Tucuman Rising E7: Enter El Bivouac
November in Tucuman. The mercury is regularly at 30 degrees or higher. Walking along the street the shops are abuzz for the Christmas period, whilst the smells of the local Asado 200 metres down the street from my villa constantly sends smells of Morcilla towards my back garden. I watch as Carmen completes several lengths of the pull then strolls up to the lounger next to me and spreads herself out across it, her naked skin glistening in the late afternoon sun. I lean back in bliss, sipping from a blissfully alcoholic negroni and survey the latest league standings.
Life is Good.
Our next opponents making the trip to the much feared Jose Fierro are 10th placed San Martin de San Juan. They seem like a relatively obdurate bunch, with a goal difference of +4 and their manager Zielinski rubs me up the wrong way when he complains about the temperature of the water in the away dressing room. I tell the janitor to turn it from ‘Freezing’ to ‘Arbroath in November’. That’ll teach ‘em.
It’s the usual equation for us. Corbalan and Bressan form the greatest double act in central defence since Nelson and Sissoko in the 2012 League Cup Final for Kilmarnock. Mancuso and Demichelis form the best central defensive pairing since Gary Dicker and Alan Power for Kilmarnock in the Steve Clarke era. Our midfield of Oliva, Rodriguez, Cabrol and Pico rival the great Holt, Bagan, Burke and Reilly midfield of the Kilmarnock 1997 Scottish Cup winning side. Our attack of El Gigolo and Guillermo are relatively peerless — one could say much like Mixu-Era Eremenko and Sammon from Kilmarnock.
Pico has a couple of early chances but San Martin strike first when Garay pounces on a rebound from a free-kick which Navarro couldn’t get rid of. However it’s only 10 minutes later that captain Mancuso tees up Guillermo to fire in the equaliser. It’s a humdinger of a first half, with both sides having chances and both hitting the woodwork, but we go in at half time 1–1 with the match in the balance.
I pace the dressing room saying nothing, until I hear a voice from the corner. Milton is chanting 4–4–2 under his breath. I flick up the stray boot on the ground slipping out of Mario’s kitbag and in a feat of gymnastic ability hitherto unseen from a Scotsman, Scorpion kick it into his stupid fucking face. The place erupts as Milton falls to the ground and the players are in fits of laughter as we begin the second half.
Cisneros is the danger man for them, and he carves out a good early chance before Oliva misses a header from a corner. But the laughing boys are enjoying their football and playing some glorious stuff, which is rewarded when Cabrol fires in an exceptional cross (his 11th assist of the season) and El Gigolo beats his marker and heads into the bottom corner. I scream a primal howl of delight, turning and running to Milton and lock him in a bearhug. We’re in this together and I don’t care how much the mad Ecuadorian bastard annoys me — he is infinitely preferable to Hans, who is a great coach, but a terrible human being.
The San Martin keeper Cesar Monasterio is the busiest man in the Jose Fierro other than the beer sellers running up and down to the Ultras. He makes several excellent saves and we have yet another stonewall penalty declined when El Gigolo is bundled over. Despite the seemingly inevitible sucker punch looming over the game after this incident, it doesn’t come and we close out an excellent 2–1 victory. I carry Milton on my shoulders to the Ultras and they cheer his bandaged head. It’s a wild post match as well as a full squad World Cup of Agave Pong breaks out back at my Villa and is 06:53 when Andres Bressan sinks the winning shot against German Pisonaro. The house is a mess of bodies in the morning and we fire up the BBQ in the afternoon, with everyone present other than Hans who sits in his car doing Sudoku then goes to his Tango class. Wanker.
I decide to take an evening class in the minutiae of the Argentine transfer window when I realise it would probably be a good idea to have more than a single scout. I phone up the homeland, and before you know it I have a crack squad of Scotsmen (by which I mean at least 3 of them are on crack) ready to watch various young loanable Argentines with whatever limited mental capacity they have left. I have spit-all money despite selling Colusso for 450k, and only transfers for a fee are allowed in December. Before my scouts even get into the country, I capture German Lux on loan from River as my new heir to Navarro and send Hans into the changing room to take Andres Portugal round the back of the changing rooms. Two minutes later, I hear an almighty bang and run round the corner to see Portugal lying on the ground with blood everywhere and Hans standing over him with a Wok. Explaining to Hans that I meant to the pitches behind the changing rooms where the reserves train, I call an ambulance and head to shake German’s hand covered in a fair deal of claret.
We’ve got Arsenal De Sarandi next in our final away game of the Apertura and wouldn’t you believe its back in Buenos Aries province again. At least this time its a short distance from the coast, so we fly down on the Tuesday and spend 3 days training on the beach — covering set pieces and defence shape in the dunes before a 10km run each afternoon. It’s enjoyable work, and at one point me and the staff stand on top of the dunes and survey our work. We’ve whipped this bunch into shape for sure.
We are joined on the flight down by Julio Bevaqcua, a striker on loan from San Lorenzo. He’s a big brute of a boy and a solid signing to bolster the squad through the Clausura. He makes the bench for his first game along with German as we enter the Estadio Julio Humberto Grondona in high spirits. Otherwise the starting XI shows no changes from our last dominant performance.
It’s a quick start as Oliva shoots wide in the 3rd minute after good play by Cabrol, before warning shots are fired by Arsenal as Risso hits the bar in the 8th. Cabrol then tries to audaciously lob the Arsenal keeper who backpedals and tips over. Cabrol takes the corner himself and pings it out to the edge of the area to Walter Pico who hits a bullet of a shot that rises and rises and hits the stanchion at the back of the net. I punch the air and the players run over to join me in celebration after the set-piece masterclass we prepared on the beaches comes to fruition.
We barely touch the ball in the following 15 minutes and I revert to the away formation in an attempt to solidify and we suddenly look like a football team again. Dolgetta hits the post and forces a good save as does Pico. A further deluge of corners eventually leads to Guillermo meeting one and heading past the keeper for 2–0 in the 42nd minute — and that’s the way it is at halftime.
A quick halftime team talk, mostly involving me plagiarising the ‘Arsenal’ material from the IT crowd, keeps spirits up and the second half only has one team involved as our tight shape shuts them down completely. Bevaqcua comes on for his debut and has 5 touches of the ball. Navarro picks up MOTM, which seems a bit odd but credit to him with German breathing down his neck
I plan to celebrate with my new Scottish scouting team, but they are all stopped at the airport for searches and we lose contact. Tucuman officials won’t tell me much other than making a snorting mime everytime i ask, which makes me stop asking. I get in a couple of Englishmen and a Dane and send them out scouring whilst I kick back for the final week of the season. The players are given 4 days off, during which time we fish, go-kart, swim and BBQ ahead of the finale at the Jose Fierro against Villa Mitre — the worst team in the league.
I decide that we should go out all guns blazing and spend the Friday night drawing up a devilish formation full of attacking guts and gusto. I fear for Villa Mitre and the entire town of San Miguel de Tucuman postgame as I plan on letting loose like never before. I arrange for every entrant to the ground to be given free beer and the place is a cauldron at kick-off. Villa Mitre are positively pishing their frillies when they see the attacking nonsense we set ourselves out in.
The first 15 minutes are cagey as Villa Mitre sit deeper than the Marianas Trench. Eventually Guillermo puts a couple of shots wide and when he gets the ball for a 3rd time, he puts it on a plate for El Gigolo to turn and hit the bottom left corner. The stadium erupts and they break out into a glorious version of ‘Roxanne’ by The Police but replacing the eponymous heroine with Jose. 4 minutes later and Cabrol picks up a loose ball and he takes a touch, looks up and bashes one into the top corner from twenty yards to make it 2–0 after 21 minutes.
When El Bivouac nods home his first goal for the club in the 28th minute from an Oliva cross — I take the hidden Agave and cigarettes out of the dugout and go full Ricardo La Volpe. I’ve suited up for the final game as well so I strut up and down the dugout sipping from the bottle and screaming ‘VAMOS VAMOS’ every now and again to maintain my professionalism. At half-time, i lead the players down the corridor under the stands and up into the back of the Ultras section to party through the half-time interval — and the referee is incredibly confused when he reenters the pitch for the second half and sees Andres Bressan stuck on an advertising hoarding having just downed a yard of ale. I replace him with Demichelis so he can keep drinking at the back of the dugout.
After a slow 15 minutes with another chance for El Bivouac, I bring on Mario for a cameo 30 minutes to see if we can get him a goal, however the half-time drinking has very much impaired us and we resort to keep-ball mostly. Despite a couple of chances, it finishes 3–0 and we clock off the Apertura with a stunning 4th placed finish. German gets a clean sheet and El Bivouac plays well so to celebrate we send them out to do a naked run in front of the ultras. I wish I could say it was only beer lobbed at them.
We finish with the Christmas party 24 hours later after a night of Carne Asada, Agave and possibly the world finest Riverdance Strip Troupe I have seen in the southern hemisphere in the local supporters club. The Christmas party encourages fancy dress and when me and Carmen turn up dressed as Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love it brings the house down.
I hand out the awards for Best Player (Mancuso), Most Assists (Cabrol) and Top Goalscorer (Guillermo) who have all had sensational campaigns. The jokier awards of worst haircut (Demichelis for his Penn & Teller ponytail), Worst Dressed (Dolgetta for wearing a Cravat to an away game) and Worst drinker (Hans — by a fucking mile) also go down well. The chairman approaches me and calls me to his office after the final award is handed out and we sit down in his office smoking the largest Cuban cigars you’ve ever seen.
He offers me the choice of 3 envelopes. I sit back, blow a smoke ring the size of the holes in the Swindon Devils defence, and pick middle. I open it to reveal reams upon reams of bills. I look up in amazement and he just nods and winks, before handing me the other 2 envelopes and walking out. I open the second envelope and find two first class tickets to St Lucia along with a keyfob to a car and a note saying “Tick Tock — 2 hours”. I run downstairs and find Carmen and shouting goodbyes as we go, we dive into the rental car strategically parked at the front of the complex.
As we get on the road to the airport, despite a very odd smell in the car I hand the third envelope to Carmen who opens it and looks puzzled. She hands me the printout of the Premier Division table and “Promotion — Or Else” written in bold text at the top of it. As I laugh this off as a prank by the chairman, who I don’t doubt is shady but has always been a gentleman, a Polaroid falls out of the envelope on Carmen’s lap and she screams as it reveals a severed horse head strewn on the back seat of a car.
Suddenly I realise why the car smells funny. I turn to look in the back seat of the rental and…
*SCREECH…….BANG!!!!!!*
*silence……..*
