Renaldo

by James McCreath

  For the first time, the thought of ending the ordeal by his own hand

  passed through his mind. Yes, it was an alternative better than torture, or a

  life in one of those abysmal junta prisons. He still carried a cyanide pill in his

  hollowed out tooth for expressly that purpose. If all else failed, suicide could be

  considered, but not yet, not now.

  There was still the chance that he could make it to his bank in the

  capital. Once he had made it that far without being detected, he could pick

  up his identification and credit cards from the safety deposit box, withdraw a

  substantial amount of money from his bank account, and flee Argentina forever.

  What Lonnie needed now was time to let his trail get cold, and that meant

  staying out of sight and away from any form of civilization.

  He remained in his sylvan surroundings until darkness the following night,

  when he cautiously continued his silent journey. The fugitive knew exactly

  where he was headed, for he had been familiar with these waterways since his

  youth. He had dated a girl long ago that owned one of the seasonal retreats just

  along from the Jimenez cottage. There was a good possibility that one of those

  structures could afford him the sanctuary he so desperately required.

  Lonnie’s only possessions were crammed into his dirty chinos. A wallet

  containing false identification, the key to the safety deposit box, and a few

  hundred pesos lay in his back pocket. Under his belt buckle rested the Llama

  pistol. He hoped with all his heart that he would have to use only the contents

  of the wallet, not the pistol, to reach Buenos Aires and continue his flight to

  freedom.

  For a fleeting moment, the pole atop Central Stadium bearing the national

  flag of Argentina stood perfectly silhouetted in the glaring full moon. It was

  the first sight witnessed by Renaldo De Seta as he took the field of play for this

  World Cup semifinal game.

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  A full moon with our national flag nestled inside it. Certainly a good omen,

  number seventeen thought to himself as he pranced nervously in his warm-up

  jacket prior to the national anthems being played. Its bright beams will guide us

  to the mother-lode!

  Such was the unabashed confidence of the young and talented center

  halfback. And well it should have been, for ‘the mother-lode’ was exactly what

  the Argentine National Team needed to find on this bejeweled evening.

  Four clear goals against any of the World Cup contenders was a tall order.

  Against Peru, the team that had dispatched the Scots from the tournament

  licking their inadequacies, overconfidence on the part of the home side could

  be disastrous. Even though the men of the Andes had already lost to Brazil 3-

  0 and Poland 1-0 in the second round, they were still a team to be taken very

  seriously.

  The North American professional leagues had sent their scouts to the

  southern reaches in search of new heroes to help fill their stadiums. Several of

  the Peruvians had been mentioned in the press as being slated for a financially

  rewarding trip north. These men in red shirts and white shorts were playing for

  their futures, and instead of stars, they saw dollar signs in the sky that night.

  It was black stockings and black shorts for the men in the powder-blue

  and white vertical stripes again. Octavio Suarez was impressed with the ornery

  attitude that his tactic had produced against the Brazilians, and he was hoping

  that the somber shade would have the same effect this night.

  It was the Peruvians that stormed the barricades at the outset, however.

  Junior Calix was called upon to save the national pride three times in the

  opening minutes. There was a cocksure defiance to the red team’s game.

  The Argentine defenders were cement-footed spectators to some of the most

  proficient passing of the whole extravaganza to date. Suarez bit his nails on the

  sidelines, waiting for the true home side to come out of the closet.

  The manager would only have to wait ten minutes for the talent he knew

  existed in his charges to surface. The Peruvian attack became predictable, always

  the same players coming forward at the Argentine defenders. That meant a less

  than warm welcome from Juan Chacon, and he made short work of any red

  sweater that came within his range of contact.

  The opening flurry by the visitors gave them a good taste of ‘Killer’

  Chacon’s style of hospitality. Octavio Suarez had seen the ensuing result in

  other games where the surly defender’s opponents lacked true motivation and

  the ‘victory at any cost’ mind-set. It was not long before the men from the north

  tired of the physical punishment being dealt out by number eight of the host

  nation. As one quarter hour of play elapsed, the initial spirit and sheer love

  of the game seemed to have disappeared from the red shirt’s demeanor. No

  longer did they venture under the shadows of the Argentine woodwork. Their

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  passes started to misfire, and their shots were taken from an increasing longer

  distance.

  The Argentine boss knew that The Ugly One had single-handedly

  changed the course of the match. The French referee was an unaffected onlooker

  to the punishment meted out by the grotesque back-liner. Juan Chacon had

  cast a sorcerer’s spell on the Peruvian nationals, a spell that would last the

  remaining seventy-five minutes of football. It was a belligerent, bruising, one-

  man defensive spectacle that would prove to be the penultimate performance

  of his career.

  Yet Juan Chacon’s stellar showing would be overshadowed this night in

  Rosario. The seams in the visitors’ defensive formations came apart the minute

  the red shirts started to lay back in the midfield. Challenges were now uniformly

  won by the hosts, and offensive thrusts deep inside Peruvian territory became

  more and more frequent.

  The two Argentine outside defenders had been given permission to come

  forward with the play. This tactic would enhance the all-out offensive thrust

  that would be needed to produce four goals. Captain Daniele Bennett and Jorge

  Calderone used their new freedom with great zeal, and their timely runs and

  sure passes drew in the red defenders, opening space for the other powder-blue

  and white marksmen.

  Renaldo’s foot was holding up solidly after a few skirmishes. Tonight’s

  opposition had not tried to drive him hobbling from the pitch as the Brazilians

  had. The longer the game went on, the more chance number seventeen had to

  test the limb’s strength and resiliency. He could feel himself growing stronger

  and more confident with every touch of the ball.

  At the twenty-minute mark, Humberto Velasquez undressed a Peruvian

  midfielder at the sideline and sent a nifty relay ten yards upfield to Ruben

  Gitares. The league-leading goal scorer beat a hasty path deep into the Peruvian

  corner, but found himself covered by three red-shirts. Center forward Ramon

  Vida was the closest player to Gitares, but there was an opponent shadowing

  Vida so closely that the winger delayed his pass for an instant.

  Suddenly, a pale-blue strea
k appeared just beyond Vida, charging for the

  penalty area.

  “There now, take this and fly, baby!” Ruben Gitares called out as he

  directed the sphere diagonally back across the pitch. Twenty-five yards away,

  Renaldo De Seta could see his gift arriving. He thought for a split second of

  Simone in the stands watching, but then it was down to business. As he gathered

  in the ball and strode toward the unprotected keeper, the phrase flashed in his

  mind like a neon billboard. Head and feet as one! Head and feet as one!

  Vida and Gitares were bulling forward to the goal, drawing attention and

  creating diversion. Renaldo had a clear shot with only the keeper to beat. He

  was inside the penalty area now, but fearful of shooting too soon.

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  Hold it, hold it, let the keeper make his move! The young player’s inner voice

  seemed to be guiding his every gesture now.

  Watch for your opening, have a true eye and a strong foot. Easy, there it is.

  Now!

  Fifteen yards out, the Peruvian keeper left his feet to lunge at the

  approaching attacker. It seemed a half-hearted effort to Renaldo, for the ball

  eluded this last defender’s grasp by several feet. For a moment, number seventeen

  felt his stomach turn as his shot came perilously close to hitting the far post.

  But his aim was true, and the little bit of English that his right foot had put on

  the shot allowed it to tuck nicely just inside the upright. His thoughts flashed

  back to Simone as the scorer was engulfed by jubilant teammates. He realized

  then just how much he wanted to go back to Buenos Aires to play in the

  championship game and to hold her in his arms as his championship trophy.

  Argentina had opened a crack in the door, but it was by no means sufficient

  to earn them advancement. The pressure had to be constant on the ambiguous

  Peruvian defenders, and the men in the powder-blue and white vertical stripes

  set about its application with abandon. It seemed as if every warrior on the home

  side wanted to add to the margin personally, for the surge forward, even by the

  fullbacks, was overwhelming. What the world was witnessing happened to be

  a South American team playing the overworked catch phrase, ‘total football.’

  ‘Total football’ was thought to be the exclusive domain of the Dutch when

  it was introduced in 1974 in West Germany. The Orangemen had enthralled

  the world with their fluid, all-encompassing style of play. It was entertaining

  to watch, and the fact that the Netherlands fell two goals short of the World

  Championship had done nothing to diminish or dissuade its disciples.

  Now, Argentina was throwing every man into the attack, and it seemed

  that only Peruvian goaler Jaime Allianza was interested in keeping the score

  respectable. The poor Allianza had little or no help from his leaden teammates

  as the home team gunners descended upon him.

  Two minutes before the interval, a corner kick taken by Ruben Gitares

  curled twenty yards away from the goal line. Pursuant to the strategy of the

  day, six-foot-four-inch Ignacio Suazo had come forward to lend a helping hand.

  In this case, he lent his head to the cause, pounding the ball down to earth

  two yards in front of keeper Allianza. The Peruvian moved too late, and the

  precious leather was behind him into the goal before he hit the deck.

  Suazo could not believe his good fortune, for he was not a polished scorer

  at the best of times. In fact, his ‘near misses’ had become a good-natured joke

  among his teammates. The team had practiced headers once with no keeper

  in the net, and Suazo had missed ten out of ten shots. They had presented the

  good-natured River Plate defender with a ‘golden skull award’ at dinner that

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  evening, and the mood of mirth and camaraderie that the silliness produced

  was a tangible factor in their newfound cohesiveness.

  Good things often come to those who suffer in silence, so now, Ignacio

  Suazo was being swarmed by his teammates and lifted aloft. He would go to

  the dressing room feeling more elated than at any time in his life.

  Those moonbeams even helped Suazo! thought Renaldo De Seta as the home

  side exited the pitch. With half the game to play, Argentina was halfway to

  salvation.

  The beautiful Symca had enjoyed the drama and atmosphere of the first

  half immensely, despite the fact that her focus had been strictly one dimensional.

  She could not take her eyes off of number seventeen in the powder-blue and

  white jersey. There were just so many things about Renaldo De Seta that had

  a disarming effect on her.

  His traffic-stopping good looks were obvious. Then there was the way his

  body moved when he ran with the ball, so confident and graceful. His powerful

  strides exuded sexuality. His shyness in real life, his sensitivity, his youthful

  naiveté. His touch, and especially the enduring sensation of him pressed against

  her.

  She had been with other men, but none of them had inspired her like this

  man. Her suitors had always been older, more experienced in the ways of love.

  But Simone had been a good student, and the fantasy of being the teacher for

  once kept her awake at night. She wanted with all her heart to be with him this

  moonlit night, but it could not be. Her solace was the fact that she knew they

  would be reunited in the capital within days, and she had conceived a plan to

  make the experience special.

  Simone Yvonne Montana Carta-Aqua would pick her timing carefully for

  the opening of her new school. It would be a finishing school for her one student,

  and that student had only one goal to achieve in acquiring his diploma. The

  teacher would set an exacting curriculum, but in the end, the student would be

  finished with boyhood forever, for she was going to turn him into a man!

  Octavio Suarez was on the alert for those invisible ‘gremlins of the interval.’

  He sat with each of the starting eleven to gauge their strength and spirit. His

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  team was still two goals shy of reaching nirvana, and he had options to consider

  regarding his two substitutions. Should he throw in fresh horses for the run

  down the stretch? Proven finishers Bottaniz, Pastor, and yes, even the newly

  dentured Miguel Cruz were available to insert.

  Minutes before taking the field, the manager stood alone in his tiny office.

  He was out of sight, but with the door open. His arms were wrapped around

  his torso, head drooping on his chest, eyes closed, listening, listening. He had

  heard ‘the buzz’ before, ‘the buzz’ that a group of men that are harmonious in

  their destiny can make. Winners! It was in the dressing room right now. He

  could hear it as the voices intertwined to make ‘the buzz.’ He could feel its

  presence in that room.

  “Winners!” Suarez mumbled. He raised his head, eyes now open and full

  of fire. “Winners!” he shouted above ‘the buzz’ for all to hear. The starting

  roster would remain unchanged!

  The manager had some doubt about his good vibrations in the opening

  minutes of the second half, however. The Peruvians had refound their skill
s

  and panache during the break, and they pressed the game into the Argentine

  danger zone. Some fancy footwork and ball control confused the powder-blue-

  and-white-striped shirts for a time, but sooner or later, one had a feeling that

  number eight of the hosts would make his special presence felt.

  Peruvian striker Hector Diaz had been pleased with his World Cup

  performance to date. He had scored twice against the Scots and wrung up

  another deuce against Iran in the first round of play. Furthermore, he had

  been praised by his manager and the press back home for his tireless showings

  against Poland and Brazil in the second round. He had no doubt that one more

  goal tonight against Argentina would etch his name in the minds of the North

  American talent agents.

  Hector Diaz longed to play for the Cosmos in New York City. His dream

  was to be counted among the soccer elite of the world. Unfortunately, he would

  be counted out for the duration of the match after leaping for a header just a

  tad too close to Juan Chacon.

  No one saw a blow struck or any impropriety committed at all by The

  Ugly One. The two players simply went up for the ball at the same time, became

  entangled, and fell to earth with the larger Chacon on top of the Peruvian.

  No injustice was evidenced through the tangle of legs and bodies that

  surrounded the fallen warriors as the play swirled around them. Chacon was

  up almost at once, the red-shirted player remaining prone on the green carpet.

  Smelling salts revived the groggy striker, but he was carried from the pitch by

  stretcher after being unable to count to five. It would mark the end of the first

  and final offensive thrust that Peru would mount that second half of play.

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  At the forty-eight minute mark, Ruben Gitares lofted a free kick goalward

  from just to the right of the penalty area twenty yards out. Renaldo De Seta,

  the tallest man on the front line, trapped the ball on his chest and shrugged

  it toward teammate Ramon Vida. Four red-clad Peruvians converged on the

  center forward, but before any were within striking distance, the boy from Boca

  calmly flicked-on the volley with his right foot.

  Number seventeen had faded to his left and dropped back a few yards

  to remain onside after the relay. He was in a perfect position for Vida’s return