Renaldo (106 page)

Renaldo De Seta sat in front of his cubicle, stripped to the waist, his

tender limb wrapped in an ice compress. He calmly answered questions from

the scrum of journalists that transcribed his every word. It was his obligation

to respond to even the most inane query, but the shy lad would have much

rather that the attention be redirected elsewhere. All he wanted was to shower

and dress in preparation for his rendezvous with Simone.

“Renaldo, are you aware that you have won the Golden Ball Award for the

tournament’s most valuable player?”

“Renaldo, what are your future plans? Will you stay in Argentina to play

football or head abroad to Spain or Italy as rumored?”

“Renaldo, is it true that you had to have your foot frozen before each half,

and that you pop painkillers like candy to keep going?”

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“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.

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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

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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

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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.

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