JAMES McCREATH
“Is it true that you will demand five million American dollars to stay in
your homeland to play this season, or will you give it all up to go back to school
as has been speculated?”
“Renaldo, how about the ladies? Is it true that you have had several
hundred proposals of marriage from complete strangers since the tournament
began?”
On and on it went. Late arriving reporters repeated questions already
asked. Flashbulbs from photographers’ cameras constantly popped in the boy’s
face, to the point that his vision was blurred and spotted. The half hour could
not have ended soon enough for number seventeen, and when Octavio Suarez
finally demanded that the room be cleared, Argentina’s goal-scoring maestro
slumped back against the metal partition of his dressing area, too exhausted to
move. Ramon Vida finally coaxed him into getting his act in gear.
“So, Señor golden balls, come on. We have to get moving. Estes Santos
told me that there will be five gorgeous women for every team member at the
gala. After being locked up for over a month, I think I will take on my five and
then any that you have left over. So don’t keep a horny man waiting. Get that
cute little ass of yours into the shower and let’s go!”
“OK, OK, Señor Casanova. Put a muzzle on that loaded weapon of yours
until we get downtown, or I will be afraid to bend over if I drop the soap in
there!”
Vida extended a hand and pulled his partner to his feet. For the first time
since they were crowned champions of the world, the two men embraced.
“We did pretty fucking good out there today, amigo. Wait until those
English get an eyeful of what you and I can do together. We’ll be the crown
princes of the empire! Pip, pip, jolly good! Isn’t that how they talk?”
Renaldo smiled at his friend’s attempted English accent and vocabulary.
“I guess so, Ramon, sometimes at least. I still haven’t decided what I’m
going to do about leaving Argentina. It is a heavy subject that will take some
time to figure out.” Renaldo could see the disbelief in his friend’s eyes.
“Hell, man, you can’t walk away from an opportunity like this. Forget
about the money part. Just think about the experience of fucking all those
lovely English girls. They all want to have hot Latin lovers. I will show them
tricks that their uptight English men haven’t even thought of yet. Pip, Pip, jolly
good fuck old chap! Damn right!”
Renaldo laughed at the Boca Boy’s gutter humor as he made his way
to the showers. He had to admit that the urge to seek his fortune in another
part of the world had been tugging at his heartstrings the more he mulled the
possibility over in his mind. But right now, there was only one subject that he
preferred to ruminate on, and his thoughts of seeing the vivacious Simone in an
hour or so tugged at a part of his anatomy several degrees south of his heart.
486
RENALDO
What would normally have been a twenty-minute cab ride from the
stadium to the Hotel Presidente on Calle Nuevo de Julio at Avenida Córdoba
took almost two hours to complete. The National Team bus could only snail
through the never-ending phalanx of powder-blue-and-white-clad vehicles of
every description. Anything that had a motor and wheels was pressed into
service as an unofficial motorcade for the men of the hour. The police escort
was quickly surrounded and augmented by jubilant Argentines hoping to get
a glimpse of their heroes.
The closer the procession got to their final destination, the crazier the
party seemed to get. The streets were absolutely jammed with revellers utilizing
every form of noisemaker known to man to demonstrate their elation. Ticker
tape and streamers rained down upon the crowd from the high-rise towers,
giving the effect of a northern hemisphere snow storm. But the real white stuff
wouldn’t have stood a chance of survival on the streets of Buenos Aires this
Sunday night, for the atmosphere at ground level was hotter than Hades.
The National Team bus had been well stocked with liquid refreshments
and food for the anticipated slow journey to the gala. All the players thoroughly
enjoyed themselves, soaking up the sights and sounds of a city gone over the
edge. Even an impatient Ramon Vida rationalized that it would give the lovely
ladies waiting at the Hotel Presidente time to get ‘really hot’ for the objects of
their desire.
At last, shortly after ten in the evening, the coveted coach pulled up to
the rear service entrance of the hotel. The players were given a few minutes
in the staff changing area to spruce up their appearances, and in some cases,
to splash water on their already inebriated faces. They were then led to the
backstage area, where they awaited their introduction by the evening’s master
of ceremonies.
The grand ballroom was filled to the rafters with everyone who was anyone
in the national hierarchy. Over one thousand people were engaged in wining
and dining on the finest delicacies available. No cost had been spared to salute
the world champions this night. All the junta leaders, including President
Videla, were prominently glad-handing their fellow celebrants, pressing the
flesh as if confirming that their corrupt iron rule was responsible in some large
way for the day’s triumphant outcome.
While nothing could have been further from the truth, no one in
attendance really cared in the slightest who or what had brought about the
magnificent outcome of this day. All that mattered was that their nation stood
48
JAMES McCREATH
singularly in the world’s sporting spotlight, and everyone wanted to bask in
its glow.
The signal was given to the orchestra leader for a drum roll and a grand
crescendo of instruments. The MC, one of Argentina’s leading movie stars
named Vasco Caliente, stepped to the microphone and requested silence from
the overjoyed partiers.
“Thank you, Señors, Señoras, and Señoritas, thank you. It is my great honor
and distinct pleasure to introduce to you now, right here on this stage, the 198
World Cup Champion Football Team. The National Team of Argentina!”
Thunderous applause turned into shouts of “Argentina! Argentina!
Argentina!” as the men in navy blue blazers and grey flannel slacks were led
by Captain Daniele Bennett out onto the stage and into the spotlight. The
twenty-two men on the training roster were lined up after Captain Bennett in
numerical jersey order, then each was introduced individually to a deafening
response.
When it came time for number seventeen to step forward, the obviously
nervous player bowed his head and took a small pace out from the line. The
ear-splitting reaction caused the boy to raise his head and wave in a gesture
of acknowledgment. This only heightened the crowd’s response, and the self-
conscious smile on the young man’s face turned to a broad grin as he seemed to
finally accept the adulation of his enthusiastic admirers.
“Stay right there, Señor De Seta,” Caliente instructed. “I would now like
> to introduce the chairman of Argentina’s World Cup Organizing Committee,
Admiral Manuel Junin Melendez, who has a special presentation to make at
this time. Admiral Melendez.”
The uniformed admiral strode to the microphone, signaling Renaldo to
step up to his side. Polite applause greeted the naval commander.
“Thank you. It is my distinct pleasure to present to Renaldo De Seta the
Golden Ball Award of the 1978 World Cup Soccer Tournament. This award
is emblematic of the most valuable player in the tournament, and Argentina’s
Renaldo De Seta, having played inspired two-way football that netted seven
goals, is the winner of this coveted symbol of excellence. Congratulations,
Renaldo!”
Thunderous applause replaced the limp display that had greeted Admiral
Melendez. Shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” and “Viva Argentina!” rang through the
ballroom. As the embarrassed rookie center half accepted his reward and shook
hands with the junta honcho, an explosion of flashbulbs was detonated by the
photographers fighting for position to freeze this moment in time.
Temporarily blinded by the force of the newsmen’s weapons, Renaldo
shielded his eyes and turned away from the luminous onslaught. It was at that
488
RENALDO
moment that he first heard the now-familiar refrain growing in volume and
intensity.
“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”
“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”
“RRRRRRRenaaaaaaaalllldo!”
The entire room had picked up the anthem, and all the awed recipient
could do was smile and wave his acknowledgment to the adoring masses.
Admiral Melendez had left the boy’s side. Renaldo stood alone in the glare of
the spotlights, thankful for the adulation, but wishing with all his heart that
he could be anywhere else in the world.
When all the players and coaching staff had been introduced, a nearly
hoarse Vasco Caliente called for restraint and quiet from the guests.
“Señors and Señoras, please, please if you will. We have a special treat for
you. Following her stirring rendition of our national anthem this afternoon
at the stadium, it is a great thrill for me to introduce to you once again, the
nation’s leading vocal artist. She will now lead us in that patriotic ode one more
time. So, without further delay, would you please welcome the beautiful and
talented . . . Symca!”
Out of the opposite wing of the stage from which the team had made
its entrance flowed the shimmering form of a stunning young lady. Simone
had chosen a tight-fitting, floor-length, silver-sequined gown that was cut low
enough from her shoulders to accentuate her ample cleavage. She was positively
radiant as she stepped to the microphone, offering waves and blown kisses to
the enthusiastic audience. The diva then turned to face the National Team
members, curtsied in gracious respect, then broke into a soulful rendition of
the Argentine national anthem.
There were several instances during Simone’s impassioned vocalizing that
her eyes met with Renaldo’s. The singer was cautious not to make her feelings
too obvious to those in attendance, but for the recipient of her longing glances,
there was no doubting their meaning. When the last notes of the anthem had
been supplanted by the same high-decibel reaction that had greeted the player’s
introductions, the sexy chanteuse smiled warmly to the faithful, blew a final
kiss good-bye, then departed the stage.
It was left to manager Octavio Suarez to thank the president and dignitaries
on behalf of the team in a relatively brief formal statement that he delivered
with the use of prewritten cue cards. Polite applause followed the conclusion of
the formal text, but as Suarez returned the cards to his jacket’s inner pocket, he
turned to his players and paused before the microphone.
489
JAMES McCREATH
“I would like to add just one more thing, if I may, Señor Presidente. This
group of men on the stage here tonight have accomplished a feat that only a
few weeks ago, the international soccer community, and even many in this
room, felt was an impossible task. Señors and Señoras, these men standing
before you have overcome more obstacles than you will ever know to reach the
heights of Olympus. I must tell you all that there will never again be a group of
individuals to wear our national colors with their heart and character.”
There was a fierce pride resonating from Suarez’s voice now. Those in the
grand room who had not been privy to the man’s passion were startled by
the change in intensity from his written script. He turned to face them as he
addressed his charges for the final time.
“Señors, you are the best in the world tonight, and no one can ever demean
or diminish your accomplishments. God bless each and every one of you! Now,
go and have some fun. There will be no curfew or bed check tonight! Viva
Argentina!”
There was not a dry eye to be found standing on that stage as manager
Suarez worked his way down the line of players, embracing each man in turn.
The orchestra leader, picking up on the emotionally charged moment, lead his
musicians in a spontaneous rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”
The entire ballroom stood in heart-tugging silence, reflecting on the
magnitude of what they were witnessing.
Never again would this same group of champions be together as a unit,
either on a stage or on a football pitch. The changes in their young lives from
this day forth would be far-reaching, and in some cases, instantaneous.
This was truly a moment for all those present to savor, to cherish for the
rest of their lives as the unsurpassed pinnacle in Argentina’s history.
With the dawn, these young men would go their separate ways, and the
quest to remain champions of the world would inevitably begin. But for these
few sublime moments, time seemed to stand still for all those lucky enough to
be in attendance at the grand ballroom in the Hotel Presidente.
Once the formal ceremonies and speeches had concluded, it was time for
everyone to let their collective hair down. The orchestra picked up the tempo
considerably, mixing the latest pop tunes with the more traditional favorites.
The National Team players were now free to mingle with the chosen
guests and partake of the festivities that they, themselves, were responsible
for creating. Estes Santos had not been exaggerating in his estimation of the
quantity of female companions available for the pleasure of the guests of honor.
490
RENALDO
The task of finding the lovely things had been turned over to Astor Gordero,
who had played a large role in planning the tournament ending fête for the
Organizing Committee. Wolfgang Stoltz had personally handpicked over one
hundred of the most attractive and exotic single ladies from all regions of the
country. They included everything from debutantes to call girls, the latter’s
services for the evening being prepaid by A.R. Gordero and Sons to avoid any
scandalous connection with the official organizers.
Each team member was a highly so
ught-after commodity, and all were
constantly encouraged to join various tables of dignitaries for rounds of
drinks and commemorative photographs. The mood of giddy excitement did
not extend to Renaldo De Seta, however. He observed both Estes Santos and
Ramon Vida squiring a bevy of young ‘hostesses’ from table to table, while
he himself politely declined all offers of female companionship. There was
only one lady that the young star had eyes for, but to his dismay, Simone had
disappeared after leaving the stage. The only reason Renaldo put up with the
pawing, pandering crowd of drunks was to locate the object of his desire. His
frustration was growing by the minute when a familiar large figure summoned
the boy to his side.
“So, Renaldo, how goes the battle? Are you enjoying yourself this evening?
Quite a little party isn’t it?”
The Fat Man was obviously enjoying himself, for his speech was slightly
slurred, and there was a touch of imbalance to his portly waddle. He placed a
heavy arm around his client’s shoulder as he spoke. Renaldo could not help but
notice that the champagne had given his breath an alcoholic bouquet.
“Yes, Señor Gordero, it is a great tribute to the National Team. But have
you seen Simone lately? I was hoping that she would stay for at least some of
the party.”
“Oh, she is here, my young friend, but first, let me remind you of some
pending business. You haven’t forgotten that we have a luncheon appointment
tomorrow, have you? One o’clock sharp at the Jockey Club! The English are
extremely anxious to meet with ‘Renaldo and Ramon.’ I expect you to make
sure that he arrives on time and with a clear head. By the look of things, he may
have a little trouble extracting himself from tonight’s commitments. But I am
sure that you can have him focused on business by noon tomorrow. My car will
be at the front door of the hotel for you at twelve forty-five. Don’t be late. The
English have a thing about punctuality!”
Ramon Vida was clearly enjoying himself in the company of several
stunning beauties. His National Team tie had long since been discarded, and
he sat mixing long swigs directly from his personal bottle of Dom Pérignon
with lusty gropes and kisses. A few of the more amorous ladies had unbuttoned
his shirt almost to his belt buckle and were fondling and nibbling on his chest
Renaldo Page 79