Renaldo

by James McCreath

  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