Tucuman Rising E11: Diamond Lights and Club De Pescadores

The following week, I avoid the office like the plague. I spend my time on the training pitch trying to stay away from the holdall locked away in the cabinet which gnaws away at my sanity day after day like a beaver. I find solace in a rather different beaver away from the pitch, as I stay at Carmen’s rather charming city apartment as we try out different restaurants and bars on Sunday evening with a rotating cast of players, staff and friends. I even see Mario Lobo out , and tell the waiter to send him a bottle of chilled beer. I look across and remarkably he actually accepts it and lifts it in a toast. At the same time he does this, I click ‘send’ on a text telling him to smash the bottle and slit his own throat with it. Don’t fuck with the Rocks.

We board the team bus on Tuesday morning for the trip down to Belgrano. And this means a trip down to Buenos Aries. I pack my things go up to the office and grab the holdall. It’s heavy, full to the brim with my dread and something more than likely to lead to 25 years in prison. I wait until everyone has jumped onto the coach and throw it right up to the back of the luggage compartment underneath, surprisingly hearing a small crack as it lands. I definitely wasn’t expecting that.

I put my headphones in on the coach and sporadically watch segments of our continuing ‘Cage Odyssey’. My burner phone vibrates about an hour outside of Buenos Aries with a text saying ‘Fisherman’s pier. 11pm. Come alone.’. We pull up to the Defensores stadium and I frantically run down to the luggage compartment, pull out the holdall and turn to Hans — handing him my literal ‘Bag for life’ and tell him to guard it with his life. Our opposition are now 3rd in the phase table, so I decide to go with the away formation given our recent uninspiring performances. I want an unbeaten phase — and Adolfo gets his chance to start ahead of the leggy-looking Cabrol.

It’s a quiet start, punctuated by a shot wide by their number 10 and a mazy run from Adolfo which ends in a good save by their keeper. They think they’ve taken the lead in the 22nd minute through Bedrossian but he’s ruled offside and I begin my now matchly 25th minute shouting. Barreto clearly hears me and gets away down the right, pulling the ball back for Adolfo….Saved again by the keeper. I’m feeling in such an edgy mood that I actually consider making a substitution before half time to make a statement, but we pick up the ball through Barreto, who plays it to Rodriguez, on to Pico, back to Barreto, who slides it to Dolgetta, who lays it back to Rodriguez. He plays an exquisite ball to Adolfo who for the third time hammers a shot on goal and this time the keeper has no chance. 1–0 in the 24th minute and it stays that way til half-time.

Adolfo nearly gets another just after the hour, before he is replaced by Delgado and El Gigolo departs for Cabrol, meaning Guillermo moves centrally behind the striker. At 70 minutes, I’m thinking even football purists and the most hardcore of CM0102 fans would be struggling with this game. But Walter Pico, the delightful little bastard, beats his marker and gets into the box, sliding the ball under the keeper from a tight angle in the 72nd minute, before doubling his account in the 75th after some magic from Cabrol. Delgado has a couple of headers on target in the dying embers of the game but it finishes 3–0, and for me it’s one of our best of the season.

I’m dying to celebrate the win with the players, but instead I have to track down Hans. I eventually find him in trap two of the ladies toilets in the empty east stand. I take the holdall off him and hand him an envelope of cash for the players to go out and enjoy the sights. I’m headed to the Club de Pescadores.

I get there about 15 minutes ahead of the meet up and frantically smoke 6 cigarettes by the pier. Looking around in the gloom, I can see couples and vagrants strolling past with similar aloofness. I sigh deeply and rake around my pockets for my hipflask and feel a tap on my shoulder — and my entire body freezes and my temperature feels like it drops to ‘November in Arbroath’.

I turn round and I’m met with a portly man of around 5"2 with a rugged white beard and hair island cut. He reaches out a hand that looks like a blown up balloon animal and introduces himself as Pepe. He’s actually a relatively sound guy, and we talk for a few minutes about football — something that’s been sorely lacking of late — before he gestures at the bag and asks if he can check it. I inhale deeply and hand over the bag as he produces a key from a chain around his neck and turns away from me. I hear a click, followed by an unzipping and an exclamation that sounds positive. I can barely bring myself to look but I peer over his shoulder naturally with our height difference and see a clear package punctuated by white as he steps away. “They’re all here…” he says as I step forward to view my crime…

There is a small, 3cm long clear plastic bag containing a white powder, which is easily the second most interesting thing in sight.

The bag contains around 400 CD boxes containing Japanese copies of the 1987 single ‘Diamond Lights’ by Hoddle & Waddle.

At this point I don’t know whether to laugh or cry…And then my phone rings. I pick up knowing that it’ll be PLP on the end of the line and answer with an abrupt “Yeah?”. I hear a cackle of laughter down the line and his voice croaks down the phone “You weren’t expecting that were you…you — how you say- dozy prick! Next time, it’s 500 kilos of Colombian. Stay away from my daughters! *Click*”. I turn round to see Pepe absolutely pishing himself laughing and pointing at me. It’s all been a fucking setup…I chuck the burner phone off the pier and wander back to the team hotel.

I’m not even angry by the time we board the coach back to the Jose Fierro. Well that’s a lie…but there’s fuck all I can do other than get back to my day job and prepare for our next home game against our old steampunk sparring partners, Almirante Brown de Arrecifes. They’re actually sitting mid-table and playing some relatively nice football but I plan on big things for the final home game so set up in the attacking formation and go for all out goals. Adolfo, Guillermo, El Gigolo, Pico, Cabrol…its a lethal combination.

By the time Saturday comes, we’ve had two great days of training and the boys are ready to give the home fans a massive performance. El Bivouac pulls a muscle in training, and I call up big Mo to the bench, hoping early goals might mean he gets 30 minutes to try and impress.

Adolfo hits the bar in the 6th minute and we create 4 good chances in the first 15 minutes without scoring. Then in the 32nd minute it’s the now regular combination of Pico and Adolfo, as the Spaniard’s header is only cleared as far as Pico who taps in the rebound. Despite the presence of the splendidly named Leonardo Pringles, in the opposition lineup, they’re pretty tasteless in attack — basically long balls,that we deal with easily. It’s 1–0 at half-time, but I want more and I tell the boys as much.

The message clearly wasn’t fucking clear enough as they stroll around after half-time like Mick Jagger on an E. Even our opposition look bemused as they equalise in the 56th minute via some powderpuff defence. Delgado comes on, as does Big Mo — and I tell them both to get the message across to the team that I’m mildly peeved by their ineptitude. We create 3 chances in quick succession, all saved by their 20 year old keeper Vilar, who has a rating of 14/10 at this point. This pattern continues of shots being saved every 5 minutes and Delgado in particular wastes two glorious openings in the final 5 minutes. My frustration is palpable as I destroy a panel of the plexiglass next to the dugout and kick a water bottle into the shins of Genar as I storm out of the stadium

I leave Milton and Hans to take the teamtalk and drive back to the villa at the speed of sound. Carmen has tried calling about 14 times but I ignore her and settle in for a night of Agave and action films on a projector by the pool. I hear a knock at the side gate around 22:00 and open it, holding a cricket bat. I’m greeted by Mancuso, Begbie, El Gigolo and Walter Pico, holding a crate of beer and a suitcase full of poker chips. If I ever drop them, it will be because I’m dead. They apologise for the performance and we talk the night away for 3–4 hours over cigars and increasingly erratic hands of poker.

Buoyed by the solidarity shown by my generals, I spend a vast amount of time scouting our next opponents Huracan De Tres Arroyos ahead of what I hope will be a statement performance. Zubledia on the right is a danger, as is Mallea up front. I actually short list both of them as they are young and Argentine and I reckon for 20 grand in a brown envelope I could get at least one of them. However the overriding feeling I get is that the ‘Windy ones' are utter pish and anything short of playing the attacking formation and scoring 4 goals would be a disgrace to the house of Rocks.

So after another trip down to Buenos Aries province, we pull up at the rather nice looking Estadio Roberto Lorenzo Bottino fully locked and loaded and prepared to end our league season with a bang. Or several bangs. Ideally more bangs than Guy Fawkes night if it had a baby with an Istanbul Derby and was sponsored by Ron Jeremy. I decide to push Adolfo up front and play Guillermo on the right of the three behind — but that’s as far as I go tactically. I stride out to the dugout with a wave to the fans and a swig of Agave as the referee blows to kick-off our final phase game.

2 minutes in and we have the lead through Barreto, who has really come into a game of late after he gets in at the back post to glance in a Mancuso cross. From there we get drawn into a real classic of a game, with both keepers making an outstanding number of saves. Adolfo is prominent for us, getting in between the lines and creating several chances and Bressan, Corbalan and Navarro are outstanding given the complete lack of cover they’ve been afforded by our lunacy. It gets to half-time with the score still at 1–0 and I’m not going to lie, alcohol may have been consumed during the break.

With a swift hiccup and a stumble, we’re back out for the second half and our Spanish maestro gets his name on the scoresheet within 3 minutes of the restart, latching onto a cutback by El Gigolo. I’d be over the moon, but fucking Mallea scores in the 53rd minute and then has a goal chalked off 2 minutes later which would have been the equaliser. I revert to our regular formation and give Begbie explicit instruction to kill anything that moves. The mad bastard has the a glint in his eye like a weightwatchers group in a cake factory.

This also allows me to switch back to our deadly duo of El Gigolo and Guillermo, and in the 72nd minute the latter bullies his way onto the end of a cross which is parried into the path of Dolgetta to make the game safe at 3–1. The last 15 minutes are classic Tucuman,with chances being carved out regularly but the opposition keeper being possessed by the spirit of Bert Trautmann and Tigger from fucking Winnie the Pooh. Nonetheless a 3–1 win means our end of phase record looks fucking incredible.

It’s a great win and a great platform for the end of the season play-offs. The changing room erupts into a huge party after the chairman comes in and hands our brown envelopes of bonuses to everyone in sight. I survey with pride, we’ve come a long way. I feel my phone vibrate and pickup without thinking to hear a sultry Latin voice at the other end. “Why won’t you talk to me?” Carmen inquires, and I immediately regret not screening the call. I walk out the room and along the corridoor up the steps to my office. I garble some excuse about having to focus on football and drinking and hear nothing but silence on the other end, as I open my office door.

I’m greeted by the sight of Carmen, lying across my desk, wearing nothing but a pair of yellow cards and a red card, staring straight at me clutching a botte of Agave and a pair of handcuffs…What would Levein do?