Don Blanco attends training

Suarez was sat on the side-lines with a glum expression across his face, even the Moomin book I had lent him had done little to alleviate the overwhelming despair he felt at the loss of Mirabela and the broken leg that was preventing him from taking part in training. I shouted at Gilberto who despite still wearing the velvet slippers was at that moment doing untold damage to Chicarrito’s, the little Mexicans shins as he scythed him down yet again. The petite striker was leaping up and down like a deranged frog, clasping his shin and screaming “ayayayayayayaya”. On the right wing the Argentinian powerhouse Pastore appeared to have abandoned training in favour of leaning against the wire fence that surrounded the compound to blow kisses at the bevy of long legged blonde beauties that came every day to watch him train, in the hope that the cards they were holding up with their phone numbers on, scrawled in scarlet lipstick would catch his eye. The sight of Don Blanco striding across the pitch put a quick end to Pastore’s flirting and he returned to his position on the right wing, with an embarrassed look on his face. Don Blanco carried on walking across the pitch winking and calling to the Rio Grandé players, Gonzalo launched the ball high into the air and before it hit the ground it was met by the powerful head of the Don and nestled into the back of the net past the prone figure of Rodriquez the Chilean goalkeeper. Don Blanco celebrated by affectionately pinching Acosta on the bottom, before walking over to the bench where I was stood. He sat down by Suarez and pulled him close into a fatherly embrace, tears started to run down Suarez cheek, Don Blanco gently stroked the Uruguayan forwards dark hair with his enormous hand. The disappearance of Torado, the crumpling of Mirabela and the broken leg had taken a heavy toll on the player who was like a son to Don Blanco. The Don kissed the forward on either cheek then stood up and shook my hand.

“This is a bad business my friend, first our enforced exile, then Torado and now look at our poor Suarez.”

I agreed, it felt like misfortune was stalking us at every turn and I hoped that our generous patron Don Blanco on what, or as I began to suspect more and more who, was behind this ill wind that was sweeping across Rio Grandé.

“There is somebody I would like you to meet” said the Don “I believe he may be able to help us.”

Then out of nowhere pulled up Signor Blanco’s beloved 1960’s white Lincoln, behind the wheel was his trusted driver Charles the tall Ivorian “ good day Signor Robbiati, it is bad, bad, very bad business all of this” Charles always said everything with the grinning expression of a man who was truly at peace.

I slid onto the plush camel back seat of the Lincoln and the car gently purring pulled away. Don Blanco leant forward and pushed a button, out from a compartment in the floor rose a vintage record player, there was a crackle and then the sounds of an African kora, Charles tapped his hands on the steering wheel and started to sing, while the Don’s face disappeared behind a plume of blue cigar smoke, the car ambling its way along in rhythm to the music.