep Santos here for the day to help me sort out this mess. That’s it!
Off with you now, and Merry Christmas.”
Renaldo rose from his chair and again shook the manager’s hand. It felt
totally different this time, strong, confident, and reassuring. The two men
walked out into the corridor that connected the bowels of the stadium.
“What is the weather like outside? I haven’t seen the sun for days,” the
older man laughed. They made idle chatter as they snaked their way through
the subterranean labyrinth, then up into the entrance plaza where the two other
men waited by Gordero’s limousine.
Farewells and good wishes for the holidays were exchanged, then Renaldo
and Astor Gordero climbed into the rear of the Mercedes, while Estes Santos
and Octavio Suarez disappeared into the darkness of the stadium. Renaldo
opened his window and stuck his head through the opening to get a last,
inspiring glimpse of the temple before it faded from sight.
What history will be written within its towering confines six months from now?
he wondered silently. And will I be there to help write a chapter or two? Only time
will tell.
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JAMES McCREATH
The loud ‘pop’ of a cork brought him back inside the cool interior of the
limousine with a startled, curious look on his face.
“I take it from the binder you are holding that there may be cause for
celebration. Is that the case?”
Gordero extended a full crystal goblet of his trademark Dom Pérignon to
the younger man, a sly, inquisitive grin etched on his face. Renaldo sat back
in the seat and reluctantly took the goblet. He had forgotten about his early
morning hangover in the excitement of the hour. No sense in refusing the
liquid gold that his host was offering, though. After all, things had worked out
exactly as Gordero had predicted with Octavio Suarez. No cruel joke had been
played on him, and yes, he was going to be a member of Argentina’s World
Cup team, at least at the outset of training. Yes, damn it, there was cause for
celebration!
“Cheers to you, Señor Gordero. You are a miracle worker, to be sure. Never
in my wildest dreams did I think something like this could happen to me. I
am in shock! Señor Suarez told me to report back to the stadium on January
fifteenth for the initial team meeting and physicals. I still can’t believe what
you have done for me!”
“All that I have done to date still does not amount to saving a life, Renaldo,
which is exactly what you did for me in Córdoba. Now it is what you can do
for your country that really matters. So ‘cheers’ to you, my boy. Help bring the
World Cup trophy to this great land of ours!” He downed the entire goblet in
one mouthful, and then refilled both vessels with the bubbly essence.
“What about your mother? You will have to deal with her right away.
Perhaps Estes or I could come up to Pergamino to have a word with her, if
necessary. Try to convince her what a splendid opportunity this is for you.”
“That will not be necessary, Señor Gordero. I will handle that situation
myself. As Señor Suarez just reminded me, we all have to cut the apron strings
at sometime or another. That time is now, for me. I will be here on the fifteenth
with or without her blessing. I will let her have a peaceful Christmas day, and
then discuss the matter calmly and rationally a day or two afterward. It will
mean delaying the start of my university education for a few months, but the
school will still be there when I am ready to attend it. I am confident that I can
win her approval without breaking her heart.”
“I am glad of that, Renaldo. I have met your mother several times at
various charity fundraisers. She is a charming, hardworking lady. I know that
she has only your best interests at heart, but I can tell you that the prospect of
what you are about to tell her will not rest lightly on her shoulders. Especially
after the tragic incident with your father.”
A strange use of words, Renaldo thought. He had only ever heard of his
father’s untimely death being referred to as an ‘accident,’ never an ‘incident.’
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his mind, as Gordero continued his oration.
“I also have your best interests at heart, Renaldo, for I am the one
responsible for leading you to the edge of the cauldron that you are about to
be thrown into. Your life will change totally for the next six months, maybe
forever. It will be like living under a microscope. The press, the fans, they will
want to know everything about you. Your privacy will disappear. There will be
so many distractions, so many temptations. A clean-living young man such as
yourself has no idea what is in store for you. That is why I want to stay close to
you, to look after your affairs for you. I can keep the distractions away as much
as possible while you concentrate on one thing. . . football!”
Renaldo’s partially fogged mind was having trouble figuring out exactly
to what the older man was alluding. He simply listened in silence as the
presentation continued.
“I have handled many other players in the past, but you are the only
one I am interested in now. There will be an assortment of sleazy hangers-
on that will come knocking at your door the instant that you are named to
the preliminary team. These people are professional bloodsuckers. Your name
becomes their calling card for an endless string of shams and rip-offs. I want
to keep you from falling prey to these people. I will negotiate your contract
with Suarez. You cannot expect a great sum of money, initially. But once you
have proven yourself on the world stage, well, then, the sky is the limit! Huge
contracts are being offered to Argentine players to play the game overseas.
Combined with lucrative endorsement deals with worldwide corporations, it
boggles the mind to even think about the possibilities. The one thing that is
imperative in this whole equation is that your public image, your reputation
as a man of character, remain unsullied in any way. You must be a saint in the
eyes of the public. Then, and only then, will the major corporations open their
vaults to you.”
The Fat Man stopped talking long enough to replenish his goblet. His
passenger’s had remained full and untouched.
“Renaldo, I can guide you down the right road. I know that the money
is not what really matters to you now, that you are wealthy in your own right.
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