national press. Suarez’s rebuttal was one word . . . “Stamina!”
The following two weeks saw many experimental changes to the A squad
in preparation for the upcoming matches, hastily arranged with Peru. The
Ramon Castilla Cup was conceived at the eleventh hour to replace the failed
Copa Roca. Two games would be played, the first on March nineteenth in
Buenos Aires, followed only four days later by the return fixture in Lima.
The initial National Team game in the capital coincided with the
relocation of training camp to an all-new facility on the outskirts of Buenos
JAMES McCREATH
Aires. The just completed National Training Center would be the player’s home
for the next three months or so, and the organizing committee had spared no
luxury in making sure that the idols of the nation would train in first-class
surroundings.
While there was comfort to be had off the practice fields, it was a different
story out on the green turf. Octavio Suarez ravaged his charges for their lack of
discipline and imagination. The manager hounded those men that he thought
had performed poorly, and no reputation or past press adulation could save a
player from a Suarez browbeating, if the boss set his sights on him.
Wholesale changes to the A squad were made on a daily basis, but when
the team took the field in River Plate Stadium on the nineteenth, it was the
original eleven A squad players that lined up against the Peruvians. The
visitors scored an early goal, but Suarez would still not substitute. Whistles and
expletives rained down from the galleries as the team descended into its refuge
at the interval and, again, as they took the ball to kick off the second half.
A cheer arose from the crowd when the public address announcer
proclaimed that the home side had used its two substitutions. Standing over
the ball at the midfield spot was Ramon Vida, and ten yards to his rear stood
the other half of the R&Rs, Renaldo De Seta.
From the whistle, the Argentines seemed a different team, pressing
forward, always running, shooting at every opportunity. Within minutes, a
beautiful give-and-go between old teammates Castillo and Bennett worked
the magic for which Suarez had hoped. A twenty-five-yard blast from Bennett’s
attacking left foot found the back of the net. Tie score!
Several solid scoring opportunities followed for the men in the powder-
blue and white-striped shirts. Surprisingly, it was often the youngest player on
the pitch spearheading the attack with a precise pass or a dazzling run. The
game winner came off the head of Jorge Calderone, who used his license to
come forward with the play to redirect in a perfect lob from the captain of the
day, Ruben Gitares.
Renaldo was generally pleased with his performance that evening, but
one nagging incident lingered in his mind. It had occurred during a Peruvian
corner kick late in the game. The rookie was back in Argentina’s goal mouth,
marking his opposite number on the Peruvian side. As the ball arched its way
in the air toward the Argentine net, Ignacio Suazo and Juan Chacon leapt to
head it out of harm’s way. Suazo was able to make contact and clear, but as
‘Killer’ Chacon returned to earth, his well-placed elbow collided with the side
of Renaldo’s head, sending the boy sprawling.
“Stay on your feet, pansy. You’re no good to anyone down there.” Renaldo
looked up at the apparition that had felled him, rolled over, and headed upfield
with the play without saying a word.
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“And don’t get too comfortable in that position, sweetheart. It belongs to
my brother-in-law!” were the words that followed him.
It seemed that in the future, Renaldo would have to face both the
opposition and ‘Killer’ Chacon to earn his place in the starting eleven.
The twenty-third of March found the entire National Team high in
the Andes Mountains, inside Nacional Stadium in Lima Peru. With eighty
thousand rabid supporters cheering them on, the Peruvians were expected to
make up for their lackluster showing in Buenos Aires. Drawn into group four
with Holland, Scotland, and Iran, this aging, but experienced team had its
work cut out for it to advance to the second round of the championships. At the
moment, however, they were using these warm-up games to try to blend some
inexperienced, but fresh legs with those of the slower veterans. It did not come
together well on this day in Lima.
Again starting his original A eleven, Suarez’s men took a quick two-goal
lead that they then defended for the rest of the half with great authority. It was,
by far, the best forty-five minutes the A’s had played to date. Miguel Cruz and
Ruben Gitares were the marksmen, and it was Cruz’s strong showing that kept
Renaldo on the bench for the entire match. Ramon Vida replaced Enrique Rios
in the second half and scored a beautiful goal on a setup from Cruz late in the
game. A decisive 3-1 victory for the Argentines made the return trip to Buenos
Aires a high-spirited event for most of the team. One exception was Renaldo
De Seta.
“Come on, man, you’ll show them your stuff next week against the
Bulgarians. Don’t sweat it,” chirped an elated Ramon Vida as he tried to bring
his friend out of a depressed state.
“How can I show them anything, Ramon, if I don’t even get on the field?
The way Cruz played today, my chances don’t look good to see any action next
week, or ever.”
“Oh, man, you sound like a sick old lady. Stop that feeling-sorry-for-
yourself shit. Come on, I feel like singing. Get your guitar down from up above
and the R&Rs will rock and roll, baby!”
Renaldo obliged, and soon the whole entourage, including the coaching
staff, was joining in the course of Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You, Baby.”
Ramon was right, of course, there was no sense worrying about someone else’s
performance. Renaldo could not control how well Cruz played. He could
only make certain that he was ready to play his best whenever given the
opportunity.
To the surprise of the entire team as well as the seventy thousand faithful
that filled River Plate Stadium on the afternoon of March twenty-ninth, it was
the eleven B squad players that took the field against the visiting Bulgarians.
The Europeans had failed to advance to the World Championships, but Octavio
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JAMES McCREATH
Suarez wanted to give his team a good dose of how football was played on the
continent, especially as they faced three European teams in their own World
Cup group. The Bulgarians fit the bill in that they played a style similar to the
French and Hungarians. It was hoped that they would not treat their sojourn
to South America as a tourist trip, but rather as a serious football excursion and
play with attitude and intensity.
Whatever the case, whether it was too much local talent or too much
disinterest on the part of the guest team, the home side ran roughshod over
their iron curtain adversaries. The rhythm was there for all to see, beautiful,
melodic, electrifying. Ramon Vida
set a tenacious tempo, being everywhere
the ball was in tallying two goals and an assist in a 3-1 Argentina victory. The
crowd chanted “Vida, Vida, Vida,” from the heights, and it looked like the
nation had itself a new football hero.
Defender Julio Paredes had the other home side marker, set up nicely
by Renaldo on a give-and-go. The rookie’s critique of his game fell into the
so-so category. No goals, one assist, and a scraped shin, courtesy of ‘Killer’
Chacon, who had been substituted in at the start of the second half. The Ugly
One had unnerved him somewhat, and the Bulgarian goal came off a corner
kick that Renaldo’s mark volleyed into the net. The young center half had
been tripped as the ball was in the air, leaving his man uncovered and able to
convert. The boy could have sworn that the leg that sent him to the turf had a
white stocking with light blue rings on it. A ‘friendly’ leg, perhaps belonging
to Juan Chacon?
On the positive side, the Europeans were very loose in their marking,
enabling the rookie to control his team’s offensive flow. The crowd loved it, and
the young player’s performance earned him considerably higher esteem in the
eyes of his manager than in his own self-estimation. The success of the B squad
would certainly make the training sessions more competitive, which is exactly
what Octavio Suarez had hoped.
One week later, another communist block country arrived in the capital
to test the locals. Romania, like its predecessor Bulgaria, had not qualified for
the big event, but their style of play mimicked that of the Italians. That is,
severe defending, with a packed defense in a 1-3-4-2 lineup. Three backs, with
one deep central defender playing the sweeper or catenaccio. This ‘get the ball
upfield at any cost’ role was carried out behind four halves, who were mostly
interested in defending, and only two men up front on the attack.
For the first time, a mixture of A and B players took the field. Ramon Vida
started at center forward, Miguel Cruz at center half. The host nation came out
of the gate lethargically. Some pretty soccer here and there, but no finishing
skills and not much intensity or drama. Tied at nil after the first forty-five, the
two substitutions that Suarez made were certain to cause some resentment in
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the locker room after the game. Little-used Luis Anariba, the recovering but
still tentative twin, replaced Juan Chacon at central defender. That was not so
bad in itself, for ‘Killer’ was guaranteed a spot in the final lineup and Anariba
was on his way out the door. It was the second substitution that would inflict
the discomfort. Cruz out, De Seta in.
The Independiente clique would be very vocal in their disapproval of the
withdrawal of Cruz, who, they felt, was not being given enough playing time
after his stellar match in Lima.
For forty-five minutes, though, Renaldo was free to concentrate on his
skills without looking over his shoulder for the ugliest man on earth. He knew
that he would have to deal with the consequences later, but for now, football
was all that mattered.
The massed defense of the Romanians that had once seemed impenetrable
surprisingly started to crack within a few minutes of the second half whistle.
Ruben Gitares and Ramon Vida cut swaths through the loosened marking,
time and time again, finding space to make their magic. Only an acrobatic
keeper in the visitors’ goal kept the score knotted.
It was B striker Caesar Castro, playing on his home club turf at River
Plate, that put the first one away after a scramble in front of the Bulgarian cage.
The second home side goal was sure to have repercussions.
Substitute Anariba, who had not been severely tested by the offensively
impotent Romanians, managed a swift clearing pass to Renaldo, who, in
turn, headed upfield with his gift. Looking for a teammate to feed the ball
to, he noticed that the center of the field seemed to open up and part like the
Dead Sea. Vida and Gitares were taking their markers to the outside, and the
Argentine center half had an unobstructed run up the middle, until he was
three yards inside the penalty area.
At that point, the now overzealous defenders descended upon the young
one and sent him unceremoniously crashing to the ground. The Columbian
referee pointed to the penalty spot immediately. Ramon Vida was at his prone
teammate’s side at once.
“You OK, man? Check to make sure your dick is still there. That’s all that
matters!” His friend’s offhand and unexpected comment made Renaldo laugh,
even as he rubbed his aching hamstring muscle.
“Take the shot, man. It will look good on your résumé if you make it,”
Vida asserted.
“How will it look if I screw up, Ramon?” the center half replied while
being lifted upright by his vocal partner.
“You will look like the pansy that Chacon says you are, my friend. Just
imagine smashing the ball into his ugly mug. That’s good for a guaranteed
goal!”
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Sure enough, as Renaldo stood at the spot eyeing an extremely nervous
keeper, he visualized the hideous visage of his antagonist in the upper left
corner of the net. The rest was easy. A swing of his powerful right leg, then
swoosh. Goal! A perfect canon of a shot, upper left corner.
He turned and trotted toward the centerline without any show of emotion.
An enthusiastic Ramon Vida joined him.
“Man, you must have really seen his face up there the way you let that one
go. Ugly cocksucker! I wish it really was right there, right where you put that
ball! Watch yourself, my friend. That Independiente scum will be pissed off.”
“Maybe it would have been better for you to take the damn penalty. You
could have imagined some pussy in the top corner. Guaranteed goal, right?”
Both men chuckled as they resumed their positions.
A 2-0 victory lifted the national spirit throughout the length and breadth
of Argentina. Its team was undefeated in their last five international matches,
and talk of a world championship was quietly circulating in the cafés and bars
around the country.
The players had two weeks to rest and recharge their batteries before
facing their next opponent, Eire, or as some preferred, the Republic of Ireland.
River Plate Stadium and the host side would prove daunting obstacles to the
men of the Republic. They would need more than shamrocks and shelaighlees
on this day in South America.
On the home front there was optimism at all levels, with the possible
exception of the Independiente players currently with the National Team. This
group of men had only one task, one goal to achieve. They set about making
life as difficult as possible for the young center halfback that had been critically
acclaimed in the press after his last two outings. Chacon’s crew wanted the
rookie gone, and the prospect of the ‘pretty boy’ throwing in the towel and
leaving camp spurred them on their miserable way.
Two weeks in hell would be an apt description of Renaldo’s life, fo
llowing
the Romanian fixture. Both on and off the training field, Chacon and his
buddies were relentless in their baiting and badgering of the team’s youngest
player. Rough treatment on the pitch and psychological warfare off it seemed
to be the order of the day. Ramon Vida pleaded with his friend to take his case
to manager Suarez, “to have those poisonous thorns removed from your feet!”
Renaldo would have none of it.
“Everyone is just trying to make this team and they don’t care how they
go about it,” he had responded to Vida. “I won’t go bellyaching to Suarez like
some mama’s boy. That’s already what they think I am. I can handle it. What I
do on the field will state my case! All that other shit, well, don’t worry. I won’t
give them the satisfaction of breaking me.”
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All that other shit included the ransacking of his room on several occasions,
for there were no locks on the doors at Suarez’s behest. Renaldo’s equipment was
tampered with, causing him to report late to the training pitch more than once,
but the most serious offence concerned the cleats of his soccer boots, which
just happened to have an unauthorized adjustment. The resultant bleeding and
blistered feet were not a pretty sight. The verbal abuse was constant, with most
of it coming from Chacon and Cruz. Renaldo would just turn the other cheek
and walk away.
The Independiente players also presented him with several on-field
trophies for his troubles. A blackened right eye, delivered personally by Señor
Chacon, a lovely gouged shin, with love from Miguel Cruz, and an assortment
of bumps and bruises from the supporting cast. The cooler Renaldo remained,
the more livid Ramon Vida became.
“We have to do something about those assholes, man! They are driving
me crazy, and it’s you that they are attacking,” Ramon implored as he once
again, lifted his teammate upright after another rough encounter.
“Don’t get involved, amigo. They are not out to steal your position on the
team,” a winded, aching Renaldo advised. “They only want to make sure that
Cruz gets his! They won’t break me, Ramon. You can count on that!”
Estes Santos finally visited Renaldo’s room one night to talk about the
Independiente problem. The situation hadn’t gone unnoticed by the coaching
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