Renaldo

by James McCreath

that instant, the ball struck the player’s shoulder who was locked onto number

  seventeen’s right arm. As that player, big Ignacio Suazo, recoiled from the

  direct hit, he pulled the smaller rookie off balance before they could unlock

  themselves. Renaldo felt totally out of control. Chacon maintained his lock

  hold on the left side, and Suazo was falling to earth and taking him along on

  the right side.

  The twisting tumble was bad enough, but just as the center half hit the

  ground, a piercing sting shot through the back of his left heel. Chacon gave

  the boy a less than affectionate shove to free himself and headed back to his

  defensive position. Suazo pushed Renaldo off his chest and scrambled to his

  feet. The rookie tried to right himself and rise, but as soon as he put pressure

  on his left foot, the heel exploded once again. Renaldo called out in anguish.

  “My heel! Someone . . . you bastard, Chacon! You cleated my Achilles’

  heel! I can’t get up. Damn . . . someone, help me up!”

  Play had been halted, and for a second time, the stretcher bearers were

  forced to do their frightful calling. Ramon Vida had to be physically restrained

  by his teammates on the bench. The boy from Boca had sensed trouble the

  minute De Seta and Chacon had lined up side-by-side in the wall. But he was

  not the only one to witness the foul deed that had transpired after the kick.

  Octavio Suarez was, for once, powerless to avoid this disaster. These two

  men were teammates for the National Team of Argentina. The manager had

  idealistically hoped that they would temporarily put aside their petty differences

  and play together for their nation. No such luck. Chacon was indispensable on

  the back line, and the boy had real talent, even if it was in a substituting role.

  They had to learn to play together, or so Suarez had hoped up until the free

  kick. Chacon wanted the younger man gone, banished from the team, and it

  looked as if he had achieved his goal.

  There were tears in Renaldo’s eyes as he was carried off the pitch to the

  stadium infirmary. Ramon Vida was at his side, clutching his friend’s right

  hand.

  “I’m going to kill that animal. Don’t worry about a thing. If you can’t

  play in the World Cup, he sure as hell isn’t going to play either. I promise you,

  amigo. I will set things right!”

  “Don’t, Ramon, please don’t do anything stupid. You can make this team.

  Don’t do anything that would jeopardize your chances of that happening. He’s

  not worth it!”

  261

  JAMES McCREATH

  “I’ve come up against scum like him before, man, and do you know where

  they are now? Six feet under the ground! That asshole doesn’t scare me. He’s

  just an ugly bully. I have a thirty-eight magnum that I’m going to introduce

  him to. We’ll see how brave he is then. The stupid cocksucker!”

  “That’s smart, really smart, Ramon. So instead of being on the field at

  River Plate Stadium next month, you will be in a jail cell or worse. Don’t do

  this, my friend. It is craziness!”

  “People like him don’t deserve to live, man. They make a beautiful sport

  as ugly as they are. You forget about him and get your foot back in shape.

  I’ll spare his miserable life if you can get back on the field by the start of the

  tournament. But if you’re gone for good, I’ll waste the bastard. On the Holy

  Virgin’s name, I swear it!”

  Eight days later, back across the Rio de la Plata, the final act in Renaldo’s

  downward spiral was played out. The medical news had been bad. He had

  a partially torn Achilles’ tendon, not ruptured, thank God, but still painful

  enough to necessitate crutches. There was no active cure to speed up the healing

  process, no surgery, no miracle antibiotic, nothing! Only rest and painkillers.

  “Stay off that foot for the next two weeks,” the team orthopedic surgeon

  had told him. And so he had. Away from the training facility, his teammates,

  and the game he loved. Octavio Suarez had sent him home, home to his mother,

  as many had predicted.

  “I do this to cleanse your mind, as well as your body. Away from the

  afflictions that you have been forced to suffer at the hands of those who would

  pretend to wear the National Team jersey with honor and good sportsmanship,”

  Suarez had said as the boy slipped out of the compound unseen, on the night

  after their return from Montevideo. Coach Luque was to drive him directly to

  Casa San Marco. Only Astor Gordero had been apprised of the move. He had

  concurred with Suarez’s decision.

  “I am not blind, son. I am aware of everything that has gone on here. But

  in sport, as in life, it is better to fend for yourself without external interference.

  Respect will be your ultimate reward. If you can concentrate all your energies

  on the recuperation of that heel without having to play their mind games,

  then I think that we will see you back here before the tournament begins. The

  physio specialist will see you on a daily basis. Work hard, concentrate. Do not

  let yourself get distracted by hatred. I will call you in a week. Good luck.”

  With that, he shut the back door of the car and disappeared into the

  shadows, for he had his own demons to deal with.

  262

  RENALDO

  The 2-0 loss in Uruguay had turned the whole nation on its collective

  ear. Not only was their team no longer undefeated, but the naysayers, doubters,

  and pessimists were jumping off the euphoric bandwagon at a frantic pace.

  No matter that two players were carried off the field on stretchers, both with

  possible career-ending injuries. No matter that the home side had played ninety

  minutes of flawless football in front of a vocal, supportive crowd.

  ‘Pretenders’ blared the headline of the Clarín. La Nacion trumpeted

  ‘Without Garcia, We Are Doomed.’ The bubble had burst, and everyone was

  second guessing Octavio Suarez. There were even calls for his ousting by some

  of his old, but still influential detractors. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed and

  nothing was changed, thanks largely to some vigorous behind-the-scenes

  lobbying by Astor Gordero.

  It pained Suarez greatly to send his youngest player home. While Renaldo

  had remained stoic and never complained to anyone of his treatment at the

  hands of the Independiente roughnecks, the manager knew that there was a

  much better chance of Renaldo returning to full form if he didn’t have to put

  up with any of their bullshit. The game movies were inconclusive in laying the

  blame for the center half’s injury at Juan Chacon’s doorstep. All that could be

  seen was a man in the defensive wall, Ignacio Suazo, lurching backwards after

  the ball had struck his shoulder, and in doing so, twisting the unfortunate

  De Seta to the ground. Chacon’s legs and feet were not visible to the camera

  because of the falling torsos that blocked the view.

  ‘Killer’ had gotten away with another one, or so he had bragged to his

  club team compatriots. Octavio Suarez had witnessed the blasphemous act with

  his own eyes though. He didn’t need movie film. The manager would wait and

  pick his opportunity to have a little heart-t
o-heart with his feared defender.

  Maximum effect. That’s the way Octavio Suarez operated. Wait until you can

  achieve maximum effect. Then fire away with both barrels!

  “I never realized how much I wanted to be a part of all this until it was

  taken away from me,” a downcast Renaldo mumbled to himself as he sat alone,

  transfixed to the tiny black-and-white images on the screen.

  His mother had welcomed her youngest son home with a ‘I told you so!’

  attitude. Florencia De Seta was elated that the timely injury had come just as

  the university term was getting into full swing.

  “A bright boy like you can make up for the work you’ve missed in no

  time. I have kept in touch with the registrar, and a small donation to their

  scholarship fund has surprisingly kept one placement open, just for you.”

  There was no need to argue with her at the moment, for any talk about

  returning to the team would seem like nothing but fantasy. Especially as he

  was still unable to put any weight at all on the extremity. What he was about

  to watch on the television screen that afternoon did nothing to lift his spirits or

  make his return to sporting glory more likely.

  263

  JAMES McCREATH

  This was a vastly different Argentine eleven, even though most of the

  names were the same. Somehow, they had been transformed. They were now

  fluid, poetic, deadly. Gone were the tentative bumblers of Montevideo. In their

  place stood men who demonstrated the pace and rhythm at which the game

  was meant to be played. Attacking football, beautiful football!

  The stadium crowd roared its approval after the first home goal at the six-

  minute mark, and the noise never subsided from that point on. It was as if the

  fans considered this match to be a dress rehearsal for the big show that was still

  a month away. No carnival in Rio could be more raucous than this!

  A second goal at thirty-four minutes and a third at sixty-seven made the

  final tally 3-0 Argentina. The naysayers would be crawling all over each other

  trying to jump back on the bandwagon after this result. What had Suarez said

  to them? What rabbits had he magically pulled out of his hat to provoke such

  a first-class display? Renaldo wished with all his heart that he could be a part

  of it again.

  A look at the score sheet was further reason to worry. All three goals had

  come off the feet of Miguel Cruz, who, even before the television broadcast went

  off the air, was being heralded as “The New Argentine Scoring Machine.” Cruz

  had been lucky, if not all that deadly. He was put through on a breakaway by

  Jorge Calderone, when a poorly organized offside trap went awry on the visitors.

  He then eluded a diving keeper and waltzed home the last ten yards with no

  one in pursuit. Two strange bounces off defensive players landed the ball at the

  Independiente player’s feet with the gaping goalmouth unobstructed for his

  second. But Cruz’s third marker could be attributed directly to the muscle of

  his brother-in-law, ‘Killer’ Chacon.

  Ramon Vida had played effectively at center forward the entire game.

  While he hadn’t figured in the first two goals, he had barely missed several

  good chances and was a constant thorn in the Uruguayan defender’s side. With

  just over twenty minutes left to play, Vida was set free up the middle, again

  by the precise foot of Jorge Calderone. Three strides inside the penalty area,

  two visiting defenders converged to foul the Argentine. The referee pointed

  immediately to the spot.

  Vida was on his feet at once and walking toward the ball to complete the

  task when Chacon latched onto his left arm.

  “I want my brother-in-law to score a hat trick today, amigo, and if you

  really think about it, that is what you want, too,” the ugly defender suggested

  to Vida as he led the smaller man away from the penalty spot with an iron

  grip.

  “Fuck you and your brother-in-law! That is my penalty, and I am going

  to take the shot.”

  The Boca player tried to wrench his arm free, but the grip was

  unflinching.

  264

  RENALDO

  “I said, I want Miguel to take that shot! Now shut up, you little shit, or

  you’ll end up like your girly friend, Renaldo.”

  “You ugly bastard, I’ll fix your . . .”

  Their conversation was drowned out in the exultation of Cruz’s third goal.

  The center half hadn’t hesitated, simply stepping up to the spot as if it were

  his divine right and blasting the ball past a stationary Uruguayan goalkeeper.

  Done, hat trick! Welcome the ‘New Argentine Scoring Machine.’

  For Renaldo De Seta, it was the bleakest of moments. Cruz did have a lock

  on the center half position. Sewn up, no problem, no contest! Everyone would

  be singing his praises come the morning, talking about what a team he and

  Nico Garcia would be. The invalid’s heart ached as he hobbled up the stairs

  to his bed that evening. He had come so close. Now, there was little reason for

  hope.

  Renaldo took breakfast alone in the garden the next morning. Florencia

  had already departed on her day’s agenda by the time the former National

  Team member emerged, showered, and dressed. As he sat in the warm solace of

  the late fall sun, his thoughts drifting between school and football, there was a

  tapping sound on the glass door behind him.

  “Señor Renaldo, excuse me for interrupting, but may I have a word with

  you?”

  “Yes, of course. What’s on your mind, Oli? What is it? Come and sit

  down.” He pulled his body upright in the lounge chair as the elderly maid

  approached.

  “Thank you, Señor Renaldo, but I will stand. I hope that you do not think

  me too forward, but Olarti said that I should talk to you.”

  “Don’t be shy, Oli. We have known each other too long for that. What is

  it?”

  “You see, Señor Renaldo, my people, the Querandi Indians . . . my people

  grew up on the Pampas. That is where we flourished and multiplied. We were

  able to hunt without barbed wire fences and soldiers on horseback with guns.”

  Renaldo sensed a faint tone of bitterness and disgust in the old woman’s

  voice that he had never heard before. He nodded for her to continue.

  “My people did not have horses, only our bare feet in the beginning, and

  our feet had to serve us well. They were our only means of transportation.

  I remember my grandmother anointing my grandfather’s feet with oil and

  massaging them for hours. Even by the time wild horses became plentiful

  on the Pampas, many of my people still relied on their feet to hunt and to

  fight. When a warrior had a problem with his feet, the medicine elders of the

  tribe would put him on a strict diet of certain herbs and juices, and place a

  secret poultice on the painful area. Many times I have seen them do this, Señor

  Renaldo, and many times the area of pain is on the back of the heel, the same

  265

  JAMES McCREATH

  as you. Olarti knows of a man, a man who still practices his medicine and lives

  on the Pampas near Pergamino. Olarti thinks that you should go with him to

  see this medicine man.
Olarti thinks that he can help you, make you well again

  for the football.”

  Renaldo was flattered by her concern for his condition, but dismissed the

  idea offhand as something associated with black magic or witch doctors. He

  thanked her warmly, but stated that he had at his disposal the most up-to-date

  technology and research on his injury. His healing would be supervised and

  administered by the most knowledgeable doctors Argentina could assemble,

  the doctors of its National Soccer Team. Oli did not seem upset at this rebuff

  and simply wished him good luck with a caring smile, then cleared away his

  breakfast dishes.

  The morning talk with his old and trusted servant kept reappearing in

  his mind throughout the balance of the day, however. Olarti had brought the

  daily newspapers for Renaldo to read, and a front-page picture of Miguel Cruz

  with the caption, ‘Señor Goal’ did nothing to raise his spirits. Florencia had

  reappeared at siesta time with a list of medical texts and the first-year medicine

  course outline. She had obviously paid another visit to the Newton Academy’s

  medical registrar, who, once again, had been most helpful, providing her

  with the literature to allow Renaldo to commence his studies at home while

  convalescing. She instructed her youngest son to complete the marked forms

  and check off the list of course options. Olarti would pick up the required texts

  at the university bookstore tomorrow.

  Florencia once again told her son how happy she was that he was finished

  with ‘this football business,’ and informed him that she would be out that

  evening at the theater and dinner with Wolfgang Stoltz. In a light, almost

  euphoric tone of voice, she suggested that he invite over some of his old school

  friends for dinner.

  “This will provide you with some company, and also an opportunity for

  some scholastically oriented conversation,” she had quipped. The lady didn’t

  wait for a response to her suggestion, but simply pecked the boy on his cheek

  as he lay on the sofa. Then she was gone, and Renaldo was alone again.

  After being with people constantly the past two and a half months, the

  solitude of Casa San Marco was unnerving for the ex-National Team player.

  His mother was hardly ever home, a development brought about by the sudden

  romantic interests of Herr Wolfgang Stoltz. That she had reciprocated with her