Tucuman Rising E13: A lime green Vauxhall Cavilier and Tierra Del Fuego
Its Friday. It’s two days since the paper came out and I’ll be honest. I am incredibly fucking frightened of leaving the office. I have the local Mafia Don after me for consistently shagging his daughter(s) against his wishes despite the fact I have steered his beloved Atletico Tucuman to the Segunda Promotion final against Olimpo.
I mean — to me that’s a fair trade-off.
It’s the afternoon and I’m surveying the pitch from my office window when I get a knock at the door. I pick up my 7 Iron and approach and unlock it, diving behind it expecting a flailing limb to come through and connect. Instead nothing comes through the door except the rather portly figure of the chairman. And he looks like fresh hell. We sit down and he explains that he has agreed with PLP that he’ll wait for his revenge until after the second leg of the Final, as whilst he wants to turn my entrails into a hat, they both believe I am the man to lead Tucuman to the promised land. I thank him and turn back to the pitch and stare into the middle distance like a classic 90’s detective in the desert in a mid-season finale…it’s killing time.
Leg 1 is at the Jose Fierro, and other than the fact that I haven't showered in 4 days and I resemble Teen Wolf after a gritty battle with smack, I’m feeling good. I even dive down to the coffee shop round the corner and shake some hands, take some pictures and get a grip of the atmosphere. It’s fucking good. Team-wise it’s our strongest. Bressan, Mancuso and Guillermo back in and I stride out to the dugout in full tracksuit, shiny trainers and sunglasses. Whilst we lost 1–0 to Olimpo in our only meeting last October, they’ve got fear in their eyes as we stare them down at kickoff. We’re doing this the Rocks way…
I notice at the start that my scouting of the opposition (watching dodgy mobile videos off my tits at 2AM) has been a bit useless as their system and personnel are completely different. They are fairly beset by injury and suspension but they come out of the traps quickest and have a penalty shout turned down early doors. Which I definitely don’t see (Thanks Arsene). Guillermo has a couple of chances saved and then King Walter curls a glorious effort up and over the keeper, but it clips the bar and goes over.
We’re dominating but struggling for a breakthrough when in the 45th minute we get a corner which Cabrol plays short to Rodriguez. He plays it in short of the 6 yard box to Guillermo who is ragdolled by their centre back and the ball deflects away out of the box…to Bressan. He looks up and feigns to shoot, snapping a pass into the feet of Adolfo, who in turn lays it back into the path of the galloping centre-back to smash the ball goalwards….SHIT!!!! ITS 1–0 TUCUMAN!!
I’m buzzing round the team at half-time and tell them to keep doing what they are doing. The second half kicks-off at the same frantic pace we were playing at and we keep pressing looking for the second. Adolfo has an early shot saved as does Cabrol as once again we are playing against a possessed goalkeeper. I tell the subs to warm up and look up to see Olimpo breaking forwards and with their 2nd shot on goal of the game, they rattle in a fucking equaliser. It’s time to go nuclear.
I bring on Delgado and El Gigolo and switch to our Tucuman Rising formation, with Dolgetta, Pico and Adolfo buzzing behind Delgado. I need a lead and we are dangerously close to blowing this. Straight away we create a chance for Delgado which is tipped wide for a corner. Cabrol runs over with the ball and takes it quickly to the waiting Delgado at the front post…2–1!! WE’VE DONE IT!
7 minutes later El Gigolo gets the ball inside the left channel and makes a mazy run towards the corner of the area before squaring it for Delgado. He takes a touch and…GOAAAAAALLLLL AGA — — PEEEEEEEEP-OFFSIDE?! Delgado is just offside and that 3–1 lead I crave is so near yet so far…and it finishes 2–1 to Atletico.
I run into the changing rooms and congratulate the players but I have things to do. I run along to the janitor’s office, grab a set of overalls and run into an adjacent street where a lime green Vauxhall Cavelier sits with a key sitting on the passenger seat. I open the boot and see what I’m after. It’s a large bag of money for what promises to be a long night. I’ve been told a guy called El Stud will have what I need, but he isn’t cheap — so I’ve exhausted my ‘poker winnings and illegal gambling’ fund I’d put together over the season to fund my plans. This had better work.
Eventually as the light comes over the hills on Sunday morning I get back to the villa, with a fuller boot but an empty wallet. I pack my things for Bahia Blanca, home of Olimpo. That first leg has given me a little food for thought for my final lineup. We’ve done so well with the personnel we have but I can’t help but think El Gigolo in particular deserves a shot to lead us to glory…
I mull it over on the drive down on Monday evening, swapping the Vauxhall for a 25 year old Land Rover with no back seats and a slightly aggressive veer to the left above 70kmh. Its a lick over 1500km from place to place, and I take a full two days to get down there, eventually pulling up at a motel 10km away from the stadium. A familiar pink Mercedes is pulled in 4 doors along from mine, and I immediately seek out the owner, under a disguise consisting of a fake Patima moustache and a bright orange jumpsuit. I knock at the door and Carmen answers— I’m hoping for a last bit of luck before the 2nd leg.
On Thursday morning, with a pronounced limp, I make my way to a local park, where the players have convened. We run through the motions, focusing on set pieces and shape. We end up getting roped into playing a strange game against around 40 local kids, and from the sidelines I would say 2–2 is a fair score at the end of the game. That is until with 30 seconds left 4 kids combine to tabletop Sergio, who falls back and twists, landing on his shoulder. We run over as the kids run off and he is in a bad way, it’s popped out of its socket….fuck. I shout expletives after the children and make a mental note to find out who they are and write to the inland revenue to accuse them all of being benefits cheats.
Friday, still a little shellshocked from the loss of Sergio we go for a 10km run to the ground, and we stand looking up at it, a bit like a shit remake of Independence Day, for a few minutes. We take over a local restaurant in the evening and dine on steak and red wine until midnight, where everyone excluding me goes back to the hotel. I head back to the motel to speak to Carmen and tell her the plan for the following evening, but I get a phonecall from Beavis just 5 minutes after leaving them. Adrian Guillermo has been King-Hit by an Olimpo Ultra and is bleeding profusely. I run to catch them up, and eventually find a brawl and Guillermo sitting at a bus-stop clutching a napkin to his head. We head to A&E and he gets patched up, but he thinks my name is Jock and I sell fridges. Double Fuck.
Gameday — This is it. Only Club Olimpo stand between us and La Primera. Not that I’ll see La Primera as I’m sure our de-facto sponsor is going to have me bumped off. But I digress…I’ve thought long and hard and given the injuries, El Gigolo and Delgado get a chance to start, with our midfield being shuffled like a Vegas deck. With a final VIVA LOS CHAMPU and shots of Agave all round we enter the arena, and the Ultras on both sides are deafening as we run out…Here we Fucking go……
I’ve barely had time to light up a Marlboro and crouch at the edge of my technical area when Pico wins the ball and hits a gorgeous 35 yard pass into the feet of Mancuso. He stops, turns, and chips the ball over their defensive line into space on the right hand side. Delgado is onto it like a flash and he catches the sweetest volley I’ve seen outside of YouTube……GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLLL 1–0!!!
It’s a dream start. But dreams are rarely made of anything other than fantasy and false hope — as is proved in the 8th minute. A Corner is swung in and Navarro makes a hash of a save, palming the ball straight out to Fernandez who levels the score…BUT NO! WE’VE ACTUALLY HAD SOMETHING GO OUR WAY!! The offside flag goes up and despite their protests the goal is chalked off…and Navarro grabs the ball and fires it straight up the pitch to Delgado. He lays it back for Adolfo who roams forwards and plays it into Pico….GOAL!!!! FUC — flag goes up….SHIT!
Not to be all Ally McCoist, but WHAT A GAME this is!! Navarro makes a couple of sharp saves and El Gigolo heads over the bar as the game eventually settles down in close to the half hour. We have a two goal lead and I can’t believe the competence I’m seeing. Dolgetta is close to adding a second on 40 minutes but his shot clips the bar, meaning at half-time it’s 1–0 on the night and 3–1 on aggregate. 45 minutes from Tucuman immortality (or in my case 10 minutes before my death).
I keep things the same up until 65 minutes then bring on Begbie for the booked Demichelis and I swap Adolfo and Pico in CM for no reason other than I’m bored. El Gigolo gets a recurrence of an old sex injury on 70 minutes chasing down a long ball and El Bivouac comes on in his place and I reach for the hipflask, hoping for a second goal. The meaningless swap of Adolfo and Pico leads to chances for both of them which are saved — and we hold firm against increasing waves of Olimpo’s toothless attack. We sit and sit and sit until another Olimpo move breaks down and Barreto steps on the gas down the left. He passes to El Bivouac and he passes to Pico in the centre. Pico picks out Adolfo to his right and he bombs on to the byline before standing the ball up….AND BIG ANDRES BRESSAN IS INEXPLICABLY THERE!!!!!! 2–0!!!!!
The roar from the 2500 away ultras is primal in volume and intensity when the ball hits the back of the net and I’m engulfed by about 40 bodies piling on top of me after Bressan runs over and starts the a pile-on. The last 5 minutes I’m strutting up and down the touchline keeping a calm facade and clear head ahead of my next move. The full-time whistle sounds and I sprint down the tunnel. I get a glimpse of the promotion trophy and graze it on my way back to the changing rooms, where I grab my holdall and run outside into a waiting taxi. “Puerto, Por Favor” I grunt.
Around 10 minutes into the journey I’m aware of a couple of blacked out SUVs following us. I try to concentrate on the plan but I keep getting drawn back to the back window. When we eventually reach the port in the nearby town of Ingeniero White, I dive out at the gates and run through the port to Jetty 23, where a boat loaded with supplies is waiting with Carmen…WHIZZ…I feel something whistle past me and I skirt sideways into a container forest. I try to calm my breathing despite the fact I think I was just shot at, and I get my bearings. I’m not far away now.
I jog the last 500 metres or so to the jetty where I can see the boat glinting in the moonlight. Carmen is standing on deck holding a bottle of something…but my eyes and ears are drawn to my left as a car hurtles into me. I jump, but it clips me and I tumble over the roof and hit the ground front first, hearing the crack of ribs and a rip of flesh. I stagger to my feet and place a hand into my jacket…as the figure of PLP gets out of the car.
“I fucking warned you you jock bastard…stay away from my daughters. I spent £17,000 on that Hoddle and Waddle Memorabilia you pigshit” he screams at me as he advances slowly towards me. I look round towards Carmen and nod, and she runs away back into the boat.
“I got you promotion, is that not enough payment back?” I moan through broken ribs.
“No you arrogant fuck, you don’t fuck with PLP — football or no football, you bring shame on my family you cocksucker, and you make my son move to Rushden. He say it shithole!!!” he rages.
I feel cool steel under my jacket and I grip it tightly…
“Okay…well it’s been a pleasure working with you sir…or should I say Senor La Paglia…SAY HELLO TO MY LEEEETLE FREEEEEEND”
and with that, I swipe my arm out in an arc, pulling the trigger as a boat engine screeches to life in the background.
-BANG BANG BANG-
*EPILOGUE* 3 weeks later
Tierra Del Fuego. June 12th. A child approaches the door of his neighbours’ house on the coast. He notices large boat is tied off to the left of the building and a mailbox with the name ‘Mr Scork’. He picks up his paper at the front door and rings the doorbell. The figure that answers looks unkempt, with a huge beard, bandage around his torso and shiny blue eyes. “Si?” he gruffly asks.
“Please sir, here is your paper. Can I get my ball back?”
The man surveys the paper as a gorgeous Latin woman wanders behind him with a cup of coffee. He stares at the headlines.
- SAN MIGUEL DON PAPA LA PAGLIA FOUND DEAD IN SHIPYARD
- ATL. TUCUMAN PROMOTED — MANAGER STILL MISSING
- NICOLAS CAGE AN EXCEPTIONAL ACTOR
The man turns back to the kid…
“No. Fuck off….Mini-Hans” He says as he slams the door.
#vivalos271
