Back in January 1983 I was in Lloret de Mar on the Costa Brava. Living the
                   good life? Fat chance of that. I was getting over a bout of bloody hepatitis.
                   Bilardo turned up, Argentina’s new manager.
                   “I want to find how you’re feeling and tell you about my plans for the national
                   squad in case you want to take part...”
                   “I’d be interested to know if you’ve got any financial demands or anything.”
                   “Financial demands for playing for Argentina?! Come off it, Carlos... I’ll never
                   give you any grief defending the Argentine shirt.”
                   “Right, great, great... I also wanted to tell you that, if you say yes, you’re going
                   to be captain of country.”

                   The first thing I said to myself at the time was to build myself a mindset:
                   playing for my country had to be the most important thing in the world. It didn’t
                   matter if we had to travel thousands and thousands of kilometres, I’d do it. If
                   we had four games a week, I’d play. If we had to live in poxy little hotels that
                   were falling down around our ears, I’d put up with it... Anything, anything for
                   Argentina, for the light blue and white. That was the philosophy I wanted to get
                   across.

                   The thing is, Matarrese, Antonio Matarrese, the Italian Federcalcio President,
                   was beginning by that time to put obstacles in our path. Even if we were
                   travelling with our clubs’ permission, the Italian League reserved the right to
                   suspend us. So I spoke up saying, “What!? Not even Pertini himself is going
                   to stop me traveling to Buenos Aires!” Sandro Pertini was President of Italy...

                   The marathon began on Sunday 5 May. We got a goalless draw against
                   Juventus in Naples. From the stadium itself we zoomed off to Rome in one of
                   my cars, I can’t remember which one. 250 kilometres to the Flumicino airport.
                   A police escort had been planned for us but they didn’t show up. I fought my
                   way through the Sunday traffic the way I do and we managed to cover the
                   distance in an hour and a half, hah... I took the plane, landed in Buenos Aires
                   and on the Thursday stepped onto the pitch at the Monumental to face
                   Paraguay. We drew 1-1 with me scoring our goal. I went back to our team
                   headquarters with the lads and at five in the afternoon the next day got on a
                   Varig plane stopping at Rio de Janeiro and flying on to Rome. On Saturday 11,
                   back in Flumicino, another plane, this time to Trieste... From Trieste to Udine
                   70 kilometres away by car. I got there around dinner-time, had something to
                   eat and went to bed. Next day, Sunday 12, off to the Udine’s ground, where we
                   drew 2-2 with me scoring both our goals... Out to celebrate? No chance! We
                   were off again! Seventy k by car back to Trieste airport, then on the shuttle
                   flight from Trieste back to Flumicino just in time for an Aerolíneas flight back
                   to Buenos Aires.

                   On Tuesday 14, I was standing in the Monumental as if I’d never been away,
                   this time to face Chile. We won 2-0. I got a goal, cheered, took a deep breath
                   and went to Italy. On Sunday 19 in Naples we beat Passarella’s Fiorentina
                   1-0. He was a bit better rested than me because he’d got himself booked when
                   all the running around began and saved himself a journey.

                   ’Course by then people were already making stuff up about me anyway. They
                   published stuff saying that I’d got $80,000 for playing those two games for
                   Argentina, the kind of money they wouldn’t even have given Frank Sinatra
                   singing stark naked on the pitch in the Monumental!

                   The first qualifier was in Venezuela. Easy? Easy my arse! We never had an
                   easy ride... We’d hardly set foot in San Cristóbal and there were these really
                   violent disturbances. The police were there but there were ordinary
                   Venezuelans too. And this lunatic ran in front of me and landed a kick on my
                   right knee that Eyetie [Italian] Gentile couldn’t have timed any better.

                   I spent the whole night before the game laid up in bed with an icepack on my
                   knee. I didn’t get to sleep till five in the morning. I thought it was nothing at
                   first but it started getting worse and worse. And on top of that, in that bloody
                   game and the ones after, people started aiming at the spot, everyone was
                   going for my right kneecap. I say bloody game ’cause it cost us an arm and a
                   leg to win it. A typical performance with us finishing 3-2 and begging the ref to
                   blow the final whistle.

                   Then came Colombia in Bogotá on 2 June. The pressure! The pressure! I’ve
                   never been through anything like it! We finally won 3-1
!

~Chapter 4

Chapters Index~

Chapter 6~