Aromga, the lost risotto rice and the Tumski bridge incident

After several days in Polska, the culinary delights of Rosol and Pierogi were beginning to wear off on the team.The look on Alvaro Gonzales face (the most underrated wing back in the game and also Rio Grandes longest serving player) when presented with yet another plate of pierogi Ruskie said it all. it was obvious that he and the rest of the players were starting to develop culinary home sickness. The next day in training ths became abundantly apparent. Gargagno kept sitting down in the middle of a one touch 6 a side match. He said that he felt to weak to play and that seeing as his stomach was not feeling nourished, he needed his soul to be and pulled out a copy of Seven story Mountain by Thomas Merton from his training bag. He then walked off and found a secluded spot at the other end of the field and spent the rest of the day reading under a lone Chestnut tree. Gonzalo, who had finally awakoken from his valium induced sleep-athon kept kicking youn Acosta in the shins and shouting "risotto" pretty soon the whole squad was shouting this familiar chant "risotto" "risotto per Rio".
I knew what they wanted and needed, the acclaimed dish created by the famoso cheffio Hector Barrivio barbarossa, Carnaroli, Albarinio in honour of Rio Grande's Coppa Del D'oro Boro cup final triumph last season. I turned to the fitness coach José Athletico and said " I will go and find a bello mercato buy some mushrooms, garlicio and shallots and tonight we will dine on Risotto per Rio". The whole team cheered and then renewed their training with a hitherto unseen vigour.
Now I knew we did not need rice as before we left our homeland we had packed two extra suitcases, one had contained 175 packets of De Cecco No6 spaghetti, the other had neatly packed in it 84 kilos of the finest Viale Nanone rice one can find in all of Rio Grande. So i left José to finish up training and went in search of the elusive wild mushrooms that I had heard grew so freely here.
It took me two hours to find the famoso vegetable market "Hala Targova". I walked round and round in circles across the islands that are dotted over the river Odra before I realised that the market had only been 500 metres away from where I had started. When I finally strode through the heavy wooden doors into the "Hala targova"  I was greeted with exotic shouts in a strange language, tumbling baskets of fruit and piles of wild mushrooms that seemed to scent the air with the whispers of the coming autumn.
I took some photos of the huge array of wild mushrooms to send home to Mamma, then proceeded to purchase the ingredients for a wonderful "risotto per Rio" that would live long in our collective memories or so I thought.
returning to the hotel laden with red shallots, cepes and girolles, it took a fractious conversation and a bribe to the kitchen to grant me the use of a rusty old gas oven.
I wasted no time getting to work straight away in front of the rather intrigued looking chefs. I sorted through the mushrooms, seperating the less fine ones, those woody mushrooms were dropped into the gently bubbling stock. Now the shallots, garlic and parsley, sliced and chopped olé. I then called up to José to get Aromga to bring me down 4 packets of fabuloso riosotto rice.
A few minutes later there stood Aromga in front of me with the gravest expression on his face.
" I do not know how to tell you this bossio, but a somebody hee deednt pack the rice."
Looking up at the heavens  I shouted "Angelo Badalementi how could this have happened."
Turning to the crowd of chefs who had now edged ever closer so they could stare into the bubbling stock, I did my best to explain our predicament. After much shrugging on shoulders, the chef who appeared to be the boss amongst this ragtag crew, nodded his head, grinned then scuttled off.
Seconds later he returned, beaming faced and with a huge plate of uncooked pierogi.
Aromga cried out and fell to the floor with his head in his hands.
The chefs seemed clearly disturbed by this demonstartion of the Latin temperament and could not fathom how their beloved pierogi could have such an effect on a man.
Finally Aromga pulled himself to his feet and wiping the tears from his eyes said "bossio I will go and find some Viale Nanone or Carnaroli and i shall not return until I do." and off he went.
I smiled and thought that is why this brave man is my capitano.
So we waited for him to return, we waited and waited four days to be precise. By midnight on the first day we had started to fear for his safety. I contacted the polizia and the Embassio, Gargagno even rang his mama back in Rio but none of them seemed to know anything about my Capitanos disappearence.
Four days later Aromga finally returned to us at the training ground. His hair was matted and dull, he stood in front of us bruised and bloodies, tightly gripping onto one perfectly formed grain of Carnaroli rice.
The players rushed around their capitano, but he just waved away their concerns about his bruises, then he turned away from us and lifted up his shirt, we looked on in horror at the giant tattoo of a pierogi that covered his entire back. Pulling his shirt back down, Aromga sat down, took a deep breath then told all of us exactly what had happened to him these last four days.
It had taken Aromga several hours, after leaving the hotel to hunt down an Italian ristorante, where at great expense he had managed to purchase a 3kg bag of De la megatorio grade Carnaroli rice. As he was hurrying back to the hotel he had decide to take, what he thought was a shortcut over the Tumski brige. He was halfway across when he was suddenly confronted by a group of shaved headed ape men, he knew what was coming, they asked him to empty out his pockets. Now Aromga had not wanted any trouble and his chief concern was to return to the hotel with all 3kg of rice not a gram less. So he duly emptied out his pockets to the tune of around 2000 zlotys. The apes did not seem to be satistied with this however and the largest of the ape men grabbed Aromga by the neck and said "they were going to take everything this latin ladyboy had on him". Aromga had a dilemma now as he had no intention of relinquishing the rice to these cultural barbarians but the only other item he had on his personage was his  venezualen cup winners medal, his most treasured item. With a heavy heart he held out for them to take but one of the apes just snatched it out of his hand and tossed it over the side of the bridge, Aromga winced as he heard it splash into the dark wates of the Odra below. Then the chief ape gestured towards the bag of De la Megatorio rice, now Aromga lost his cool " no fackin way,  I weel not give upio the Carnaroli and be forced to eat your cabbage stuffed pastries for a moment more."
The apes took great offence to this smear on their culinary heritage and jumped on top of Aromga, the bag of Carnaroli split in the melee and the rice tumbled out all over Tumski bridge.
Aromga told us how he was on all fours scrabbling about trying to gather up the rice, when he felt a hefty thwack on his head and everything went black.
He thinks he awoke the following morning but cannot be sure. He had found himself in some abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city and as he had brushed the dirt off himself and got to his feet, it was then that the searing pain in his back became noticeable. After a few hours of what seemed like aimless walking he found a public toilet. As he washing his face in the luke warm water, he noticed a mirror and decided to investigate the pain in his back, he gingerly lifted up his shirt and then he saw it, the sore looking monstrosity that now covered his entire back. He turned back to the sink and vomitted and at that very moment he wondered if he would be able to carry on a second longer. It took him two whole days sat outside that public toilet weeping and cursing the gods until his soul had regained another strength to try and find his way back to us, his brothers.
We stood there looking at our capitano, in silence. our eyes wet with tears of sorrow and love for this grande man. Then finally Pastore stepped forward, put his arm around Aromga and tried to console him with the fact, that from a certain angle his new tattoo could be mistaken for a map of his beloved venezuala. Aromga smiled wanly at this. He stood there for a moment as still as the rocks that tower abover rio Grande, then he spoke these words.
"Do you know what kept me going those four day" and he held up that one shiny perfectly formed grain of Carnaroli rice "this, I clung onto this one grain the whole time, this sole piece of rice as for me it embodied the spirit of Rio Grande" "Risotto per Rio"  "ole" we all shouted "Ole for Aromga" "ole el capitano"

Riots, Gargagno, Groin strain and the sleeping Argentine

At the airport in Wroclaw, Gargagno bought a copy of an English newspaper. As we sat on the coach heading to the team hotel, he read aloud to me the news of unrest and rioting in England.
"You see bossio, in Europe many problems right now" I nodded in agreement, the news from England had troubled me. I had spent many years there as a young managerio, in a small wealthy riverside town. I remembered that the fans were fickle, that the only good restaurant in town had been forced to close, as it was deemed to bohemian and they all seemed to have these huge vehicles the size of a small pueblito with bright shiny silver wheels. There was also a huge supermercato there, with all of the finest fruits from Rio Grande flown in on a daily basis by private jets, no expense was spared to feed and water the folk of this town. It was a strange land indeed but i had made some magnifico friends there and my mama she found the climate there so conducive that she and my piccolo sisterio decided to stay. Where she set up a counselling practice for jaded Latino footballers struggling to come to terms with the vigours of English life. So with all this in mind England was a land whos new I liked to keep up to date with.
Gargagno continued to read the article, then gave me a grave look.
" The problem is bossio, they have abandoned the young, they feel foresaken and laden with problems created by the generation before them and now they burn things. Just like that reggae song fire inna Babylon"
   I turned to him and said
 "my grande amigo things are not as simple as they seem"

 "yes they are" replied Gargagno "listen bossio, I am not saying what they did was right, the burning, the violence, the stealing but when people feel constantly ignored and overlooked they get angry and do things that are seen as morally wrong"

He leaned forward as if to infer a secret on me. " They are just repeating the example that has been set for them, by their government, by industry and big business, the only difference being that they lack the tools of subtlety and deception"
Gargagno seemed to have the bit between his teeth now and i wondered if he had not become a footballer if he would have had a bright future in politics back home in Rio Grande.

"It is the law of nature that youth must have its turn and that we older citizens  must relinquish some of the reigns of wealth and power. If qwe do not we confuse the laws of nature, the cycle of life and we do so out of our own greed"
I think I must have looked sceptical because Gargagno turned to me and with great conviction etched across his face and continued to speak.
 " Did you know bossio that in some Native American tribes, when a tribe member died they would burn all of their posessions and after that the person would never be spoken of again"
I wondered how we had got onto Native Americans but allowed him to continue as it seemed to sound interesting.
" I know to us that may seem somewhat cold and even primitive  but think on it for a second.
If that tribe member had committed a shameful act, then that too would be burnt along with their smouldering posessions, so that shame could then not be passed down to the next generation.
Equally if they had been a magnifico leader, their feats and achievements would go up in smoke too. So as not to cast a long shadow over their offspring of constant comparison to their parent or relative.
They understood that each generation must have its own time and their time must not be clouded by what came before."
Now Gargagno could tell I was listening, I leant forward and begged him to continue.

" Now in the places that we call the most developed in the world, we eye the young with suspicion, we misunderstand them. We compare their youth with rose tinted memories of our own, almost always in a negative manner. We expect them to willingly accept the hardships they endure, because of our own mistakes and yet demand that they doff their caps to us but we will not share some of our power, wealth and security with them.
It seems that we have come so far forward, we have not even realised that we are walking backwards and by doing so trampling over the hopes and dreams of a new generation."

And with those words Gargagno screwed up the paper into  a ball, then sublimely volleyed it into the bin at the other end of the bus. He had left me with a lot to think about as we stepped of the coach at the hotel.
Pastore waved goodbye to Ola and Annenka, I think there was part of him that was actually slightly relieved to see the back of them , as they had clearly exhuasted him, ore worryingly he kept harping on about a groin strain.
In the hotel lobby we had to wave away the over enthusiatic porter, who was offering to carry the still sleeping Gonzalo, who was at least four times his size, to his room.In the end it took five of us to carry the Argentine giant to his room and deposit him onto the too small single bed. The whole time he didn't as much stir or mutter.
Finall I closed the door to my room, sat on the end of my less than luxurious bed, cradling a luke warm espresso in my hand, I sighed and wondered what the future held for me and my brave team so far from our beloved homeland.
Viva Rio Grande

Gargagno, Marquez, Ola and Annenka, Valium and the flight to Polska

Now let me say something to start with, all the Rio Grande players happen to be some of the most spiritually enlightened footballers you are ever likely to meet. Yet even they seemed unprepared for the sight of Gargagno ( the swarthy uruguayan midfield enforcer) arriving at the training ground dressed entirely in a long flowing brown robe and his stubby feet covered in willowy leather Zakopane slippers. Aromga's face said it all one of entire disbelief and as Gargagno walked around the entire team kissing each player goodbye, tears flowed, including my own. This feels like the right time to tell Gargagno's story.

Even as we were about to board the plane to Polska a month ago, Gargagno had come to me with his doubts " I lovio Rio Grande" he told me " I love the club and everything it stands for, but most of all I love the village and its people" " High up here in the mountains with these people is where I found my peace, I do not think I can leave it" I chose not to argue with him as I had always respected him as a player and a man, but just as i was ready to accept the loss of one of my most impotantio players something happened that would change his mind.
The mercurial winger Pastore sidled up towards Gargano, he was clinging on to two leggy blondes Ola and Annenka, he was clearly very drunk and i could see the dissaproval spread across Gargano's face. I fully expected him to storm off telling me about how Europe is a Godless land of money, whores and moral collapse. Instead what happened was Pastore nodded at the tallest blonde woman Ola, who then leaned forward giggling and whispered something in Gargagno's ear, i kne not what. Then Gargagno rushed up to me, his face lit up like a small boy, showing his grandfather his new train set on his birthday.
" Can you imagine it bossio, i will come to europe with the squadio and do you know who else will be on the flight" he could almost not spit the words out fast enough. "Gabriele? Gabriel Garcia Marquez Dios mio"
  Now as many of you football fans will already know, when a combative midfield enforcer like Gargagno is asked who inspires him, one expects to hear a list of names such as Dunga, Makelele and Mattheus. But many a journalist has been left somewhat bewildered by Gargagno's post match comments that often quote Hamsun, Kafka, Castaneda  and more often that not his hero himself the great Marquez.
At that very moment i could have kissed Marquez myself, not least because I was a huge admirer of his work personally, but more importantly that merely his presence on this flight had allowed me to keep one of the most valued members of my team ole.
All seemed well, then just as we were getting the final call to our gate disaster struck, Gonzalo the reliable if slightly psychotic Argentinian right back had dissapeared. This was strange as he had been extremely enthusiastic about our impending trip to Europa, but there was one small obstacle, that had stopped him seeing more of the world before now, he was petrified of flying. Earlier I had given him 3 valium at the airport, with the strictist instructions to only take one now and maybe a second when we were over the Azores if he started to feel anxious again. It quickly became apparent that I had not made instructions clear enough; when a attractive stewardess approached me to tell us that my right back had just been discovered fast asleep in the stewardesses changing rooms, Pastore let out a snort of laughter which quickly subsided when the stewardess told us the airport polizia had been called.
After a great deal of remonstrating on my part, which involved me telling the airport security staff that Gonzalo was in fact a sleep walking Narcoleptic, the security staff decided not to press charges and even provided us with a wheelchair to transport the sleeping Gonzalo onto the plane with. it took 4 of us to haul this comatose Argentinian into it but finally we were on the plane and off to Polska.
Thankfully by Rio Grandes standards the flight was for the most part uneventful. The main problem was the long queue for the whole fight for the toilet, as Ola, Pastore and Annenka seemed to need the bathroom a lot and for long periods of time and for some reason they all had to go together! The youngest player in the squad Acosta commented on this to me and I told him it was best not to think of such things.
Gargagno had somehow managed to snag himslef a seat next to the great writer Marquez and had emptied the entire contents of his had luggage out, swathes of notebooks covered all the chairs and tables by where they sat.Marquez gracefully read through Gargagno's scribblings, nodding intently as theUruguayan discussed what he thought were the finer points of writing.
As for Gonzalo he slept through the flight and the first 3 days in Europe!
Aromga the club captain sat there fretting the entire time about how Pastore's sexual exhaustion, Gonzalo's narcotic induced coma and Gargagno's obsession with mystical literature were going to affect Rio Grandes chances in the coming season.
I spent the whole 15 hours of the flight with Young Acosta, the 18 year old blonde haired and blue eyed winger we had recently signed. During the journey he uburdened himself to me about his sexuality and whether I thought his team mates would shun him if they knew he was gay. I gently explained  to him that Rio Grande was not any football team and that the players, the village and everyone connected with this wonderful club would never judge a man by who he chooses to love. Buoyed by this news he stood up and as lound as he could shout, he pronounced his love and plans to marry his true love Xavier baratopopopoliopo the famed Spanish Flamenco guitarist, the team cheered, the champagne flowed and the stewardesses arranged an impromptu engagement party for Acosta, the highlight of which was a beautiful speech made by Marquez himself on the nature of love.
As I sat there mineral water in hand watching the festivities unfold, I felt like a proud and loving father to these brave young men and as the plane landed finally in Polska, everyone was either drunk with champagne or joy; all except Gonzalo who, was still in a valium induced blissful sleep dreaming of crunching goal line tackles!!

Rio Grande Polska polka

Pastore, is causing big troublio for Rio Grande since the move to Poland, every day he turns up at training with a new leggy blonde, he seems very happy but as soon as he starts training he is bloody exhaustatio, It is upsetting Aromga greatly. He came up to me the other day and said bossio i cannot take this much longer, i am sharing a room with javier and every night he a comin in at all hours and then spends the night whoring, i have tried to put on my whale song relaxation tape, but even when i turn up the volume to fall, he is a drowning out my sperm whale song with his a banging moaning and groaning. The move to Poland has caused me a number of problems with my squad, Milanetto punched a waiter in the square the other night when he ordered ravioli and was presented with a plate of  peroigi. The waiter insisted it was ravioli, Milanetto tipped the peroigi over his head and told the waiter he was insulting not only his beloved Italy but also his mamma and his Nonna. Piotr took offence to this and shoved milanetto who then smashed a plastic san pellegrino bottle over Piotr's head. Suffice to say we are now barred from Wroclaws best Italian restaurant. Gargano is spending most of his time immersed in the many catholic churces of the city, this was no problem initially as it meant he was one of the few players, i did not have to worry about, well so i thought. Until he arrived at the training ground this morning to tell me he was leaving to join a Monastery high in the Carpathian mountains. So i have one of my midfield fulcrum in the local Prison for public disorder offences, another one exhausted from daily marathon sex sessions and another one dressed entirely in brown robes on his way by foot to some tiny monastery somewhere in the mountains. So 3 midfielders down and i sent gilberto out to get risotto rice a week ago and we still havent seen or heard from him.