Renaldo

by James McCreath

  staff, but so far, Octavio Suarez had not intervened.

  “Are you alright, my captain? They’ve been riding you fairly hard, I

  understand. Can I do anything to get them off your back? Suarez is impressed

  with you, in case you didn’t know. Every position is still wide open as far as he’s

  concerned. The boss has been testing you with this, to see how far you’ll let

  them push you. Some say you will pack your bags and go home to your mother.

  But I don’t think so! And more importantly, neither does Suarez!”

  “Estes, thank you, but I’m not going anywhere! Unless I’m released from

  the team, that is. In that case, I won’t have to worry about the rotten apples in

  the barrel, will I?”

  “Renaldo, you’re not going to be cut from this team, so you’ll have to deal

  with this situation right now. It won’t go away until you do. In order to earn

  the starting center half position, you’ll just have to tough it out in Suarez’s eyes.

  We both know that is your goal, isn’t it? The starting position, not riding the

  bench.” Their eyes met at that moment. Old friends, teacher-student, a special

  relationship. Santos smiled warmly, then continued.

  “But these guys are pussy cats compared to butting heads with the Italians

  or Brazilians. Rough treatment isn’t all that bad a thing for you to get used to

  on the training pitch. It’s all the off-field shit that I want stopped. You’ll let me

  know if the heat gets too intense, won’t you?”

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “Again, thank you, Estes. I’m OK, really! There are some good players on

  this team. It should do pretty well. There are some nice guys, too. New friends,

  friends like I’ve never had before. Interesting people, all of them.” Renaldo

  smiled back reassuringly at the older man. “I have to get through this myself,

  Estes. I knew when I came to camp that this would be the toughest thing I

  had ever done in my eighteen years, and it is! But it is also the most exciting

  thing that I have ever done. To stand at center field in River Plate Stadium and

  start the second half representing my country against the Peruvians was an

  indescribable feeling. Goose bumps. Every young Argentine’s dream. When

  I was little, playing in our garden at the casa, I was always playing for the

  National Team in my mind. The dream became reality, Estes, and I want to

  keep that reality alive. So don’t worry about me. Besides, Ramon Vida says he’s

  going to ‘fucking kill the ugly cocksuckers’ if they lay a hand on me again. I

  bet that tough bastard would, too. He grew up on the streets of Boca as a gang

  leader. He’s told me some stories . . . Anyway, how are things going with you?”

  Renaldo thought it time to deflect the conversation somewhat.

  “It’s a bitch, to tell you the truth! After all this time, five international

  games, Calix and Martinez have allowed the same number of goals with exactly

  the same amount of playing time. Calix should be the starter, but his feet have

  turned to cement a few times and his clearing has been erratic. Martinez is

  cockier. I think he wants it more. I like his style better, too. More vocal, a real

  field general. Calix never says boo unless someone is breathing down his neck.

  At this point, I don’t know, it’s a coin toss.”

  They said their good-byes with the coach promising to keep an eye out for

  his former captain, but the matter was never discussed again.

  Lady Luck was not with Octavio Suarez in the days leading up to the

  fixture with Eire. One of the first permanent changes to the A squad roster was

  to be the inclusion of ex-patriot Americo Galvani at wing half, replacing the

  defensive-minded, often lead-footed, Humberto Velasquez. The fleet Galvani

  had returned to his native Argentina from St. Etienne of the French league in

  enough time to dress for the Irish encounter. On the seventeenth of April, two

  days before his first international appearance in two years, Galvani received a

  phone call from St. Etienne saying that his wife and two daughters had been

  hurt in an automobile accident. A distraught Americo Galvani phoned Octavio

  Suarez from the airport minutes before his flight to Paris took off. He bluntly

  informed the manager not to figure him into the National Team’s plans. Suarez

  was calm and reassuring to the departing husband and father, and insisted that

  his spot would be held for him if he could make it back, no matter how long

  it took.

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  The manager was a realist, though, and he knew that the talented halfback

  would not don a National Team jersey in the foreseeable future. It was deflating

  news, news that would force him to rethink his midfield strategy.

  The word was no better up front. Center forward Nicodemo Garcia

  remained mired in a cesspool of politics and intrigue, with Catalonia demanding

  outrageous compensation for his release. The Spanish team had booked a

  summer tour in the United States to play several of the new North American

  Soccer League teams such as the Cosmos. They claimed that Garcia was their

  marquee player, and that gate receipts would suffer if he was not a participant

  in the tour.

  The fact that the tour was a hastily booked ploy was known throughout

  the soccer community, and diplomats, presidents, and even royalty were caught

  up in the soap opera saga of freeing Nico Garcia from Spain. Octavio Suarez

  remained confident to anyone that would listen to him. Garcia would return

  and in time to train before the opening of the tournament. The center forward

  spot was his to claim. All he had to do was show up.

  In the meantime, the battle for Garcia’s backup was leaning toward young

  Ramon Vida. Independiente’s Enrique Rios showed flashes of danger, but his

  play had so far been mostly uninspired. No one could say that about the one-

  man hurricane named Vida. He made things happen, and what was more, he

  was a deadly closer.

  The crowds that saw Vida play certainly loved him, but the entire nation

  awaited the return of Nico Garcia to lead them to the Holy Grail. Privately,

  Octavio Suarez had a nagging feeling that he would never lay eyes on the

  nation’s most capped player in his dressing room. Only time would tell.

  The Eire match was little more than a walk through for the home side.

  An easy 3-1 Argentina victory over a weak opponent seemed to make the press

  and public restless and grumpy rather than elated over remaining undefeated

  in the warm-up games. “The opposition has been of a low caliber in each of the

  matches!” the Clarín daily newspaper declared. Some felt the team had yet to

  be tested seriously, and that blame fell on the doorstep of the hated Brazilians.

  Their cancellation of the Copa Roca matches had robbed the Argentines of the

  type of world-class adversary that they needed to play against.

  The score should have been -1, taking the clear scoring chances that the

  powder-blue and white stripes missed. The need for Nico Garcia’s finishing

  skills had never been more evident. Miguel Cruz hit two posts, but also

  managed a goal in a confident showing. Ramon Vida scored once after being

  substituted in at
the half, but he was frustrated with a few missed passes and

  some bad line calls. A yellow card for talking back to the referee didn’t improve

  his postgame demeanor.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “At least you got onto the field, Ramon. It was pretty painful to watch

  that effort from the bench,” was Renaldo’s way of lifting his friend’s spirits.

  “You should have been in there, man. That Cruz is a jerk. He wouldn’t

  pass me the ball if the goalie had given me an engraved invitation to score on

  him. Twice I was wide open, waiting with an open goal in front of me, and

  what does he do? Shoots the ball himself, the pig! Missed the fucking net

  altogether on one of them. No one sets me up like you do, my friend. The boss

  should have put you in at the half as well. Sometimes, I wonder if even Suarez

  knows what Suarez is doing.”

  With only two substitutes allowed per game, Octavio Suarez had to pick

  his lineups, and their potential replacements, with great skill and care. Where

  would such and such a player make the most impact? Who had shown the

  flashes of brilliance in practice that deserved to be displayed against world-class

  opponents? Each position had a different factor to weigh, and different men

  fighting for a starting role.

  Renaldo’s failure to play did not reflect on his talent, Ramon Vida

  proclaimed after he had stopped ranting about Miguel Cruz. It was just a numbers

  game, and everyone had to wait their turn. The only positive repercussion of

  Renaldo’s bench riding was that the hazing from Chacon and Cruz subsided

  to a small degree. It did not, however, make up for Cruz’ increasing arrogance

  in proclaiming to anyone who would listen that the center half job was his for

  certain, sewn up, a lock, no problem, no contest!

  Cruz and Ramon Vida came close to fisticuffs on several occasions

  following the Irish visit. Renaldo De Seta just waited for his time to come.

  Six days and an overnight ferry ride across the Rio de la Plata later, the

  rookie found himself, once again, on the bench as his teammates faced off

  against the Uruguayan National Team. One hundred thousand people jammed

  beautiful Centenario Stadium in Montevideo to get a firsthand look at the

  undefeated World Cup host nation’s side. With their own team having failed

  to earn a berth in the global tournament, the Montevideans were expecting to

  be dazzled by their Latin neighbors. On this day, however, it would be their

  own native sons who would steal the show. The men from across the estuary

  would be soundly drubbed! If it was a bad day for the Argentine team, it was

  a horrendous day for their youngest player.

  The Uruguayans took to the attack from the opening whistle, and only the

  diving, leaping saves of a surprisingly vocal Junior Calix kept them at bay. The

  keeper pleaded with his mates for help, for closer marking, better clearing, more

  communication. Another surprise for Octavio Suarez was the lionhearted play

  of the almost deposed halfback Humberto Velasquez. He patrolled his wing,

  albeit almost totally in the defensive half of the field, like a man possessed. No

  foe would beat him one-on-one. He forced six throw-ins single-handedly. His

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  upfield clearing passes always found their mark, and he twice headed the ball

  to safety on dangerous corner kicks. Suarez rated him the only player on the

  field to be worthy of the National Team jersey at the postgame press conference.

  After that, it was all bad news.

  The training roster of Argentina’s National Team had remained remarkably

  free of debilitating injuries up to their arrival in Montevideo. The usual aches,

  sprains, muscle pulls, and bruises were always in existence, but not one player

  had been forced to sit out an international game due to injury. That would

  change in the first minute after the South American neighbors commenced

  play.

  Argentina kicked off with Miguel Cruz taking a lateral pass from center

  forward Enrique Rios. Ramon Vida sat with his musical partner on the bench.

  Cruz was set upon at once by two aggressive Uruguayan forwards, but he

  managed to slide the ball through to Carlos Castillo on the left wing. There

  was no one within twenty yards of the halfback from Talleres Córdoba, and the

  whole left side of the pitch was clear of opponents all the way to the penalty

  area. Castillo’s peripheral vision caught Daniele Bennett streaking up the field

  from his back position, and things looked perfectly set for the old give-and-go.

  The pass to Bennett was perfect, but as Castillo planted his kicking foot to

  turn upfield and join in the attack, a sickening crack that was loud enough for

  the approaching Uruguayans to hear echoed from the Argentine’s ankle. The

  visiting player fell to the turf instantly, shrieking in agony. The Chilean referee

  had heard the joint snap as well, and wasted no time in summoning the doctor

  and stretcher bearers onto the pitch.

  Octavio Suarez agonized on the bench. Another halfback! First Galvani

  goes, and now this. Castillo had been a huge part of this team. A steadying

  influence who had played the most inspired football of his career. He was truly

  irreplaceable!

  The job of substituting for the thirty-year-old Castillo went to twenty-two-

  year-old Leopoldo Anariba. Suarez was giving up eight years of international

  experience, but he had no other option at this point. Anariba looked like a

  fish out of water after only two minutes of play, and the host nation set out to

  exploit his inexperience with relentless thrusts up his wing. The substitute was

  beaten cleanly and left sprawling on the green grass as his opposite number

  potted the first tally after eleven minutes.

  Argentina had left its offense back across the river it seemed. Miguel Cruz

  was invisible on the field after Castillo went down, and Suarez could tell that

  the injury had unnerved his entire team. The visitors were lucky to escape the

  first half down only 1-0. With only one substitution available, Suarez inserted

  De Seta for Cruz, hoping that the boy could turn the flow of the game around

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  JAMES McCREATH

  with some of his magical passes. As the team lined up in the passageway to the

  field before the second half, Juan Chacon gave Renaldo a piece of advice.

  “Hey, baby face. You think you can do something that my brother-in-law

  couldn’t? You better have eyes in the back of your head then, because you have

  more than the Uruguayans to worry about if you do. Keep your head up, my

  beauty!”

  The word ‘beauty’ was accompanied by a powerful squeeze of the younger

  man’s cheeks and jaw by The Ugly One. Renaldo instinctively batted Chacon’s

  fist away from his face with his outer forearm. A toothless, hateful laugh was

  the only reaction of the antagonist.

  Uruguay kicked off the second half and went right to work where they

  left off, straight at Leopoldo Anariba. Calix was called on early and often to

  keep the visitors from falling further behind, and the continued play in their

  defensive zone brought Renaldo into constant contact with his nemesis.

  “What the
fuck are you doing out here anyway, De Seta? Shouldn’t you

  be back in grade school by now?” was just a sample of the friendly chatter that

  Chacon would scream for all to hear during a pause in the action. He never let

  up. Every stoppage was greeted with some words of wisdom from the deformed

  defender.

  The Uruguayan players could not believe what they were hearing at first.

  None of them wanted to provoke ‘Killer’ Chacon into one of his savage moods,

  but the home side had never imagined that one of Chacon’s own teammates

  would be the butt of his stinging slurs. Eventually the comments got so

  outrageous that the Uruguayans started to break down laughing whenever

  Chacon opened his mouth. The referee warned the Argentine defender that he

  would be booked for delaying the game and unsportsmanlike conduct if he did

  not button his lip right away. That forced ‘Killer’ to adopt a new tactic.

  Renaldo was able to find a small amount of room every so often to take

  the ball across the centerline, but once on foreign turf and without Ramon

  Vida to work with, it seemed that there was never any support. Where was

  center forward Rios? Had he dug a hole to hide in? Gitares was on the bench,

  Suarez not wanting to waste his best forward on a day that he had had a

  premonition about. It told him things would go poorly across the river, so he

  acted accordingly and sat down several A squad players.

  Every advance the visitors could muster was stymied and turned aside.

  The play remained almost exclusively in the Argentine end. A Uruguayan

  free kick from thirty-five yards out at the seventy-first minute brought more

  trouble. Juan Chacon dared the young center half to join him in the wall to

  block the ball’s path. The rookie took the dare, lining up ten yards from the

  ball, arm and arm with the ‘Killer.’

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  “So what are you going to protect with your hands, my beauty, your balls

  or your face? You wouldn’t want to get la pelota smacked against your pinup

  good looks, would you? Here, let me hold your balls with one of my hands so

  that you can play hide and go seek.”

  Renaldo felt the defenders hand brush against his shorts in a mock attempt

  to grab his privates. He twisted his torso to avoid the exploring fingers. At