Suarez, the blue bicycle and Mirabela

It had been an unseasonably hot day the Sunday that Suarez arrived at the old railway station, for his first experience of the famous Sunday market at Dworzec Ziebodski. Before the stalls started, there was row upon row of clothes, shoes, batteries and all manner of goods strewn out on rugs across the street, the sellers sitting on old milk crates eating sunflower seeds out of long dead flowers.

The heat and the hordes of people bumping into him left Suarez feeling dizzy and disorientated; part of him wished he had asked some of his Rio Grande team mates to accompany him but there was another part of him that was excited and felt adventurous to be experiencing this Wroclawian Sunday tradition on his own. The heat and call of the traders trying to draw his attention to their wares, reminding him of the Grande mercato at Calasparra the mountain town near Rio Grande.

When he had left the hotel that morning Suarez had felt like he needed to do something to take his mind off the worry over Torado’s disappearance. They were roommates and the fact that that Torado had been missing for over a week now had affected Suarez even more than the rest of the team, being stuck in that now empty hotel room made him miss and worry about his missing friend constantly. So it felt good to be out there in the midday sun, surrounded by people, it made him feel less lonely, plus he was here for a reason.

Suarez had spent most of the past two months since they had arrived in Polska, coveting the beautiful old bicycles that the glamorous women and elegant men used to get round the city. He had planned to get himself one weeks ago but recent events had caused him to put the bicycle purchasing on hold. But now here he was with 500 zlotys in his pocket and nothing to stop him from buying the most bellezza 1940’s bicycle he could find.

As he walked through the entrance to the old railway station, the rows of stalls seemed to stretch out indefinitely along the old train tracks, as if they were part of one long never ending train. He passed stall after stall selling nothing but women’s high heels, finally after about an hour of searching Suarez came face to face with the bicycle of his dreams. It was beautiful, he was in love, if there had ever been a more perfectly crafted bicycle he had not seen it. Suarez was sure that such a bicycle as this must possess its own soul and that soul would be old, kind and wise.

It was blue, a turquoise blue the colour of the Rio Grande itself when it had finally finished it journey down the mountain and stretched out before turning into the Pacifico. Its wheels glistened and flashed in the sunlight, the brown grips on the handlebars looking like soft leather gloves, this was his bike the one he had been looking for his whole life, he was sure of that.

The old lady selling it must have been in her eighties, she was so small that powder white saddle of the bike almost came up above her head. Suarez tried to ask her how much in Polish but the lady just smiled and said in perfect English “150 my handsome young man”. Just a 150 zlotys!! Suarez did a few quick calculations in his head, that was only 65 Rio Grandean Redondas, he looked at the kind face of the elderly lady “Signora, that seems too little for such a fine specimen of a bicycle, I would happily pay you three times that amount”.

Suarez was worried that if he bought the bike for such a lowly price, he would be taking advantage of the good lady’s nature; something his mamanina had told him was an ugly and deplorable trait in a man. She had taught him this, when she had caught him cheating a village girl out of her haul of avocados as a 12 year old boy. Suarez could still remember the scolding he had received when his papa had returned home from working in the mine that late summers evening all those years ago. He had learnt his lesson from that day forth and had grown up to be a man of honour and strong principles.

The kindly old lady had said to him that while she was touched by his generosity and honesty the price she got for the bicycle was of little importance to her, it was the perspective owner that mattered to her the most. This had been her beloved husband Pawel’s bicycle, he had died a year ago to this very day and when she had awoken that morning; She had felt in the bicycle the same loneliness and sadness that she had felt every morning since her dearest Pawel’s death. She knew that she herself was now too old to find a new soul mate and was just counting the days until it would be her time to join her beloved Pawel on the golden plains that awaited her on the other side of the clouds. But she knew that the bicycle was still young at heart, full of life and as strong as the day it had been crafted by her husband all those years ago. It had seemed to her that morning a cruel act to make the bicycle suffer the pain, longing and heartache that so haunted her, so as the fog had started to clear, she had set off on the long journey into the town and the market, wheeling the bike with a heavy heart, knowing that today she would be saying to a loyal and old friend. A friend who was the last connection with the life she and her husband had known in this fair country.

When she had seen Suarez approaching the stall, a sense of peace had washed over her, the bicycle had let out a shrill giggle with its bell and she knew then that the bicycle had found a new owner worthy of her slender yet sturdy frame. She told Suarez that she would have happily given him the bicycle for nothing but that she needed 150 zloty to perform one final ritual before she would go into the Sudety hills to re-join her husband. Suarez had asked the lady in the most respectful manner if she could tell him what that ritual was. The kindly lady said she was happy to, she was going to go that evening to the restaurant  that her and her Pawel had met for the first time 63 years ago. There she would have one final meal, the very same dish she had eaten on that misty October evening all those years before. Medallions of tender pork, wild mushrooms with a dill and cream sauce. She would also have two glasses of cherry vodka, one for her and another in honour of her husband, then one last espresso which she would nurse and savour as long as possible, along with a final cigarillo. She would pay the bill and leave whatever was left over for the waitress before walking across Plac Solny for the very last time, she would keep walking until she reached the forest and then she would die.

Suarez’s eyes  were full of tears as he handed over 200 zlotys, the lady tried to return the extra fifty but he just shook his head and knelt down on the dusty old ground of the old railway track and took her hand in his and planted a delicate kiss on it. Suarez looked up at her and wished her a safe and wonderful journey. He stood up wiping the tears away from his eyes and started to wheel his new bicycle away, after a few steps he looked back toward the old lady, who was still smiling at him through those kindly green eyes, Suarez shouted back to her “kindly Signora what is your name by the way?” “Mirabela” the word echoed back to him, He stopped then slowly lowered himself onto the opulent white saddle of his new steed, gently putting his feet onto the peddles, he looked down  “come along Mirabela it is time to go home” and off they rode.

Torado and the 24 hour Alkohole sklep part 2

My fall had clearly startled Torado and I could see him walking closer toward the bush I lay under. I had no idea how I was going to explain to him my reason for being in this bush, covered in dog shit at 3.30 in the morning. As he leant down to look were the noise had come from I knew it was too late for me to make a run for it, I would have to just come clean to him. He peered further into the bush and saw me lying prostrate on the ground there must have been no more than 3 feet separating our faces. He stared down at me a confused look on his face, I couldn’t seem to get any words out and just lay there motionless looking back at him. Then Torado did the strangest thing, he just smiled at me, dipped his hand inside one of the carrier bags he was holding and pulled out a can of Tyskie, which he offered to me “Piwo, go on take it my friend” I was not sure what I should do so I just accepted the can and said nothing and then without another word ny old friend turned away and walked off into the darkness. I must have lain there for at least ten minutes, resting the luke warm can of beer against my chest, just as the drunk I nearly tripped over earlier that night had done. Why hadn’t Torado said anything? He must have recognised me? After all we had known each other for over 14 years now, ever since he had ended my playing career with a bone crunching tackle during the third round of the “coppa Bandelero della Velasquez. He had visited me every day in the hospital as I was recovering from my broken legs. He would often come in the late afternoon and just sit there for hours reading to me, Kafka, Bronte, Orwell, Jilly Cooper or whatever took my fancy that particular day. In fact it was in the Ospedale de Santa Maria that Torado had first fallen in love with wuthering Heights. As I lay there in the bush, smelling of god knows what; I wondered how best I could help my friend who had clearly fallen under the vice like grip of alcohol. I lay there for another ten minutes pondering my next move until I could no longer take the smell and started to wretch. I unceremoniously pulled myself out of the bush almost losing my balance again and plunging into the Odra River. This would have been no bad thing really as it might have helped to wash some of the stench off me. I ached terribly after my half hour stuck in the bush, I stretched out my back which clicked and cracked like the buttons on a typewriter, brushed myself down and started to forlornly walk back to the team hotel stink the smell of dog poo and urine lingering just a few steps behind. As I walked over the footbridge that took me back onto the south side I realised I was still clutching the can of warm beer, I looked like a character from “Down and out in Wroclaw” the yet discovered 3^rd chapter of Orwell’s study of the poor.

I was still carefully keeping an eye out for Torado but as I slowly navigated my way back to the hotel I thankfully did not see him or even one other human being. I entered the hotel lobby which was also entirely empty; the night manager had abandoned his post behind the faux mahogany island in the centre of the vast foyer. This was very good news as I did not feel like explaining to anyone the reason for the smell that was reeking off me. I crept passed the “wooden” monolith as quickly and quietly as I could and climbed the two flights of stairs as silently as a mouse, albeit a mouse with questionable hygiene standards. On the second floor I turned down the long dull grey hallway towards my room. I was nearly there now just a few more steps and I would be at the door to my room and I could get inside, wash the foul stench off myself and no one would be any the wiser about my nocturnal activities. I stood by the door fumbling in my pockets for my key card, pulling it out I notice it was covered in what I hoped was mud, wiping it on the last clean spot I could find on my trousers until it was relatively free of whatever brown substance it had been covered in. I pushed it into the door panel, nothing happened, I tried to turn the handle but no luck, it wouldn’t open. At that very moment, José my assistant manager turned the corner into the hallway, he was wearing his trademark herring bone pyjamas and burgundy robe, he stood there and stared at me in utter disbelief. He managed to compose himself “Bossio what has happened to you, mama mama you smell like the manure my uncle Zuberto uses on his farm. This whole time I had been frantically thrusting the key card into the panel, at last the light flashed green, the handle turned and I collapsed head first into the room.

I was now faced with a dilemma should I just shut the door to my room without saying anything leaving poor José to stand outside, to come up with god knows what wild theories about the state in which he had discovered me. I decided it would be best to take him into my confidence so I gestured for my worried looking assistant to enter the room. Anyway I trusted José he had always been loyal and apart from his occasional psychotic episodes on the training ground I respected his opinion on most matters; he had a different way of seeing things compared to most men.

We stood in the tiny non-descript room facing each other for a few seconds. I told José to fix himself a drink and make me some tea, while I took a shower, then I would tell him what had taken place this night. I closed the door to the bathroom, flicked on the fluorescent light over the basin. As soon as the light stopped flickering, I saw why José had looked so shocked when he had seen me and why my old friend Torado had not recognised me earlier in the park. As I stared into the mirror that some idiot had hung crookedly over my basin, the only feature I could make out were my eyes, the rest of my face was entirely covered in mud and something else that while a similar colour was decidedly less fragrant smelling. Looking down at my filthy clothes I wondered exactly how many different breeds of dog excrement I had smeared over me.  Alsatian, Labrador, Terrier and a good few cross breeds I suspected. Peeling the clothes of layer by layer I had to laugh at myself when finally naked, my body pale and milky white with a completely brown face, my blue eyes peering out from behind the thickly caked mud. I stepped under the shower, the water was icy cold but still I stayed under it for twenty minutes until I finally felt as if the mud and shit had been washed away down the rusty plughole. I had scrubbed my face so hard that by the time I finished showering my face had turned from murky brown to sore and red.

I pulled a robe around me and walked back into the bedroom, gratefully taking the cup of hot tea from Jose’s hand before perching on the end of my bed. José sat down in the armchair facing me, swilling the ice cubes around his glass of Scotch, he clearly wanted some answers. I tried to imagine how confused poor José must have felt sat there waiting for me, after having discovered his boss in the early hours of the morning, looking like something the cat would refuse to drag in, he also knew about my alcoholic past and at this precise moment I was sure poor Jose was fearing the worst.

I placed the cup of tea down on the sideboard and started to explain everything to him. I told him I had been worried about our old friend Torado, that I had seen him sneaking out of the hotel late at night and decided to follow and where I had followed him to. It felt good to share my worries over Torado with my trusted aide. After I had finished telling him everything that happened we both sat there for a time quietly in our own thoughts.

I broke the silence, taking a deep breath I said “José” “I think Torado has a drink problem”

José remained quiet for a while longer before telling me he agreed and confiding in me that he had suspected this was the case for a while now but had been unsure over whether to say anything. We sat there together for another hour till it was almost dawn; discussing what we thought would be the best way to help our dear old friend. We both decided that tomorrow morning after breakfast we would reach out to him and offer our friendship and support to help him through these troubles. Jose got up poured his unfinished Scotch into the sink of the kitchenette and nodded to me a goodnight. I slumped into my bed and fell asleep instantly.

I awoke a few hours later and the first thing that greeted me was the most unpleasant smell that leaked out from the bathroom. I got up to investigate this putrid smell and was quickly reminded that although I was now clean I had left my filthy clothes from last night on the floor in the bathroom. Picking up a carrier back I walked into the bathroom holding my nose, holding the clothes as far away from my face as possible I dropped the offending items into the plastic bag, tied it opened the window and tossed it into the bins that were against the wall in the courtyard beneath my room. Then I took another shower put on a fresh Rio Grande tracksuit and made my way downstairs for breakfast. I arrived in the dining room to the familiar cacophony of the Rio Grande players arguing and teasing each other. Acosta was trying to wind Gargagno up by telling him that “Marquez was a hack and if he wanted to read a truly great writer he should try the delicate prose of Jeffrey Archer” Gargagno replied “that while he admired the liberal musings of Archer, he felt his writing lacked something when compared with the languid beauty of Katie price’s Angel books.”

I was pleased to see my players in such good spirits but as I scanned the room I could see no sign of Torado. I joined José by the hot buffet, he was stood by the fried egg section and was piling what looked like about 8 or 9 of the badly overcooked things onto his plate, until they encircled the huge mound of bacon he also had, like a greasy moat around a fatty castle. José’s appetite never ceased to amaze me it was a wonder he wasn’t the size of a house by now, the overpowering smell of the eggs was making me feel so nauseous that I walked off and got myself a coffee and sat waiting for José and his fortress of food at our table. As he sat down and started to devour his breakfast in front of me, I asked if he had seen Torado this morning, he just shook his head and carried on shovelling the rubbery eggs into his mouth. The sight of the wobbling white albumen almost made bring up my coffee. I got up and walked out into the hotel gardens that overlooked the Odra River, the sun and the breeze whipping up off the river making me feel instantly refreshed. I pulled the packet of cigarettes out of my pocket, lit one and looked out across the river to the brightly coloured buildings on the far bank. A feeling deep within my stomach and unrelated to José’s eggs told me that something was wrong and that somewhere out there in this city was Torado, missing and in danger and in need of our help!!

Torado and the 24 hour alkohole sklep

Torado had always been the most dependable of defensive midfielders, a calming influence on the team, but not beyond occasionally delighting the fans with a 40 yard wonder goal.

Recently though, his behaviour had begun to take a worrying turn. He had appeared these past few weeks, sluggish and sleepy during training. He had also seemed disinterested during the squads late night philosophical debates that he had always been such an active participant in. Gargagno had also though it prudent to mention, Torado’s failure to appear at the last few of his twice weekly book evenings. This Gargagno noted was especially strange as they were currently reading Wuthering Heights and it was no secret that this was one of Torado’s absolutely favourite books.

At first it was unclear what was ailing my vice-captain and old friend but as I became more and more concerned about the mental state of my grandé amigo, I started to notice more odd things about his behaviour. I decided to try and reach out to him, so after a huge amount of bribery I managed to get us 2 tickets to the Polish premiere of the new Almodovar film who happens to be Torado’s absolutely favourite auteur of all time.  I presented the tickets to Torado, which had incidentally cost me an agreement to host a five a side match in the lobby of the multi kino cinema but he just told me that he was feeling a little unwell and did not think he would be able to attend the event with me. Instead I ended up taking Acosta’s new husband Xavier the Spanish flamenco guitarist, who thought an evening spent at a Almodovar film would go some way to soothing the homesickness he felt for his beloved Girona.

The evening itself turned out to be most enjoyable and Xavier was an interesting and cultured companion. He told me the most wonderful stories about the history of flamenco over a late night coffee in the Rynek. We had both enjoyed the film immensely though I had to agree with Xavier that the pre theatre nibbles of miniature pierogi did not really constitute being classified as tapas, which is what they had been advertised as on our glossy golden invitations. After the film we had sat and talked late and long into the night over caffé con pan. Xavier had very flatteringly told me that he almost saw the rhythms and movements of his beloved flamenco in the way the Rio Grande team played. When we finally started to make our way home it must have been at least 2.30 am.

As we had started to turn the corner I caught a glimpse of Torado heading down a back street that ran parallel to the hotel, what an earth was he up to? I asked myself.

I thanked Xavier for his fascinating company and bade him goodnight and at the moment decided I would follow my vice capitano to wherever it was he was headed. I kept a safe distance behind Torado as not to arouse his suspicion. I didn’t want to get to close as I have often found that when walking alone at night one seems to have a sort of extra sense that lies dormant in us the rest of our lives, a throwback maybe to ancient times when the ability to sense another creature close to us could have been a matter of life and death.

I did my best to lurk and remain in the shadows that criss crossed the street, never getting closer that a couple of hundred metres of my old amigo. Every few minutes Torado would glance furtively around, he appeared to me, to be very nervous, where an earth is he going I thought? He headed over the footbridge, over the Odra and onto the island that separated the north and the south of the city. I followed, nearly losing my balance at one point as I tripped over a sleeping drunk, who lay unconscious and spread eagled across the path, he was carefully balancing a can of Tyskie beer on his stomach, the can gently bobbed up and down with each heave of his chest, I quietly circumnavigated him. Torado was almost out of sight now as I hurried over another footbridge and there I was for the first time on the north side of the city. The streets were dimly lit and quiet, but with an underlying menacing atmosphere that seemed to hang over them in the silence. I could see Torado hurrying on in the distance, a late night rendezvous perhaps I thought, with a lady of questionable morals, now that would have gone some way to explaining his recent behaviour. He could be distracted by love or more likely lust. As I followed him further into these strange northern streets, I noticed that Torado appeared more anxious than ever, he kept glancing over his shoulder, forcing me to dive into the nearest dark alcove I could find, then he would plunge his hands deep into his pockets and start to walk more swiftly than before. There was a left turn up an unlit alley, then through a courtyard where you could hear homeless dogs howling. Finally I watched as he turned right into a wide street, which seemed to have only one light emanating from its far end. It was a neon sign but I could not make out what it said from where I was crouching. I watched as Torado walked into the building that lay directly under the flashing sign. As I stood there waiting I watched a steady stream of rather dishevelled looking characters stagger in and out of this building, on their way out they all seemed to be laden with varying amounts of cans and bottles.

 A process of simple deduction led me to believe that this building must contain some sort of 24 hour alcohol shop. After about five minutes I saw Torado step out of the building carrying two plastic bags bulging with what I guessed was alcohol. I stepped back into the dark alcove of the doorway behind me to avoid being spotted but as I put my foot down behind me I felt a squelch, there was no need to examine what this squelch was caused by as I already knew. I had stepped into a large pile of dog shit. Dog shit makes an unmistakable type of squelch far different to that of mud and the moment you hear that squelch you know there is no hope. Torado walked past me without even glancing in my direction as I stood there in my soiled shoes, I let him walk past a couple of hundred yards before I followed keeping a prudent distant, which is more than I could say of the smell that emanated from my shoe. We walked back over the footbridge and onto the island and into the pitch blackness of the park. At some point as I alighted from the bridge I lost my footing and tumbled down onto the muddy path. Torado must have hear my fall as he stopped dead and turned around, I could not risk being spotted by him and knew the darkness would give me a few seconds of cover before he would recognise me, so I rolled as best I could into the nearby bushes. I came to a halt under the bush on top of something wet, after a second or two the smell left me in no doubt as to what it was I now found myself lying in, dog shit again!!!!

Our man in Wroclaw, the first report

Day 1

The old decaying buildings that lined the streets, an abundance of unlit alleyways, dark concrete entrances to the vast town houses and the dim lamps and cigarette smoke of the old cafe’s, with people leaning over the table to each other, imparting important information in hushed tones. The beautiful square and its multi coloured buildings, the cobbles shining from the rain that was lashing down. All of this evoked the memories in me of the golden age of spying and oh how I missed it.

Today it was all computers, i-pads and satellites, the age of digital information gathering and when it came to all this I was well shall we say a little out of touch. My overall uselessness as a modern espionage agent had garnered me my latest posting, to the capital of lower Silesia Wroclaw, pronounced “wrosssswavvv” or to the average ex spy of a similar age to me Breslau.            

My lack of competence with the new technology that had become essential in the modern age of spying had left my superiors at HQ with little choice other than to find me a posting of no real importance, somewhere they could forget of my existence really and they had deemed wrosssswavvvv to be the perfect place to do this. As I had been leaving HQ to travel to my new posting, the director of operations had called me into his office and given me these paring words “just keep your ear to the ground old boy” he had manage to say this in the same manner that someone may talk to the elderly and clearly senile relative, who had forgotten for the twentieth time that day where they had put the sugar bowl. Oh well at least the weather had been pleasant since my arrival in wrosssswavvv.

Days 2,3 and 4

The man sitting on the table next to me in Literacka (the café in the square), has on the most suspiciously coloured sunglasses I have seen since that summer in Gdansk in 1963, I jotted down in my notebook that he may be a person of interest, but to who and why god knows, he definitely seemed to be a person of interest to the jolly looking group of friends he was sat with and I was sure his wife and family also found him to be very interesting, unfortunately I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. My grasp of the polish language was thus far limited to ordering coffee or buying pol kilo (half a kilo) of fruit, vegetables, meat or anything else I could find at the local market. The upshot of this was that my groceries were of a most uniform manner. In fact a quick sweep of my apartment would reveal that this was the residence of a meticulous man, with a fridge and pantry full of half a kilo of everything. Green beans, Edam cheese, sausages, potatoes, toothpaste, cereal, coffee, chocolates, I was in fact the pol kilo man.

My rudimentary grasp of the Slavic tongue that was spoken in this corner of Europe where I now found myself had made me have misgiving about my suitability for this new role, I had voiced my concerns to my section superior about my ability to succeed in this intelligence gathering lark, in a country where I spoke little to none of the language. He had just waved my concerns away with a gesture and said “Just keep your ear to the ground old boy”.

Well that I had been doing, from the moment I had arrived at the train station two days ago. Unfortunately so far my reports had contained little of what I would call valuable information, I have to say that I had been very pleased with my carefully detailed list of the wild mushrooms that were currently in season and available at the local market. One can never know enough about a countries indigenous mushroom species. I had even drawn a lovely picture of some of the mushrooms as well as small watercolour of the river odra, complete with ducks and herons, which I was sure the folks back at HQ in London would find most informative.

I had also rated all the bars and cafés in the Rynek on a scale of 1 to 10 depending on the quality of their coffee and the view of the fountain. The fountain had seemed to me a likely meeting place for the conducting of espionage activities, my surveillance of it so far had however turned up little evidence of this, though I did seem some suspicious looking children playing in the fountain only yesterday. Of course I had reported this immediately to my superiors at HQ but had yet to receive a response regarding what course of action I should take on this matter.

Day 7

There is a gypsy woman who begs outside the café Literacka, which I had chosen as my base of operations mainly because of its unrestricted view of the fountain and its acceptable quality of coffee.  Anyway everyday she walks around the tables, shaking an old grimy blue bucket begging for money, all the locals at the café seemed to know her and were clearly taken in by her clever disguise. A wily old fellow like myself on the other had quickly saw through this deception and refused to be taken in by her gypsy charade. I was sure that this toothless old lady had ingeniously implanted some form of listening device in the base of that dirty old blue bucket she carried. I was also never foolish enough to drop even a 50 grosz coin into it as she could then take it home to her laboratory get all kinds of genetic information about me and who knows what devilry she would be able to do with that.

The wedding, Acosta and the flamenco guitaristo, Father Zealato and the twisted arm in the confession box

There was an atmosphere of fiesta sweeping through the team hotel that morning.                      Acosta arrived down in the canteen for breakfast, his flaxen blonde hair conditioned and flowing like the Grandé Rio itself. His entrance was greeted by whoops and cheers from his team mates. Today was the day that would see the arrival of his fiancé from Spain, the acclaimed flamenco guitaristo Xavier Barratopolipio. He was coming to help finalise things for the grandé wedding this Saturday.    By this time on Sunday, Acosta and Xavier would be joined in holy matrimony.

The entire team had spent the whole of the last week preparing for this grandé fiesta. Suarez had been slavishly working on the cake day and night, realising in icing the designs of every team member, the result was the most magnifico fifteen tiered cakio anyone had ever seen. Gilberto the square chested Brazilian centre back had been at the Plac Solny flower market  for the last two days meticulously selecting the flowers for the stupendo arrangements that were to take pride of place on the wedding tables. The club capitano Aromga had taken Acosta yesterday to the famed tailor of Turin, Albarinio della stylistico who had just opened a new flagship store in the big shopping centro called “Renoma”. Where they picked up the most beautiful deep blue woollen suit ever to have been spun, by an Italian craftsmen. All training had been suspended until after the wedding, to allow everyone time to make  the necessary preparations.                                                                                                    

     Myself and Veron (the elder statesmen of the team)  were charged with organizing the food for the fiesta, 3 whole suckling pigleto’s and the Grandé est Risotto per Rio ever made. After the Aromga incident on the Tumski bridge, I had decided to take the responsibility of locating the risotto rice myself. So accompanied by 4 Rio Grande secreto sevisio agents and an armoured bicycle I set out to purchase 263 kilos of Del d’oro carnaroli rice. The armoured bicycle seemed to be enough to keep the ape like pierogi agents at bay and I returned home with all 263 kilos intact. Meanwhile Veron had returned from the Halla Targova with 145 kilos of Ceps and girolles, 121 red shallots, 24 heads of garlico and 33 bunches of parsley, not to mention a 32 kilo block of parmigiano reggiano mega marmo cheese.We wasted no time on getting to work on this produce in the hotel kitchen, where even the local chefs had joined in the fiesta spirit and offered their help for free. Everything was going swimmingly until something happened that like a rain cloud, dampened the wedding fever.

Suddenly Acosta burst into the hotel lobby, his eyes flowing with tears, like the Rio Grandé during the rainy season. A few seconds after followed Xavier with a face like a mountain thunder cloud, he picked up the first thing that was to hand, which unfortunately was his 19^th century hand crafted Spanish guitar from the hills of Grenada. He hurled it onto the marble floor of the lobby the centuries old wood splintering into thousands of tiny pieces, then without a word stormed up the stairs. It took several minutes of consoling Acosta, until me and the rest of the now worried looking team ( who had crowded around) to find out what had caused this great upset.                                           

   He told me that he and Xavier had decided to take a walk around the city as it had been such a beautiful day. They had walked through the parks, alongside the Odra river underneath avenues of  Hanging green trees, watching the sun glinting off the river in wonder. As they walked Acosta told us that the air had felt heavy with the love Xavier and he felt for each other. After a few hours they had found an enchanted spot underneath a weeping willow, on one of the city’s many islands and it was here where Xavier had serenaded him with a song by the famoso singer Charvella Vargas. It was as Acosta himself put it, the most beautiful day he had ever known. The story of this love affair had already bought tears to the eyes of Gonzalo the huge Argentinian defender. Acosta continued the story. As they were walking back over the Mlynskie bridge hand in hand and drunk with love an ugly incident had occurred. A group of young men had started to laugh and jeer at the sight of these two beautiful human beings walking hand in hand. They had then proceeded to chase Xavier and Acosta all the time hurling the vilest abuse at the young lovers, so vile I dare not even repeat the words on these pages. On hearing this outrage, Gonzalo clenched his fists then cracked his huge hands together, we could all see the anger starting to swell in his chest, he was fond of young Acosta, well we all were but Gonzalo had been the young man’s mentor ever since the blonde, blue eyed footballing ingénue had arrived at the club. “I weeel kill them” he roared and marched off. Acosta wnet upstairs to check on his grande amore Xavier and as the rest of the team and I were left standing in the lobby, a sad silence engulfed us all.

Later that evening, when everyone’s mood had cheered a little we all set off to watch the Grandissimo fireworks display that had been arranged in their honour by the European Union. The fireworks lit up the river and sparkled in the sky, we all danced and whooped, the joyful fiesta spirit had returned. Afterwards in a tiny bar on Sweska street Xavier gave a wonderful impromptu flamenco performance, ably accompanied by a band of Gypsy musicians, the people in the bar danced and cheered with every note that Xavier masterfully strummed. Acosta stood on a table in the centre of the packed room and as loud as he could manage, so he would be heard above the music, announced to the locals that on Saturday he and Acosta would be wed and he would like it very much if they could all attend. Everyone cheered, clapped and whooped and said it would be an honour. The gypsy band even promised to play at the wedding. “Viva Acosta” “Viva Xavier” Viva Rio Grandé” “Viva Amore” the shouts echoed out of the bar and across the square. It must have been very late by the time we finally stumbled out of the bar, a number of the players, Gonzalo in particular were rather drunk. Acosta and Xavier skipped on ahead of us hand in hand down the now empty Sweska Street.

We crossed the road at the bridge then headed towards the tram stop, but as we turned the corner we were confronted by a group of tattooed, shaved headed and angry looking men. They had noticed Xavier and Acosta standing there hand and hand and within a second they were menacingly moving toward the young lovers. Xavier and Acosta were frozen with fear but just as the men approached, the huge frame of Gonzalo was suddenly stood in the way. He grabbed the biggest thug by the collar and started to drag him towards the rusty tram tracks, the other tattooed apes tried to release their friend from Gonzalo’s grip, but he just flicked them aside as if they were no more than tiny mosquitos. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the rumbling of an approaching tram and seeing the anger that was flashed across Gonzalo’s eyes now, I have to say I feared the worst. As the trams lights came closer, Gonzalo flung the thug onto the track, he couldn’t moved he just lay there moaning as Gonzalo stood over him and the tram drew nearer. “Gonzalito please he is not worth it” screamed Acosta but Gonzalo could not hear him over the now deafening noise of the rapidly advancing tram. We all just stood there looking on in horror as the blinding headlights seemed to be upon them now, then at the last second with one massive tug, Gonzalo pulled the prostrate thug away from the tracks. Long abandoned by his gang the thug finally got to his feet, whimpering and looking down at his soiled blue jeans, he began to cry before stumbling off into the night. Gonzalo just stood there in the middle of the road, looking up at the stars in the sky before like some strange creature he howled at the top of his voice “Viva Acosta”  “Viva Rio Grandé”.                                                             

  No one spoke a word on the journey back to the hotel, but part of us all felt a sense of pride, a sense of pride in Gonzalo and the spirit and values of Rio Grande that were embodied in that giant frame of his.

The following morning, I could hear a frantic knocking on my bedroom door, when I opened it I  was greeted by Acosta, his eyes were all red and puffy and he was clutching some sort of letter in his hand. I took it out of his quivering hand; the postal seal was from the church that we had booked for the wedding, I could tell from Acosta’s face that inside this letter contained no news that could be deemed as good. I read it out.

Dear Sirs,

We regrettably have to inform you, that it has been drawn to our attention that the booking made for the wedding this coming Saturday, was to be for a same sex marriage. I am afraid this is something we cannot sanction as it would contravene the laws of the church and therefore indirectly God.

Kind regards

Father B Zealoto

All I could do to calm Acosta down was to tell him not to fret and this was a small problem that I was sure could easily be resolved and that I would take care of the matter. I was however to be totally honest, unsure how I should proceed in rectifying this matter, so I sought the counsel of Gargagno, the Rio Grandé player with the most knowledge on matters of a spiritual nature. Now it would be worth noting here, that in Rio Grandé for many years now the church has recognised the sanctity of love regardless of Colour, creed or sex, so I really had very little experience of dealing with problems of a ecclesiastical nature. I found Gargagno looking at butterflies in the hotel courtyard and explained to him the situation. He pondered the matter for a few moments, before telling me that he would have to seek advice from someone else first and that tomorrow morning we would go to the church together and meet this Father B Zealoto.  

      So the following morning Gargagno and I set out for the cathedral, armed with a letter that gargagno had procured form the highest echelons of the Church of Rio Grande. On arriving at the cathedral we were met by a pleasant young priest, who told us that although he sympathised with the young couple’s situation, his superior at this church was of a rather evangelical bent and that he was sure we would have little success in getting father Zealoto to have a sudden change of heart. Gargagno seemed undeterred by this and asked the young man if we could see father Zealoto anyway?   The young man agreed and we were led further into the cathedral, where the young man introduced us to a rather gruff and bad tempered looking man “May I present Father Zealoto” before swiftly excusing himself, leaving just the three of us standing there at the vestry. I carefully explained the situation as delicately as possible. Father Zealoto seemed unimpressed and just said “that there are, much to his own displeasure, places where people like them could have some sort of barbaric ceremony, but never in his church” Now I felt a rage swelling in me “people like them?” how dare he, I was about to challenge him, when I felt Gargagno gently touch my arm. He stepped forward and spoke in a very low voice to the priest. He explained that he had not had a chance since leaving Rio Grandé to take confession until now and that it would be an honour for him if the father would take his confession. Off they went to the confession box, leaving me all alone in the empty cathedral. I looked up at the stained glassed windows and asked God, how was I going to bear to break Acosta’s heart by telling him the wedding was off?

After a few minutes I started to here yelps and moans coming from the far end of the cathedral, the yelps seemed to get louder and louder, then suddenly everything was silent. Ten minutes later Gargagno and Father Zealoto returned, the priest seemed to be rubbing his arm and wincing with pain. He walked up to me smiling wanly and said “it would be my honour to hold the ceremony on Saturday to join these two fine young men in holy matrimony” and with those parting words he turned away and walked back towards the other end of the cathedral. I shouted after him thanking him for his kindness but got no reply. As we walked back to the hotel to give Acosta and Xavier the good news, I turned to Gargagno “How an earth did you manage to make him change his mind” Gargagno smiled and just said “ I had to twist his arm”

The wedding was back on Olé

Alvaro, the Reporter and a poem for Rio

 Cornered recently by a journalist, who thrust his microphone in front of me and asked, what football meant to me, my players and the residentes of our beloved  Rio Grande. I just nodded in the direction of the longest serving Rio Grandeian Alvaro Gonzales and told the journalist to ask him.
The snake eyed reporter sidled up to Alvaro and repeated the same question he had asked me. The answer he received left him silently scratching his head.
Alvaro smiled at the reporter, sat down and then said these words.

" When we are a playing on the pitchio, sometimes I cannot see it, everything is too frenetic, rushing feet, sudden movements and leaps and thrusts. At times it seems disorganised and anything but graceful. But imagine if you were to view it from a great height?  in the upper reaches of the stands, looking down at what was unfolding beneath you, then you would see the beauty. The further the distance the more beautiful it would appear. What might look unstructured and frenetic from the pitch, well from the heavens that very same scene takes on the form of a beautiful meandering river, all smooth turns and sweeping arcs, framed by the orange hue of the evening sun. You myself I am no more than a mere droplet of water, but together the team forms a majestic river that carves its way through the land. Turning what was once dry and arid, into a green carpet of lush abundance. That is what it means to me to be a Rio Grande player anyway."

And with those words Alvaro walked away and snuck up behind chicarito yanking his shorts up to give him a wedgie. "Ayayayayayaya" screamed Chicarito, This was echoed by the chant of this magnifico team "Viva Alvaro, Viva Rio Grande."