for the stuttering, bullying football that the Latins offered.
“If we are supposed to be looking for a diamond in the rough, I’m afraid
that we will never find it in this rubbish, darling!” the perturbed Lord snapped
at his daughter.
“Sit down, daddy, and keep a sharp eye, now, that’s a good chap. You are
upsetting the patrons around you with your blathering on.”
“I’m upsetting them? What about that crap down there? That’s what
should be upsetting them!” Reggie pointed to the pitch as he obediently took
his seat again.
Mallory Russell kept her eyes glued on the player wearing powder-blue
and white number seventeen. The player had been felled twice since entering
the game as a substitute after the break. She knew for a fact that it was the
same young player that had scored the two goals against Poland. The lady had
been unable to take her eyes off him during that game as well.
Renaldo, Renaldo, she kept saying his name silently to herself. She was
startled and disappointed to find him missing from the starting eleven against
the Brazilians. Mallory Russell anxiously scanned the Argentine bench to make
sure he was not injured. She was relieved to see him jogging and flexing on the
sideline. The home side manager must know more than he let on to the news-
hungry press. Managers always had that ability to confound the ‘experts’ with
their player selection. Miss Russell sincerely hoped that the player she really
came to see would make an appearance before the ninety minutes elapsed.
When Renaldo De Seta took to the pitch to start the second half of play,
Mallory was not the only person in Rosario stadium that was elated. The trilled
drone that started in the far corner of the amphitheater soon spread to the decks
and terraces.
“RRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo? Yes, that’s what they are saying! Yes, there it
is again.” The lady English football executive was duly impressed. She turned
to her statistical form book and double-checked the boy’s bio.
“Young!” she barely breathed the word. “So young to have his own
cheer.”
“What was that, love?” Reggie inquired.
“Oh, nothing, sorry.” She must try to be more objective, to watch the
entire field of play, not just that gorgeous specimen of a man wearing the black
numerals ‘one-seven.’
She felt her heart miss a beat when he was fouled in the early minutes.
The bio had referred to an Achilles’ heel injury, and there was no doubt that
the Brazilians were privy to the same information. The boy basically did not
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RENALDO
participate in the majority of play after he went down a second time, but Mallory
kept her binoculars trained on his form, particularly his damaged limb.
She was impressed with two things while the debacle of a game played
itself out. Firstly, how the Argentine players seemed to rally around their stricken
teammate and cover his space. Ramon Vida was a torrent, always coming back
to help. Humberto Velasquez had steadied after his opening jitters and was
now an authoritative force to be reckoned with. Leopoldo Anariba, for his part,
gave up the hand-to-hand combat that had dominated his thinking in the first
half. He now took more time with the ball, steering it away from the center
midfielder. It was a vision of real teamwork!
Secondly, she was impressed with the strength of the injured player’s limb.
As the game progressed, she noticed that Renaldo De Seta seemed more and
more at ease with the pain he must have been experiencing. He was always
testing the foot’s durability, performing quick sprints to work it out when the
ball was safely away. Jumps and leaps for imaginary headers often followed a
stoppage in the action.
At the cessation of hostilities, Mallory Russell kept her optical enhancers
trained on number seventeen as he limped gingerly toward the tunnel steps,
then hopped one-footed down out of sight. Her father was nattering on once
again about the “pathetic state of South American football.” She wasn’t listening
though, for her thoughts were in the future, three days in the future when she
would again occupy these same seats and watch the young man from Buenos
Aires ply his trade.
She gave a silent prayer that the boy’s foot would be full measure by the
time his team faced the Peruvians. It would take a good showing by her favorite
to convince her father that Renaldo De Seta was, in fact, the diamond for whom
they were looking. But then, she knew one thing for certain. No matter what
her father’s opinion, she had to have this handsome warrior for the Canaries . .
. and for herself!
Whiling away the hours under such pressure was something new to
Renaldo De Seta. Locked inside the team’s secretive headquarters in Rosario,
the involuntary confinement reminded him of an extra long detention back at
the Newton Academy. The tension was evident throughout the compound as
the National Team of Argentina gathered around a battery of television sets to
watch their fate unfold that bright June day.
The two early games commenced at 1:45 p.m., while the all-important
Brazil-Poland game kicked off at 3:45 p.m. Argentina would play, once again,
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JAMES McCREATH
at 7:15 in the evening. For fans throughout the country, as well as the players
involved directly, this day was to be a football feast the likes of which Argentina
had never experienced!
Renaldo preferred to stay by himself in the morning and early afternoon.
He took a solitary jog around the practice field at 8:00 a.m., then retired to his
room with a tray of fruit, juice, coffee, and breads.
The foot was adequate, adequate enough for Octavio Suarez to announce
De Seta as his starting center half at the noon-day press conference.
The boy sat on his bed slumped over his guitar in a soulful connection.
Softly strumming his favorite Jobim tunes, he would every once in a while add
off-key lyrics to the melody. His ‘do not disturb’ sign hung on the outer latch,
and for once, the world respected his request for privacy.
Strangely, Renaldo’s thoughts were not of his injury or of football at all,
for that matter. It was Simone’s image to which he played his songs of love. He
tried to recall how she looked, and especially how she felt in his arms when they
were last together, so long ago.
He was desperate to drink in the scent of her, to listen to the sound of her,
and hold her close to him once more. Not a soul knew of his anguish. Not a
soul knew how his heart ached as only a young man’s aches when he first tastes
love. So bittersweet, so tender, so full of lust!
Renaldo was mistaken, however, as to the secrecy of his emotions. He
had forgotten about one extremely obese ‘facilitator,’ who at that very moment
ignored the posted request for privacy and knocked on number seventeen’s
door.
“Renaldo! Renaldo, it’s Astor Gordero. I have something of interest that I
was asked to pass on to you today. Please open the door and give your humble
servant an audience.”
&nb
sp; Gordero rapped on the portal with his walking stick again. His client
stood in the doorway before it was necessary to strike a third time.
“My profuse apologies if I am disturbing you from something earth-
shattering, but I did feel that you might want to avail yourself of this as soon
as you possibly could. I have a premonition it may be something containing
‘inspirational stimulus!’”
He pulled a pink envelope from his portfolio and started to hand it to his
client. The Fat One suddenly withdrew the offering and looked at the younger
man.
“First, just a bit of business. How is the foot? You will be starting tonight,
and I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that there have been inquiries as
to your availability after the tournament. Inquiries from countries outside of
South America.” Gordero paused to let the last sentence sink in.
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RENALDO
“Your future, my young friend, is starting to crystallize very nicely. A
strong showing tonight could propel you into the economic stratosphere on the
transfer market. At your age, with so much of life to experience for yourself,
you would be crazy to let the opportunity pass you by.” Again The Fat Man
paused to make sure that his message was being understood.
“I will handle your mother and the education problem. One could consider
what you will be doing as ‘studying abroad.’ The world can be at your doorstep,
Renaldo. Tonight must be your night! Your foot must be strong, and your eye
must be true. Remember, head and feet as one!”
And there it was again. That ham hock fist with those chubby fingers
intertwined! Head and feet as one, head and feet as one!
The player assured his agent that the limb was close to top form, and
affirmed that the obvious importance of the forthcoming fixture had not
escaped him. As for playing abroad, that would mean leaving Argentina, his
family, and Simone. The thought had never crossed his mind until Gordero
mentioned it, and he found the notion unthinkable, even distressing.
The Rotund One pulled a chained pocket watch from the vest of his
Brooks Brothers blue pinstriped suit. He was teasing the boy now, posturing
on about football tactics while he knew that his listener had thoughts of the
pink envelope alone.
It seemed an eternity to Renaldo before the figure large enough to block
out the sun finally exited his room. The ceremonial handing over of the
envelope had been Gordero’s final parting gesture. The lovesick player inhaled
the essence held by the pink folder before delving any deeper. His knees felt
weak with expectation, and his sweaty hands trembled as he clumsily tore open
the back flap. The perfume overwhelmed him, and he collapsed back on his
bed, taking time to breathlessly focus on her written script.
‘Darling Renaldo,
I am so proud of you! I have watched every game, every minute staring at
the television for the slightest glimpse of you. Your performance against Poland
made me weak with excitement and anticipation, anticipation of the moment
we can be together again, alone!
I have been so busy with concerts and promotions and state dinners. It has
left me exhausted. It is only the vision of your handsome face that lifts up my
heart and carries me through.
I fear for your safety. The games seem so rough. When I saw you go
down against Brazil, my heart stopped. Astor told me the next day that you
were recovering nicely, but I am still worried for you. Astor also told me that
the game against Peru could be a big stepping-stone in your career if you have
a good night. He said you might be able to use some extra inspiration, so he
has flown me to Rosario to watch you play tonight. How do you like that
surprise?’
40
JAMES McCREATH
Renaldo had to stop reading. “Simone, here in Rosario? In the stands tonight?
Here to watch me play? My God, it’s incredible!”
He held the letter to his chest and imagined her cheering as he scored the
winning goal. That would be heaven on earth.
“Simone, Simone!” He dared to let his eyes continue on their journey.
‘I wish you all the luck in the world tonight, my love. Please know that
I will be there to cheer you on. Hold that thought in your heart to give you
strength and protection.
I would love to see you following the game, but I must return to the
capital immediately afterwards. I now have to prepare for the special ceremonies
preceding the World Cup final. They have told me that I will be performing in
front of the largest television audience in world history! It makes me nervous
even thinking about it.
Take heart, dear Renaldo. My thoughts are constantly with you. I will be
praying for a victory tonight that will bring you back to Buenos Aires for the
championship game and into my arms.
Until that moment, I await you anxiously,
Con amore, Simone.’
It was two hours later that Ramon Vida stood knocking on Renaldo De
Seta’s door.
“Hey, man, open up. Suarez sent me to get you. You’re late for the team
meeting, and the boss is pissed. What the fuck are you doing in there, man?
You got some chicks in there or something? Come on, open up!”
A disoriented and disheveled Renaldo De Seta appeared in the doorway.
Vida was past him and into the room in a flash.
“So, where is she, man? Where’s the dolly, the quim, the
puuuuusssssyyyyy?”
“There’s no puuusssy here, Ramon. I fell asleep and forgot to set my alarm.
That’s all. Come on, I’m ready to go. Sorry.”
Number seventeen quickly buttoned and tucked in his shirt, slipped on
his loafers, and stuffed Simone’s letter in his jeans pocket.
The missive had sent him to a Utopian land of milk and honey, and he
knew that he would be there still were it not for the rude knock of reality on
his door. Astor Gordero’s visit had thrown his studied pregame routine into a
tailspin. Thoughts and images he never before imagined flew through his brain
as he tried to concentrate on Suarez’s instructions.
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RENALDO
Simone was most prominently in his mind, but the unusual notion of
cutting his mother’s apron strings for fame and fortune in a foreign land kept
recurring. Had Gordero struck a nerve at the right time in his young life? The
thought was as compelling as it was frightening.
The Pandora’s box of emotions was hard to exorcise to make room for the
immediate task of the hour. It was only after the Argentine team bus pulled into
view of Rosario Central Stadium with its flags, banners, and raucous fanatics
that Renaldo was able to come to grips with the present. He felt that a good
showing here tonight would allow him to take charge of his life, to become a
man. A man that was worthy of loving the most famous woman in Argentina.
“So be it, head and feet as one!”
The burglar could still not believe his good fortune. He had been a
resident at the comfortable summer home of the Jimenez family for five nights,
and he had remained undisturbed as Peru kicked
off against Argentina on the
night of the twenty-first of June.
The large, two-story frame ‘cottage’ sat on the shore of one of the Delta’s
more fashionable islands, but as this was the off-season, it and all the adjacent
summer retreats were boarded up and deserted. That suited the uninvited guest
perfectly. No one had come by to make him take flight prematurely, for what
the intruder needed was time. Time to make the assassins that were after his
head give up their hunt in the Tigre area and move on to search elsewhere.
The cottage was adequately stocked with dry goods and canned foodstuffs.
The electrical power had been shut down, and the visitor was careful not to
turn on the main breaker switch unless it was to quickly cook some food or
to watch the news and sports report on the old television set. He had made up
his mind to move on in the morning, for extending his stay could prove to be
hazardous to his health. No sense pressing one’s luck, and besides, it was really
the football match that had kept him in these cozy surroundings this long.
Yes, Lonnie De Seta considered himself lucky to be able to sit back and
take in his little brother’s starting performance against Peru. In fact, Lonnie
considered himself lucky to be alive.
He had drifted out into the middle of the channel and floated downstream
with the current that deadly night of the sixteenth. There was no attempt
to follow his nautical course. Celeste’s killers must have been so sure of their
success that they had overlooked a maritime escape route and were unprepared
to take to the waterways in pursuit. Lonnie rationalized that they may never
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have discovered that the fugitive had made his getaway by canoe. In any event,
no one had come searching around the Jimenez cottage for him . . . yet.
He had spent that first night deep inside the meandering canals that
snake through the Delta islands. Lush tropical foliage made it easy for him
to paddle his canoe behind an outcropping of vegetation whenever he felt the
need for complete privacy. There were no sounds at all that night as he lay on
the floor of the canoe and tried to rationalize his situation. Tears of regret and
anguish flowed freely down his cheeks as the events of the past months swept
over him.
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