Renaldo

by James McCreath

  From here, he had been able to lead the cheers for the entire section and wave

  his huge blue and white flag with the Newton’s Prefect insignia in place of the

  usual shining sun. A quickly located crowbar bent the armrest sufficiently to

  allow the colonel to half squat in his usual surroundings. But the oversized

  military man and his party left in a huff just before halftime when the dull,

  erratic game between West Germany and Poland made sitting in the cramped

  confines unbearable. A final word was had with the captain before departing,

  reminding him how serious the order to remove the arm rest was.

  “If there happened to be a national crisis, I would be needed immediately

  at the Presidential Palace. Should I be delayed in the slightest by any

  ‘inconvenience’ at the stadium, it would be your head that would roll.”

  Yes, Astor Gordero was gratified that the captain had played the game

  properly. Other than the seat incident, he had thoroughly enjoyed the pomp

  and circumstance of the opening ceremonies. Massed military bands, dancers,

  balloons, and finally, doves for peace.

  Cute, very cute, he had thought to himself. But all of it, even the seat

  incident, was insignificant today. Nothing that had happened prior to this day

  mattered now! It was the day of Argentina’s first World Cup match. It was this

  team that mattered, all that mattered!

  Two questions whirled in The Fat Man’s mind as he scanned the Argentine

  players to pick out the substitutes as the teams returned to the pitch for the

  second half. Had he prepared young De Seta well enough for this moment, and

  had he planted the boy’s name firmly enough in Octavio Suarez’s mind?

  Renaldo De Seta’s recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, although

  his young client had only been back training with the team for six days and

  kicking a soccer ball for just three of those. Nevertheless, Astor Gordero was

  willing to take the lion’s share of the credit for his protégé’s unexpectedly quick

  return to the national side. After all, was it not he who had personally arranged

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  for the top therapist in the nation to visit the boy on a daily basis? And was it

  not he, Astor Gordero, who kept the boy’s emotional spirits high by delivering

  those silly love letters from Simone at precisely the right moment?

  The urgency surrounding the boy’s recovery increased dramatically

  when it became crystal clear that Nicodemo Garcia would never again wear

  an Argentine jersey. There would be an opening to fill in the starting lineup,

  and Renaldo De Seta was no good to anyone sitting on the bench. Forget the

  fact that it was highly unlikely one month ago that he would even be walking

  by this time. The Garcia incident must be exploited, and this colonel-lawyer-

  promoter knew just how to go about it.

  Astor Gordero simply gave counsel to Octavio Suarez at every possible

  opportunity, apprising the manager of his young star’s progress and helping to

  devise strategy and tactics. Suarez suffered The Fat Man’s interference calmly,

  for if he had to share his thoughts with anyone in authority, Astor Gordero

  was the best choice. At least he knew something about football and the psyche

  of the Argentine people. It was also true that should things fall apart for the

  National Team, a friend of Astor Gordero’s stature would be invaluable.

  For once, Gordero was speechless when his binoculars picked up the

  handsome, curly-haired player who was removing his warm-up suit emblazoned

  with the number seventeen. ‘El Hombre Gordo’s’ heart was in his throat.

  Suarez is putting the boy in! Lady Luck is certainly sitting with me on this day,

  the rotund one thought to himself. He had come to the stadium for this game

  dressed, not in his military splendor, but in his favorite Prefect supporter,s garb

  . . . an oversized black leather jacket crested with the Prefect’s logo, baggy blue

  jeans, and black, silver-tipped cowboy boots. A large powder-blue and white

  flag and a matching scarf completed the ensemble.

  This prominent football fan was indistinguishable from scores of others

  on this night of nights, and that is exactly how Astor Gordero wanted it. His

  entourage this evening consisted of Wolfgang Stoltz and a handful of business

  and military associates similarly dressed down for the occasion. Argentina’s

  pride and honor were about to be tested on the green grass of River Plate

  Stadium, and this battle called for real men to wear the attire of real football

  fans.

  Once The Fat Man comprehended that his client had actually been

  substituted into the game, he was speechless. The only sound that he was able

  to mutter was a trilled ‘R’ that preceded the rest of the word ‘Renaldo.’ Herr

  Stoltz looked at his employer.

  “What was that sound you just made, Astor? It sounded like

  ‘RRRRRRRenaldo.’”

  “Look, Wolfie. The boy is going into the game!” Gordero pointed a beefy

  hand in the direction of the Argentine bench. “He is truly going to play!

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  In my wildest dreams I didn’t think it was possible tonight. RRRRRRRe-

  naaaaaaaalllldo. That’s it! That’s what I said! RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo.

  Come on, Wolfie, do it with me. Maybe it will inspire the boy.”

  Herr Stoltz looked a touch bewildered, but nevertheless joined his boss in

  a long, ‘trilled R’ version of number seventeen’s name. The sound was inspiring.

  The Latin penchant for trilling their R’s made the first letter of the boy’s

  name escape the throat as an increasingly load roar. Standing in the aisle now,

  Gordero pointed to the young substitute’s name on the scoreboard and goaded

  the surrounding spectators into accompanying him in the newly anointed

  salutation. As the expression picked up more and more support, it began to

  take on a haunting, pleading nature.

  “RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

  “RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

  “RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”

  Many of the faithful knew not what they were chanting or why, for

  Renaldo De Seta was, by no means, a household name in Argentina. Since his

  injury, he had been kept totally out of the spotlight by Astor Gordero, and the

  press continued to report the initial assessment of his injury. namely, that it was

  impossible for the boy to recover in time to rejoin the National Team. But here,

  against all odds, stood Renaldo De Seta on the pitch at River Plate Stadium,

  about to play the most important forty-five minutes of football in his lifetime.

  Gordero thought of the strange Indian salve that the boy was constantly

  applying to his damaged heel. Tito had found nothing disagreeable in the

  mixture of plants, powders, and oil, so Gordero had allowed Renaldo to continue

  with the unusual remedy. Tito had come to Gordero’s office after the first week

  that the holistic medicine had been used.

  “The tendon has shown remarkable improvement, Señor Gordero. I have

  never in all my years seen anything like it. He claims that the salve was used

  by native warriors in the Pampas to soothe their bare and battle-scarred feet. If

  I were you, Señor,
I would have the mixture analyzed and patented, for I have

  no other explanation for the progress that I have seen in these seven days. It is

  truly astonishing, Señor.”

  Never one to miss a potential marketing opportunity, Gordero had Tito

  bring him one of the used lamb skin bandages that was, in turn, sent to a

  chemical laboratory for analysis. Still extremely skeptical, Astor Gordero could

  only thank his lucky stars that something had enabled his client to be standing

  on this football field, instead of watching the game at home on the couch at

  Casa San Marco.

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  RENALDO

  The foot felt adequately sound as Renaldo did short sprints and hops to

  limber up before the referee pointed to Enrique Rios and blew his whistle to

  commence the second half. He knew that the heel had never been tested in real

  action, but with any luck, the obscurity of the last month and his lack of previous

  international experience could prove to be a blessing in disguise. Surely the

  Hungarians new nothing about him. He had displayed only fleeting glimpses

  of his real talent in the few warm-up games in which he had participated, and

  hardly anyone had seen the magic that he and Ramon Vida could create when

  they were paired together.

  Behind him, the fans were shouting “Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!”

  in a quick staccato clip, but from the opposite side of the stadium came a

  strange rumbling noise. The substitute could not make out exactly what was

  being said, so he quickly tried to turn his attention back to the tender limb.

  The setting was awe-inspiring, but at the same time, somewhat distracting

  to the boy. Powder-blue and white banners and flags ringed the entire stadium.

  Ticker tape and confetti littered the warning track and often blew onto the

  pitch. One could feel that something dramatic was going to happen. It was in

  the air!

  He remembered his dear father. How proud he would be of his son, if only

  he had lived to see this day. He wanted to play well for him, for the memory

  of Peter De Seta. He also remembered that day several months ago when he

  first met Octavio Suarez and stood on this same green carpet. That morning

  he had looked up to the Football Gods in the furthest reaches of the upper

  deck. Tonight they were still there, but they appeared in the form of fanatical,

  flag-waving human beings. He hoped that those Gods would be with him

  tonight.

  The one major tactical adjustment for Renaldo was the fact that he was on

  the wing this time, not in the center of the field. Octavio Suarez had told him

  to simply patrol up and down the sideline initially, until he felt certain that

  he could run on the damaged foot. Suarez was taking a huge gamble on that

  heel. Should Renaldo go down, Argentina would have to play the remainder

  of the match with only ten men. There could be no further substitutions. The

  manager hoped that his youngest player would reaffirm his judgment and

  adapt under fire.

  That proved easier said than done in the early going. The sideline was

  a new entity for Renaldo. He found it confining at first, an inflexible barrier

  controlled by the linesman’s flag. The boy was a fast learner, however, and in

  this case, he was tutored expertly by the swift Hungarian wingers.

  Twice his red-shirted opponents gathered in the ball and left the boy in

  their shadows.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  “Wake up, you little shit!” was the warm greeting offered by Juan Chacon

  as Renaldo took his place in the goal area for the Hungarian corner kick that

  his second gaffe had produced. The third time a Magyar tried his wing, he was

  ready. He would use the sideline as an ally this time.

  Anticipating the ball’s path, Renaldo waited until the unsuspecting

  Hungarian had collected the sphere and turned to head up the line in full

  flight. Both men were within a yard of the boundary, but the Argentine had

  the preferable angle and more room to maneuver. The Hungarian could not

  proceed directly down the wing without contact. As the visitor turned slightly

  to look for a red jersey to pass to in the center of the field, a perfectly placed

  sliding foot knocked the ball back between the European’s legs and within the

  reach of the approaching Ramon Vida. With play now progressing into the

  Hungarian zone, Renaldo felt reassured that the sideline worked the same for

  both teams. It was just as difficult for his opponent to work in the limiting

  confines of its shadow as it was for him. He must use it as a friend, respect it,

  and never take it for granted.

  The undercurrent of the match began to subtly shift after about five

  minutes of play. The hard tackling of the Argentine defense, coupled with the

  brutal illegal punishment dealt out by Juan Chacon, was having the desired

  effect on the European guests. Chacon was an expert at avoiding the yellow

  card, for he would pick the opportunities to deliver his salutations only when

  the referee was occupied elsewhere. The rest of the time, a sneer, a growl, or a

  close-up look at his hideous countenance would be sufficient to intimidate an

  opponent.

  The Hungarians began to shoot the ball from further and further out,

  seldom venturing near the monster of the back line. At the other end of the

  field, things were starting to jell. The Argentines were beginning to connect

  with their passes, which gave their offense a sense of rhythm. Much maligned

  Humberto Velasquez set up Ruben Gitares twice with pinpoint relays onto

  which he could run. The second of these led to a desperation foul by an out

  maneuvered Hungarian defender. The resulting indirect free kick for the host

  nation would be taken from thirty yards out. Eighteen minutes had elapsed in

  the second half.

  The National Team had practiced several set plays for this opportunity,

  and Captain Daniele Bennett called on a piece using Miguel Cruz as the

  triggerman. Renaldo De Seta had not been included in any of the set pieces for

  obvious reasons. He took up a position at the edge of the box, just to the left

  of the Hungarian defensive wall. Ramon Vida trotted by on his way closer to

  the goal.

  “Be ready for a rebound over on this side. That pussy Cruz won’t score on

  the first shot,” was his friend’s advice.

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  At the referee’s whistle, Enrique Rios ran directly over the ball from the

  left side. Three paces behind Rios came Gitares, who flicked the ball slightly to

  the right and onto the powerful foot of the waiting Miguel Cruz.

  Cruz’s low blast sailed unobstructed into the Magyar goalkeeper’s arms,

  but Janos Toth, the keeper, was unable to find the handle. The ball squirted

  loose, sitting suspended in time for an instant in front of six disbelieving

  players. Suddenly, out of nowhere, came a solitary foot to tap the ball closer

  to the Hungarian net. That foot belonged to Renaldo De Seta, and his short

  pass landed directly on the toe of Ramon Vida’s left foot. Not a soul stood

  between Vida and the back of the net, and that is precisely where the ball was

  deposited.

  It was as if an e
xplosion had gone off in River Plate Stadium. Roaring with

  delight, seventy-five thousand voices chanted in unison, “Argentina! Argentina!

  Argentina!” Ticker tape fell from the heavens. Ramon Vida stood with his arms

  outstretched to the Gallery Gods in thanksgiving as several of his teammates

  offered congratulations. Miguel Cruz was not among them. Renaldo waited

  until Ramon was finally alone before he approached the striker.

  “Nice goal, hotshot,” Renaldo offered with a smile.

  “Nice pass, rookie. Didn’t I tell you that Cruz would fuck up? Now let’s

  go to work and show these Hunkies what you and I can really do.”

  The Hungarians were in no mood to allow their hosts to put on a soccer

  clinic, and they resorted to some blatant intimidation of their own to throw the

  Argentines off their game. The logic was that the hot-tempered Latins would

  lose their cool and open up opportunities for the visitors. That logic backfired.

  The host nation’s warriors kept their collective cool, and it was the visitors

  who became more and more frustrated as the clock wore down. Seldom did the

  red-shirts venture under the shadow of their opponent’s goal posts, for there

  in all his ugliness stood ‘Killer’ Juan Chacon. The Argentines did not take

  the bait and retaliate, but something had to happen to sway the balance of the

  game before anarchy erupted on the pitch.

  That something started with right back, Jorge Calderone. The twenty-

  seven-year-old from Newton’s Prefects was having a career night, one in which

  he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. His steadiness in the

  first half had reassured his defensive line-mates, and now with the Hungarians

  failing to press forward, he was able to use his considerable offensive skills to

  the team’s advantage.

  Time and time again, he would come upfield, spearheading the attack.

  His passes were perfection, and nearly all of the powder-blue and white sorties

  into enemy territory were the result of Calderone’s newfound freedom. With

  just six minutes left to play, the versatile fullback again found himself deep

  inside Hungarian territory in uncontested possession of the ball.

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  JAMES McCREATH

  Newton’s Prefect striker Ruben Gitares received a laser-like pass from

  his club-mate as he was streaking diagonally across the field. In one motion,