Renaldo

by James McCreath

  weight against her, but when he felt her tongue dart into the warmth of his

  mouth, his mind lost all coherence. It was over too quickly. She was up and

  gone, with only her final words as his souvenir of their evening together.

  “I will call you, Renaldo! Think of me. Ciao, bello.”

  He slumped back against the rear of the banquette, his mind reeling. Had

  she really kissed him like that, or was he just imagining it? The stiffness in his

  groin convinced him that he was not dreaming. Luckily, no one in the café had

  witnessed the kiss, as a result of the two gorillas blocking out the view.

  He sat alone now, transfixed by the memory of her beauty, her scent, her

  voice, her eroticism. He didn’t hear the waiter ask him if he required anything

  further. Renaldo was unable to reply. The waiter stood for a few moments, then

  walked away. He was vaguely aware of hearing her name now and again in the

  din of conversation that swirled around the café.

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  RENALDO

  “That was Symca that just left,” or “Symca was dining here tonight with

  her producer,” or “Did you see the outfit on Symca? What a stunning woman

  she is.” Symca this, Symca that. But she had been with only one man tonight.

  She had kissed only one man tonight. He sat silently for almost thirty minutes

  before he summoned the waiter, left him an additional tip when he settled his

  account, and walked, still mystified, out into the humid night air.

  The San Martin Cultural Center in Buenos Aires was overflowing with

  officials and press on the afternoon of Sunday, January 14, 1978. Security was

  extremely tight, with three different sets of pass gates that anyone entering the

  center had to clear.

  Military vehicles had blocked all the approaches to the center as well,

  preventing any suicide car bombers from gaining access to the immediate

  vicinity of the cultural center. The precautions were certainly warranted. Police

  and antiterrorist authorities had received several threats of violence aimed

  directly at Argentina’s World Cup movement ever since FIFA had given their

  final approval.

  Communiqués from the Montoneros and the E.R.P. had stated clearly

  that the huge sums of money that were being spent on this international

  showpiece should be spent on providing food and shelter for the country’s poor

  and dispossessed. “The common working man can not afford a single ticket to a

  single match, so what good is all this extravagance doing him?” they argued.

  The junta responded in the press by saying that “World Cup ‘78 belonged

  to all the people of Argentina, and that every citizen should take great pride in

  hosting the finest football teams in the world and welcoming the eyes of every

  nation that would be watching this spectacular event.”

  No matter whose rhetoric one chose to believe, the fact remained that the

  threat of violence was very real, and the people inside the cultural center were

  very thankful for the military’s strong showing.

  Astor Gordero was one of those people inside the cultural center that

  Sunday. His job was primarily one of handholding FIFA President João

  Havelange and his three-year-old grandson, Ricardo Teixeira, who would

  actually perform the drawing of the balls from the urns. To keep the young

  boy relaxed and happy until he made his way to the podium to commence the

  draw, Gordero had brought along his private secretary, Señora Melendel, who

  was the mother of two small children herself and who came supplied with toys

  and games.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  The seedings and the placement of all the countries had been arranged

  to the satisfaction of the organizing committee, if not the other countries

  involved. Now the final placement of the teams was in the hands of young

  Señor Teixeira.

  There was also great concern regarding the new communications equipment.

  Would it function on cue without causing international embarrassment to the

  host country? This was the first time that a live, worldwide satellite feed had

  ever been transmitted from Argentina. It was critical that everything go off

  without a hitch.

  The expectation and tension were almost unbearable as President

  Havelange finally made his way onto the stage. Astor Gordero knew, as did

  every other member of the organizing committee, that the international football

  community was poised to abandon Argentina and move the tournament

  elsewhere if every detail of this day did not proceed without a hitch. Gordero

  felt confident that no detail had been left to chance, that no item, however

  minuscule it may seem, had been overlooked. The day now rested in the hands

  of the Gods and a three-year-old boy.

  The Italians had backed off their demands and had allowed Holland to

  be seeded fourth, heading up Group Four. This put the Italians in Group One

  with Argentina, along with two teams to be determined by the draw. In all,

  eleven nations remained to be pulled from the urns.

  Total silence greeted young Master Teixeira as he stepped up to urn ‘A,’

  dressed in his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit and withdrew a capsule containing

  the name of the first team to be placed. He handed the capsule to his grandfather,

  who opened it, then stared directly at the television cameras and pronounced,

  “The first team selected in the World Cup ‘78 draw is . . . Poland.”

  Polite applause filled the theater. The Polish contingent did not join in,

  however. There was shock and dismay on their faces. Master Teixeira’s selection

  had placed them in Group Two, head-to-head with their perpetual nemesis,

  West Germany. No one in the Polish camp had forgotten the bitter defeat that

  they had suffered four years earlier on a rain-soaked pitch in Frankfurt. It had

  been the World Cup semifinal game, a game that held so much promise for the

  Cinderella Polish side, promise that was washed away in a torrential downpour

  that left the field of play little better than a quagmire. The tight scheduling of

  the tournament forced the game to proceed, and even impartial onlookers still

  commented to this very day about the strange bounces that the ball took off

  the saturated pitch.

  The game was, nevertheless, magical, with Herculean efforts given by

  both sides. The West German home side was inspired by their vocal, horn-

  blowing followers, but the Polish defense was equal to the task . . . almost.

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  RENALDO

  Tournament scoring sensation Gerd Mueller was, once again, the man of the

  hour, placing the ball in the back of the Polish goal behind their brilliant

  keeper, Tomaszewski, late in the second half. Had the game been played under

  proper conditions, well, the result could have been much different, according to

  the Poles. But the result stood, and the West Germans advanced to the final,

  while the valiant underdogs would now play for the bronze medal.

  What upset the Poles about their particular placement in Argentina ’78

  was that not only were they grouped with the West Germans again, but they

  would have to face them in the opening game of the tournament, in River Plate

  Stadium, on June first.
Not an appealing proposition at all. The deed was done,

  however, and like all the rest of the participants, the Poles had to play with the

  hand that young Master Teixeira had dealt them.

  Spain and Scotland followed in succession. By the time the draw was

  completed, everyone in the building breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  Argentina’s opponents, along with Italy, would be France and Hungary.

  The two latter teams were considered by most experts to be unknown quantities,

  but at least the host nation would be playing against three European teams

  that all prescribed to a similar style of ‘continental’ football. The draw and

  its international transmission had gone exceedingly well, and Astor Gordero

  was the first one to open a bottle of his favorite champagne and offer a glass to

  President Havelange, in celebration.

  The two men engaged in lively conversation as they stood at the foot

  of the giant marquee that was now decorated with the names of the sixteen

  participants that would strive to make the World Cup trophy their own. The

  board, so critical to each country’s aspirations, was demarked as follows:

  Not everyone was happy, but there could be no finger-pointing and

  accusations of a ‘fix.’ President Havelange was a powerful and extremely

  influential figure in the world of international football. To even imply that

  there had been the slightest irregularity would be considered a personal affront

  to the president. It was also opportune that he was Brazilian by birth, a fact

  that helped to gag Argentina’s most vocal critic.

  Now the guessing was over. The torch was ready to be passed to Octavio

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  JAMES McCREATH

  Suarez, allowing him to assemble and prepare a team that could sweep

  Argentina past their first three European opponents and into the second round

  of the tournament.

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  Chapter FOurteen

  Everyone be seated, please, and I will try to get you out of here as quickly

  as possible. Some of you I have only met on the opposing sides of a

  soccer pitch. To those people, welcome! I am Octavio Suarez, National

  Team manager of Argentina’s World Cup ‘78 squad. I have had the opportunity

  of at least conversing with all of you on the telephone, if not in person. To those

  of you whom I have met with, welcome also. I am glad that our attendance is

  one hundred percent. That does not count the three players who are still being

  held hostage in Europe. We will discuss them at a later point in the meeting.

  “I would now like to introduce you to the remainder of my National

  Team coaching staff. Estes Santos, of Newton’s Prefects Under Twenty-One

  squad will be our goalkeeper coach and defensive strategist. Ubaldo Luque,

  from River Plate F.C. will handle physical conditioning and offensive strategy.

  But not to confuse the issue, I will have the final say on everything. The team is

  my show, no one else’s. I personally will take the blame, while you the players,

  if we are successful, will take the credit. That is how it works. My word is the

  final word, the only word. Defy me, and you will be gone!”

  Suarez was attired in a navy blue blazer and grey slacks. On the breast

  pocket of the jacket was sewn the golden crest of the Argentine Football

  Association, the black letters ‘AFA’ clearly visible. The manager is surprisingly

  well-groomed and relaxed compared to our first meeting almost a month ago, Renaldo

  thought.

  “There are any number of rookies and veterans waiting to take your spots.

  Some of the faces in this room are not household names, yet! Others among

  you have reputations to live up to. Reputations of being fine football players

  and also unmanageable prima donnas! Make no mistake . . . this team will be

  a dictatorship, not a democracy. I will purge any and every ego I see standing

  between us and ultimate victory. If anyone has a problem with that, there is

  the door, use it!”

  Not a soul attempted to rise from their seats. Each and every man

  assembled in the room wanted to be a part of the greatest experience in

  Argentina’s history. Suarez waited almost a full minute, peering into the faces

  of his attentive audience. When he was satisfied with the reaction of his charges,

  he proceeded.

  JAMES McCREATH

  “We know who our first round opponents are now. We open against

  Hungary on June the second in Buenos Aires. It is fortunate that there will

  be no traveling for us during the first round. That allows us to settle into our

  training facilities and maintain a routine schedule. France is our second test,

  and they will be tough, as will the Italians. Only the top two teams go through

  to the second round, so every game, every goal, every save, and every tackle, are

  all of the utmost importance.”

  Everyone present, even the most experienced of veterans, knew that Suarez

  spoke the absolute truth. The fight for possession of the championship trophy

  would be grueling and unforgiving.

  “Those of you that have not received your training manuals, I refer to

  them as your ‘bibles,’ raise your hands and the coaches will distribute them. We

  do not officially open training camp in Mar del Plata for another month, but

  I cannot stress enough the importance of arriving there in top condition, both

  mental and physical. We will have at our disposal, thanks to the generosity

  of the organizing committee, a host of doctors, nutritionists, physiotherapists,

  and psychologists to cure whatever ailments you bring with you. But in the

  meantime, be sensible! Train according to the bible, eat properly, get the right

  amount of sleep, stay away from booze, and for God’s sake, unless you are

  married, keep your fly zipped shut!”

  There was sporadic laughter at the last comment, mostly from the younger

  players. Renaldo, having heard the same lecture during his first meeting with

  the boss, managed to stifle any amused reaction that he otherwise might have

  displayed.

  “Don’t laugh, my little ones! Some of you are just like children. You must

  be told a frightening story before you believe the dangers that surround you.

  Four years ago in Germany I had to send one of my best players home because

  he got the clap so badly he couldn’t pee. Got it in Argentina, during training

  camp! He came home in disgrace, to waiting divorce papers! Some of you know

  the man I am referring to. Needless to say, he is not in this room with us

  now.”

  Not even a smile was to be found in the room after the manager’s graphic

  example.

  “We have eight, maybe ten exhibition matches lined up. Three against

  European teams that are not in the tournament, but who will still be able to

  educate us in the continental style of football.”

  Suarez paused for a moment, as if there was something important that he

  had forgotten to reveal to his new ‘family.’

  “I want to clear up one matter, with regards to my starting game rosters.

  Many of you who know me are aware of my philosophy on substitutions during

  a match. Basically, I don’t believe in substitutions unless it is a case of disabling

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  RENAL
DO

  injury. What I am looking for, the thing that I always seek in my starting

  lineups, is an intangible harmony between the eleven men on the field. It is a

  ‘feeling’ that I hope eleven of you will develop over time. A ‘feeling’ that will

  spur you to fight each other’s battles, on and off the field. I don’t know who the

  eleven are yet. We have months of preparation to determine that. But let me say

  in all honesty, that your actions will speak much louder than your reputations

  in determining whether or not you are included in that special group. Everyone

  starts with a clean slate in my plan. Rookie, veteran, it doesn’t matter. True

  harmony and unselfish spirit are what I am seeking. I want eleven of you on the

  pitch from start to finish, fighting each other’s battles, together as one group of

  players, a true ‘team!’”

  Absolute silence greeted Suarez’s last word. The manager had been

  strongly criticized in the past for this same strategy of not using substitutions,

  but only when his teams failed to capture whatever prize they were pursuing.

  On the occasions when Suarez was triumphant, and the latter far outnumbered

  the former, the manager would always say that the ‘spirit’ of his eleven starters

  was responsible for the team’s success. Not a man listening in that room at

  Velez Sarsfield Stadium was willing to offer a dissenting opinion.

  “The full team roster and the list of fixtures will be handed out separately

  at the end of the meeting. The coaches and I will now meet with each of you

  individually for a few short minutes to get reacquainted. The last point that I

  want to stress to you all is about the working press and our relationship with

  them. I am the only spokesman for this team. Be very clear on that! All press

  releases and press interviews will be set up and controlled by me. If I hear that

  any one of you has spoken to the press without my prior approval, you will

  be gone faster than shit through a goose! Do you understand me? Good! No

  information that has been discussed here today will be divulged to anyone, for

  after all, this has been a private meeting that never took place according to the

  press. How could it have, if they didn’t know about it?”

  Laughter filled the room for the first time since the manager started his