Tucuman Rising E5: Soft, Steamy Deposit

Episode 5:

What is this bullshit?

So as it turns out we are probably in a relegation battle and about 3 seasons away from any kind of promotion change. So if you like pondering Nordic detective dramas — this series will probably just about keep you engaged. I sit and contemplate murdering Hans and burying him under the goalmouth. The chances are by the time that he’s discovered, I’ll be dead and we’ll still be in this stupid second division. Or a judge will sentence me live out eternity in average points purgatory. Either way im fucked.

I abandon plans to kill Hans and refocus my attention on the task at hand. Atletico Tucuman.

After our Arrecifes romp, we spend two days on the bus ride home after it gets a flat tire somewhere outside Cordoba, and we spend a night in a bar/hotel that I’m pretty sure was the country/western bar from Blues Brothers. In fact the singer introduces himself as Joaquin Belushi. In view of the increasingly bizarre happenings in Tucuman, I’m relieved when I get back to the Jose Fierro but the sight of our next opponents makes my eyes go wide. Mostly because they are called Juventude Antoniana De Salta and the name takes up most of my screen. They sit just below us in the table but have only taken points on the road once this season. So I call the boys together and tell them we’re making no changes whatsoever.

We have 68% percent possession, 8 shots to 0, and Mancuso puts us 1–0 up in the 21st minute. Despite letting them have 3 efforts at goal in the second half, we play the vast majority of the game on deckchairs and have a completely non-dramatic, non eventful win. I’m relieved and I tell the players as much. More performances like this and we can begin to push through the promotion cycle. Mario and I converse about the vineyard for most of the game and we may have convinced Andres Bressan to get involved as well. Allegedly he has made a fortune in Beetroot.

Our next game against Instituto is a proper test of this new found steel and vigour. Whilst they are 15th in the table, they have a striker that wouldn’t be out of place in a decent European league in Daniel Jimenez, and given our track record against strikers who are semi-decent I fear for us. I spend most of the week with our defensive four of Demichelis, Bressan, Corbalan and Mancuso espousing the importance of discipline in between cigar smoke and bottles of Merlot. It’s unorthodox but I hope effective. I just have to hope that Demichelis doesn’t take my methods back to River or I may struggle to loan anyone off them again.

It’s back to Cordoba to the Juan Domingo Peron, a 26,500 capacity stadium. When we arrive it’s barely 20% full and 300 of our Ultras greet us off the bus chanting Viva Los Champu. By the time the whistle blows, we are greeted by flares and mayhem in the stands. I make two changes with the Colusso coming back into the lineup and Barreto taking Oliva’s place on the left wing. Mario takes a seat next to me on the bench.

Within 3 minutes, we’re behind as Amato strolls through our defence and slots past Navarro. I switch to our away, 3DM formation and we’re level through Barreto in the 9th minute. I’m just that good…well at least that’s what I scream towards Beavis and Milton, who are both nursing sore heads and look on the verge of vomiting throughout the game. Their left sided striker gets injured and they bring on a teenager called Luis Once. Every time he runs past me I amuse myself by singing/yelling “TWICE, THREE TIMES A LADY” until the 4th official tells me to shut up. It’s the simple things.

We look really good — and when Guillermo meets a Cabrol cross and gives us the lead in the 35th minute it’s the least we deserve. We play out the half in a tight compact shape, denying them any time on the ball and they are forced into another substitution at half-time, with us 2–1 up. If only we didn’t concede goals in the first 5 minutes of games, we could be exceptional.

We’re certainly the best team in Cordoba today as Pico nets his 5th of the season in the 47th minute. I make a couple of changes on the hour mark and these pay immediate dividends for fans of football as Jimenez nods home unmarked on the 74th minute to make it 3–2. Linton knows the drill by now, and hands me the cigarettes and his lighter without comment. In fact I refrain, instead throwing bits of scuffed pitch at the now comatose Milton and Beavis in between encouraging the players and shouting threats at the referee every time a decision goes against us. We see the game out 3–2, to the delight of our 300 ultras and Hans, who excitedly tells me that we are now 6th in the table.

I celebrate by drinking 14 bottles of wine over dinner with the players, and wake up 36 hours later in my office in the Jose Fierro surrounded by empty kebab wrappers, bottles of Mezcal with candles in them and a goat wandering round the office. Worried that the chili sauce on the walls may not be chili and may be the product of a satanic sacrifice, I turn my attention to our Tuesday night opponents, Huracan De Tres Arroyos.

Allegedly this translates to Three Stream Hurricane — although their form so far this season is more akin to a small gust in Tillicoultry. They are 18th in the table and in comparison we look like the Argentine side in Mexico ’86. Only on far fewer drugs. Despite a three day turnaround the boys look pretty fit and I only make no changes. As the fans arrive at the Jose Fierro I head outside and greet them at the gates, handing out shots of Mezcal and fireworks. I want to make Galatasary vs Fenerbahce look like a vicar’s tea party. Imagine if we ever play a game that means anything.

We barely have a touch in the opening 10 minutes as Huracan attack. Luckily, they have the attacking prowess of a slightly slow teacup pig — and when we do get hold of the ball we make it count. Colusso gets to the byline and pulls back to Barreto and when his shot is saved, Guillermo knocks in the rebound to make it 1–0. We then hit the post through Rodriguez and create further chances before half time but 2 minutes into injury time its still 1–0. That’s until their goalkeeper is only able to parry a shot from Pico to Guillermo, who’s the deadliest man from 6 yards in the Tucuman region. 2–0.

The second half is so easy that I try to bring on Mario — who I didn’t even name on the subs bench. Instead he gets in his car and drives to the local steakhouse, El Carne Masiva — to purchase as much meat as he can fit in his pickup truck. The Ultras get to enjoy Rodriguez adding a 3rd with a header, followed by a car park cookout. I hand out the buns, Linton and Navarro move the meat items between various racks of heat, and Walter Pico and Hugo Corbalan start a full on singalong of ‘Viva La Champu’. Even Hans & Milton don’t irritate me, as after 2 bottles of local something they put on a knife throwing act that was “Would See Again” 7/10, if a little body-fluidy.

We have 4 days until our next game at against Defensores de Belgrano. So we set off on the Wednesday afternoon and meander down over 2 days. We stop for training sessions in Cordoba and detour to Santa Fe. I gather my coaching staff around me on the coach and we agree that we should go for the away formation from the start. This shouldn’t require a change in personnel, as Rodriguez can fill in on the right hand side of defensive midfield — and I’ll be damned if Begbie Pisonero is getting released yet. The man is a walking two footer. I do still make one change as El Gigolo returns, giving Pico a rest.

There is a reason that they are 8th in the table. And that reason is that they are tighter than a Scotsman on a budget. When Ayala opens the scoring for them in the 23rd minute, I struggle to remember us having a meaningful chance and other than a penalty shout as the half is fading out we are well and truly shut out. I tell the players to scrap the away plan. We’ve been playing well of late so the home plan should do the trick. Or at least, it’ll be a lot more entertaining.

We show a lot more enterprise and we control the second half — with Dolgetta coming close — and I bring on Pico for Baretto and chuck El Gigolo out to the left. Throwing caution to the wind 5 minutes later I go two up top and wow — does it pay off. For Defensores. Ayala scoring again. 2–0.

The referee then turns down what feels like the 4th penalty appeal of the day and whilst we press and create a couple of chances, it’s an insipid performance and we can’t argue we should have won. I start an argument with the fourth official in the 88th minute and find myself sent to the stands. I protest by standing on the roof of the dugout like a petulant child for the remainder of the game.

I’m furious at the final whistle, both at myself for the idiotic tactical change and at the referee — C. Krauss — for his selective blindness. Whilst all I want to do is shout insults outside his dressing room in relation to Nazi Gold and specsavers, I content myself with hunting down his shit car with its shit soft-top, and leaving a soft steamy deposit on top of it. I cackle with laughter as the team bus pulls away and I can see him dancing like Yosemite Sam, furious at the ‘Shituation’ he has been left in.

Don’t fuck with the Tucuman.