Renaldo

by James McCreath

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