Tucuman Rising E3: Brother Where Art Thou Mancuso?

Episode 3: Brother, Where Art Thou Mancuso?

Having never been to Argentina, I was completely unaware of the brutal league set up. We appear to play 24 games and then the league repeats but in a different order and with a brand new table. And the transfer window rules are somewhat sketchy — in that i only seem to be able to sign players in a 3 week window between July-August, unless I pay a fee in which case December there is a window….

And it’s hot. All of the time. As a Scotsman, I was not prepared for this. I spend the next few days in a state somewhere between severe sunstroke, severe alcohol poisoning and a genuine excitement about the possibilities for this team. At one stage, I go through the scene in Trainspotting where Mark is lying in bed going cold turkey, only instead of a baby crawling towards me on the ceiling its a book of Argentine FA Legislature. I wake up in a cold sweat cursing everything about this stupid country.

Next up — we welcome Central Cordoba to the Jose Fierro, who have taken 3 points from 7 games and look like a pub team. When I shake the hand of their manager, all I can smell is stale beer and cigars. I cannot work out which one of us it is, so I keep quiet and pretend that its him whilst I hide the Agave in the dugout. We make two changes to deal with the absence of Pico and Bressan, with Simionato’s groin healing to make his debut and Cabrol getting another chance in central midfield.

It’s a frantic opening 10 minutes, as El Gigolo scores in the 3rd minute but Uranga hits straight back to equalise. Guillermo then puts us ahead again in the 9th minute with a cool finish to make it 2–1. The only other action of the half is in the 30th minute, when Cabrol picks the ball up outside the box and hits a curling effort round the keeper and into the top corner. I get the kneeslide out again to celebrate, but the ground is too dry and I stumble over my own head. I spend the rest of the half with Beavis holding an ice pack to my temple while I try to remember my own name.

The lack of a half-time coherent team talk — which instead consists of that Dutch arsehole Hans talking us through his favourite Incan conspiracy theories — shows as we have none of the ball, and when they pull a goal back on the hour its deserved. I stand up, throw the ice pack at Pisonaro and hook him for the Selfish Bastard Perez. Navarro isn’t looking to clever either, but given that my reserve keeper spent his formative years at school in class wearing a rubber helmet for his own safety, I resist the temptation to sub him.

Luckily, Perez and Moreno come on and bring some Colombian fire to proceedings, teeing up Rodriguez for the 4th to put us out of sight. It’s an old school game of few chances but plenty of goals as both keepers play poorly. Still, Navarro’s rendition of ‘I Believe in a Thing Called Love’ in the changing room afterwards more than makes amends. We head out to the fans local haunt, which I have had renamed El Delfin Muerto — and we drink long into the night with the fans, ending in a gigantic pileup after a wild singalong of Delilah.

The press are lavish in their praise after one of our more mediocre performances of the season. I resolve to only speak to them in Spanish from now on so they understand the meaning of mediocre. But I have bigger fish to fry. We have another 2000km round trip to Bahia Blanca to take on Olimpo — who are languishing in the lower reaches. Mario is gassed, and I give him a spot on the bench as the ‘Groinman Mk.II’ Oliva is fit again. He plays along with Perez who comes in for Pisonaro — who I am beginning to suspect is really shit at football.

The first half mainly consists of us stringing together a few passes then giving the ball away followed by Olimpo doing the same. At one point I turn to Mario, only to find him with his shirt over his head snoozing. Its not much of a spectacle. I grab a bullhorn from Linton’s jokebag and spend 10 minutes blaring it over and over again in an attempt to wake up my players at half time. But it doesn’t seem to work. With 25 minutes left, we go to two up front and Mario plays at the 10 position.

This immediately has an impact, as Olimpo nick the ball in my now less crowded midfield and play it through to Fabio Fernandez, who knocks the ball past Navarro and we are 1–0 down with 20 minutes left. I go to 1 at the back and prowl the touchline like a panther, screaming and yelling at the officials and the players and the fans in various nonsensical Latin sounding noises, but its to no avail. We lose 1–0 and at full-time I storm straight out of the ground and across the street into a local dive bar. The players join me one by one, and it’s a far more sombre evening before our flight home on this occasion. We even all just about make it to our own hotel beds.

Im relatively sure that the Olimpo performance is one of the worst I’ve seen. We are severely lacking a cutting edge and we spend hours and hours through the week working on free-kick routines, close touch work around the area and finishing training for a full Tuesday.

Godoy Cruz are our next opponents and I remind the players every day that they are a decent side, but we are above them in the table for a reason. The boys look sharp after a tough week of training and the night before the game we all hit a local steakhouse for a couple of bottles of red and various splendid cuts of meat. Linton does his Fake Steak trick and Hans tries to talk to me about the end of Lost, and I eventually get Mario and Mancuso to chuck him in the canal. Sci-Fi wanker.

At least Mario is fit enough to start this time. The man is our leader and even if he isn’t tearing it up, he guides the team on the pitch. He comes in for Oliva, who has scored 14 times this season, just nothing on the bloody pitch as yet.

We hit the bar before in a double sucker punch they take the lead and Mancuso gets injured. Thanks god for El Gigolo as he gets us on level terms in the 14th minute. Despite Cabrol giving us the lead in the 26th Minute, Carnero equalises for them again making it 2–2 at half time. I look at his report and he now has 8 in 7 games. He’s getting man-marked, and I have just the selfish bastard for the job...I look at Andres Perez and draw an incredibly violent picture on a whiteboard. He gets it.

The second half is just as chaotic as the first. Shots are fired at both ends as both keepers tried to redeem themselves. I resist any further changes and it pays dividends as Guillermo timed his run perfectly into the box to meet a Colusso cross and give us a valuable 3–2 lead. I take a swig of water and I’m even happy to entertain Hans inane ramblings when I hear a shout from Milton…Carnero gets to a rebound and slides past Navarro for a 3–3 scoreline.

I may have lost the plot slightly at this point. Poor Hans is bombarded by water bottles as I kick them — one, two, three, four, five’ straight into the dugout where they smash into the concrete at the back and shower my reserve goalkeeper. It might be the first notable thing he’s done this year when he parries a sixth. We press for a winner and El Gigolo gets a chance in the final minute, which he sends halfway back to Caracas out of the stadium.

I storm into the changing rooms and confront Andres and Navarro. They stare at the ground as my half-coherent insults appear to hit home. At one point I think Andres sheds a tear, but I continue to yell then leave the room to retire to my office. I sleep on the sofa there and sporadically wake up to have another glass of Merlot and fire a NERF gun down the corridor at the night security on his rounds. By now he knows to expect this, and we break out into a Hot-Fuzz style NERF fight in which we destroy around half of the reception and a portrait of the founder of the club, which lifts my spirits considerably.

We really need Bressan back, as since he got injured we’ve conceded 6 goals in 3 games. He’s not quite fit for the trip to Rafaela. Whilst it’s a shorter trip — its still 1350km there and back and I’m beginning to get sick of the sticky seats, and the utterly atrocious movie choices of the coach driver. At the start of the journey, I collar him and hand him a stack of DVDs. We enjoy a journey full of Nicolas Cage movies — with no Police Academy or badly dubbed Kung-Fu in sight. When we arrive at the Nuevo Monumental, I am struck by Nuevo being a complete misnomer. The ground was opened in 1954 and the cold-water, soviet looking changing rooms make me even more determined to get the win. Thank fuck Pico is back to hopefully guide the midfield, and I bring in the Argentine Begbie Pisonero to kick anything that moves again along with Garat the headcase in defence. I’ve temporarily abandoned my ‘Pisonero is shit’ theory in favour of ultraviolence.

Straight from kick-off Mario gets booked. They play it short down the left and the front post cross is turned in by Gerk. I haven’t even been able to take a seat and we are 1–0 down. I scream at Walter to pull back into a more defensive role and move to 3 DMs in an attempt to hit them on the counter. I then steal Linton’s secret cigarettes and smoke 5 in 10 minutes behind the dugout like prime Dani Guiza. But it almost looks like I know what I’m doing when Pico plays the ball into the box to Guillermo, who nods it back and the Gigolo knocks it into the bottom corner. 1–1.

However we are Tucuman, and if this season has shown us anything it is that we are the masters of shooting ourselves in the foot. in the 29th minute, Gerk picks up a rebound and, unchallenged, slots the ball beyond Navarro. I’m apoplectic with rage and trying to work out a rhyme with ‘Los Bellends’ as we win a free-kick in injury time. Cabrol puts the ball into the box and its cleared straight back to him. He steadies and sends a better looking ball in,which is met by the flying Hugo Corbalan! 2–2 at half-time and I’m happyish — thought by now I resemble less of a manager and more of Bernard Black from Black Books.

We’re conceding far too many chances, but we are looking dangerous. Moreno comes on for the jaded Mario and immediately is shoved to the ground by a defender. I rise to celebrate but the referee waves play on. In my fury, I may have burnt the arm of the fourth official and I have to be held back by Milton whilst I swear crudely, flipping between Spanish and English and coming up with the term “El Grande Bawbag”.

I send Linton out for more cigarettes and return to the dugout in the 69th minute, just in time to see Guillermo let fly with a volley and smash it in. I scream in delight,only to be interrupted by the piercing shrill of a whistle. The referee is trying to claim that Rodriguez handballed. I phone Linton and tell him to slash the tires of the car being driven by the blind man in the car park.

With 10 minutes left, we create chance after chance. Oliva, Moreno and Guillermo are all foiled by the previously shite keeper (and possible Nazi defector) Schulmiester. We keep pressing and pushing and Schulmeister claws a shot away to Mandrini, who pumps it up the pitch to Gerk inside his own half. He has over 50 yards and 3 players to beat, but this is Championship Manager 2001–02.

Fuck. This. Game.