Tucuman Rising E12: Erogenous Zones of the Conquistadores

The week after our final league game goes by in a blur. We’ve drawn Instituto, who have probably the best striker in the league in Daniel Jimenez, and we spend hours and hours on the training ground working on the dark arts of defence. This mostly consists of watching old videos of Vinnie Jones and the Chelsea vs Leeds FA cup final from the 70s. My strikers take a bit of a bruising as our defenders practice everything they’ve learnt, but we’ve so many potent options it’s a sacrifice I am willing to make.

The first leg is at the Jose Fierro and the sights and sounds of Saturday morning show how far the city has come. Every bar and coffee shop has shirts and scarves up in their windows, with slogans and banners of support. I have to drive to the stadium out of fear that stopping for photos and autographs would take too much time. We’re going back to our regular formation, and that means Demichelis comes in and Adolfo drops back to the bench ready to influence the final 30 minutes. As I’m wandering down the corridoor, a hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me into a cupboard by the collar. As the door slams I flinch back before realising it’s Carmen…and she sends me into the game with a smile on my face.

We get possession in the 7th minute and pass side to side, probing for an opportunity. Rodriguez eventually gets onto the right and slides it back to Pico who stings a shot off the keepers gloves. But the Instituto danger is present 4 minutes later when a cross by Sergio Zanetti (Older, shitter brother of Javier) is met by Jimenez, forcing Navarro to scramble and tip wide. The game is punctuated by free-kicks and Cabrol gets a ball into the box for Guillermo in the 19th minute, but he’s dispossesed by Zanetti, who hoofs the ball clear. They gather and cross for Jimenez at the back post and like that, we’ve been donkey-punched. 1–0 Instituto.

The commentary notes straight from kick-off that they’ve gone defensive and despite 10 minutes of them tackling us (6–23 is the tackle count at 30 mins), Walter Pico takes the game by the scruff. He fires off a couple of shots in quick succession forcing further saves and then lays off another opportunity to Rodriguez, who sprints onto the pass and buries it past the keeper to equalise. It’s all us now and whilst we keep pressing and probing, being met with stubborn opposition. It’s injury time and I’m thinking of nicking out early to try and fit in a quickie with Carmen again when Cabrol pings a gorgeous crossfield ball to Rodriguez. He heads it back to Corbalan who has gallopped forward like Beckenbauer to shoot…but instead he cushions a gorgeous header back to Guillermo….GOAL!!! 2–1 and the 6411 crowd in the Jose Fierro erupts.

We now look like the side that romped the last 20 games or so. Cabrol has a free-kick and a header saved and El Gigolo is playing the Instituto defence like a Divorcee’s erogenous zones, hitting the post in the 58th minute after sustained pressure. I throw on Adolfo with 20 minutes and tell the Spaniard to bring this ship home. Which he only bloody does. In the 78th minute he plays a great looking ball down the right channel of the box and Rodriguez is barged by Rios in the box. Cabrol steps up, takes 5 steps back and marmalises the penalty past the keeper. We push for a fourth, but their keeper makes an incredible 11 saves meaning we have to settle for a 3–1 win.

It’s a quick turnaround for the 2nd leg on Tuesday. We travel straight to Cordoba and stay for two days on the outskirts of the city in a small college campus with full access to the 4th worst artificial pitch in the Southern Hemisphere and 6 cold showers. This wasn’t my choice, but our original accommodation falls through after Hans turns up first and asks the receptionist for a porcelain doll in his room and where the nearest abbatoir is. My illicit relationship with Carmen is on hold whilst we deal with Cold-War-Land, and I pray PLP doesn’t find out I’ve carried on the affair and buries me under the shit pitch.

I decide to go with the away formation for the away leg, taking absolutely no chances. Rodriguez slips back alongside Demichelis and Mancuso, but otherwise it’s the same personnel looking to charge us into the Semi Finals. The atmosphere is tense in the changing room but focused. It’s the easiest team talk I’ve ever done, we are here to fucking win.

We apply some early pressure but in general look to sit back in shape. We have a couple of early openings and they are restricted to shots from distance that Navarro comfortably deals with. Cabrol, shifted out to the right today, looks in the mood and picks up the ball and dribbles forwards, before drilling a diagonal into the box to Guillermo. He takes it in his stride and — BANG — 1 fucking nil! I get the old knee slide out, before I realise we are away from home and I feel beer, kebabs and a toy train rain down on me as I run down the side of the pitch.

This was incredibly fucking stupid, as Jimenez picks the ball up straight from kick-off, plays a 1–2 and fires it past Navarro to equalise before I can even wipe the grass from my tracksuit. But much like their goal in the first leg, we seem to be spurred on and if their keeper would stop going into God-Mode, we would be 5–1 up at the half hour mark. As it happens, we manage to concede a second goal in the 33rd minute after some really shit marking, and suddenly its the Alamo. Navarro makes 4 fantastic saves and somehow despite not touching the ball for 15 minutes we go into the break 2–1 down.

In the spirit of stupidity which has punctuated my reign, I decide to gamble by moving back to the regular formation and just trying to shoot my way out of this potential hole. We have a penalty shout turned down for the 7000000000th time this season in the 47th minute but the game has quietened, and I’m able to smoke and drink in relative peace, surrounded by 11150 Instituto fans and my stupid stupid coaching staff. Risio, the scorer of the second goal, has been a menace and gets away on a run towards Pico. He goes round him and hits a speculative shot from 25 yards, which Navarro can’t reach and it’s 3–1 with 25 minutes to play. Level on fucking Aggregate.

Mancuso is having a stinker so he gets hooked for Begbie. I gamble in replacing Rodriguez and the subdued El Gigolo with Delgado and Adolfo and push Guillermo out right to run like fuck at the left back. Straight away, Pico picks up the ball and gets down the right, pinging in a cross. Adolfo runs into the box and leaps like a salmon..GOAL! IT’S 3–2 AND WE’RE AHEAD ON AGGREGATE AGAIN!!

It’s all us again. Pico, Cabrol, Guillermo, Barreto all foiled by their keeper Cabrera, who is the greatest keeper in the history of any game ever. I am convinced. But they don’t have Adolfo, the greatest Spaniard since the Conquistadores. He scores again in the 78th minute after more excellent play from Cabrol and then Barreto batters open the floodgates with another goal in the 83rd minute and we are 4–3 up, which sees us home. FUCK I LOVE THIS GAME!

I’m pretty sure that around 60% of the squad have never been as drunk as during the celebrations post-game. Adolfo and Begbie sing a pitch perfect ‘Jus Shaddapa ya face’ and we end end taking over another local bar El Pezon Sucio the night after the game having got straight off the coach. I eventually get a text on Thursday morning from the chairman to say we’ve drawn Los Andes. A quick look back reveals that last time we played them, it was October & Begbie got sent off in a 2-2 draw. But something else gnaws away at my mind about that game…

Then I remember that my sworn mortal enemy plays for Los Andes…German Fucking Denis. The scourge of many average Italian sides of the future. I shudder at the memory of glassing him in a nightclub after he tried to use my head for penalty practice. This isn’t just war, it’s bigger than that. German Denis is going to be in a pub fight. And it’s fucking Motherwell rules.

We get the first leg at the Jose Fierro once again and I hijack local TV on the Friday night to read a message full of inspiration and creative swearing (hastily bleeped out mostly thanks to the delay). I implore the supporters to get to the ground and support the team for a massive game, and the ground is buzzing close to kick off. We make a couple of changes after the Instituto Jekyll & Hyde performance. It’s the regular formation, but Adolfo starts ahead of El Gigolo. I speak to him pregame and he nods and reassures me that he understands. One day I will organise a coup to install him as the Venezuelan president.

Straight from kick-off we pull together a great move with Pico firing a half-volley in that clips the bar on its way over. I take every opportunity to shout and scream at German Denis every time he comes near the dugout and he seems relatively bemused by my anger. He might still be concussed. And in the 13th minute we glass Los Andes for the first time. Rodriguez gets towards the right corner of the box, feints past the right back and crosses to Adrian Guillermo, who knows the drill by now. BANG — 1–0. I’m still hugging Milton and Beavis when Mo Sylla shouts ‘Bossman, look!’ at me…Pico has picked the ball up and is drifting forwards, and forwards, And Forwards, AND FUCK!! He’s only gone and fired one in for 22 yards! 2–0!.

Their keeper makes four great saves in quick succession…I presume he is related to the Instituto keeper and they’ve barely had a sniff. They eventually sting a shot over the bar from distance but we are incredibly easy on the eye, playing some gorgeous football which culminates in Guillermo heading back to Pico on the edge of the area, who lofts a delicate lob wedge over the keeper…..AND IN!!. 3–0 Half-Time.

I promised I wouldn’t drink, but this is too fucking good. We are 3–0 up and providing we can get to the end of this game with a clean sheet I reckon we are through. This doesn’t excuse the complete lack of performance in the next 25 minutes as we do precisely nothing, giving away the ball and looking bereft of any motivation. I hook Guillermo and Bressan with 20 minutes to go but it is still all one way traffic. I put Begbie in kill mode and crack open the agave and cigarettes. A 90 minute performance is what we need, not this 45–60 minute pish. But Lo-And-Behold — Little Walter Pico creates some more magic on the right and after a decent move he floats one into El Bivouac — who doesnt need another invitation to thump a header home. 4–0. Goodnight Los Andes.

It’s a stunning win. El Bivouac is the best impact sub since Fergie-Era Solksjaer and Walter Pico might actually be Zidane and Lampard’s bastard lovechild. I set the boys off on their pub tour celebration but warn them to be back for the bus in the morning so we can get down to Los Andes in plenty of time. But for me, it’s the office, Carmen, and an industrial sized case of whipped cream.

Los Andes away is essentially a meaningless game now other than to try and totally fuck over German Denis. The scheming twat got a 5 in the first leg which I found tremendously funny. I don’t even know if they’ll bother with a full-strength team, given how humiliated they were in leg one. As for me, I make a few changes. Deglado comes in for Guillermo, Begbie replaces Mancuso and I give Big Mo a chance in defence again. I give Dario the armband in the changing rooms and tell the boys to see this through. There’s a final at stake.

Los Andes come out of the blocks like a sprinter from East Germany in the 60s. Namely, like they are full of steroids. They are flying about, luckily with next to no damn co-ordination. After a couple of scares, we clear the ball to Rodriguez who drives down the right and plays a one-two with Pico. He hits an early cross into the area where our Spanish stallion, Adolfo, meets it with a diving bullet header. 1–0 after just 7 minutes. 25 minutes in the same two players combine again with another Rodriguez cross, this time low, and Adolfo runs onto it and bangs it into the top corner past the despairing Lema.

I clamber on top of the dugout and the Ultras manouver to get a loudhailer over the fence to me. The 20 minutes before half-time are soundtracked by a near constant “VIVA LOS CHAMPU” chant lead by my with the Ultras joining, doing the Poznan non-stop. It nearly gets even better but Delgado’s snapshot is saved just on half-time. Not that it matters. We’ve absolutely pissed this game.

They create a couple of chances that Navarro deals with with ease. I’m conscious of fitness for the final so on the hour mark its time for El Gigolo y El Bivouac — Tucuman’s answer to Starsky & Hutch, only with more goals and STIs. We should have a bigger lead but we are denied two stonewall penalties yet again, and I’m afraid that my chucking of a stray boot in the referee’s direction along with calling him a snivelling cockweasel with balls the size of subatomic life gets me a red card. On this plus side, I can join the Ultras in the stands for the final 15 minutes and get pished. We’re fully in deckchair mode by this stage and when the final whistle goes, I clamber back over the dugout and onto the pitch to celebrate with the players and Ultras who invade with us. WE’RE IN THE FINAL!

We dance on the pitch for about 30 minutes with the Ultras. Carmen runs over and we embrace, before I remember her Mafia father has threatened to murder me if I so much as look at her. Big Mo Sylla gets the party going after a huge performance by him kicking German Denis to fucking death, and the bus all the way back up the road the beer is flowing and the songs are deafening. The alcoholic sensory deprivation tank pulls back into the Jose Fierro early in the morning and I send the players home and tell them to take the following day off. We’ve got get this right for the final and I want full fitness.

I get up to the office and the local paper is on my desk with a note. I pick it up and see that the paper has run with the scoreline and a picture from the game last night. Only it’s not an action shot of Adolfo scoring or a snapping Corbalan challenge. Its my embrace with Carmen. And the note simply reads “Moriras”

You Will Die.