Esto me lo contó una vez un muchacho que buscaba chicos para llevarlos a los clubes.
Bueno, uno dice un muchacho pero hoy será un hombre de la edad mía. Un hombre grande.
Buscaba chicos que jugaran bien al fútbol. Trabajaba para un club mediano, Central Córdoba me parece, de Rosario. O para Independiente de la Capital Federal. No estoy seguro. Rosales se llamaba.
No vivía de esto. En esa época no existían las cifras fabulosas que se pagan hoy a jugadores, técnicos, managers, representantes, etc.
Visitaba los pueblos vendiendo productos. Era vendedor. No me acuerdo si de porcelanas o detergentes. Pero vendía algo. Vendía varias cosas porque representaba a varias empresas para poder reducir los gastos y así aumentar sus ganancias. Los gatos viajando y visitando clientes eran altos. Y se veia obligado a reducirlos de alguna manera.
Y aprovechaba en cada pueblo para entrar en los clubes especialmente después del mediodía cuando los negocios cerraban, para tomarse un café y sacar alguna información.
Era un trabajo de hormiga, difícil, porque los mismos clubes de pueblo tenían contactos en la misma comisión directiva con los clubes grandes y apenas aparecía una promesa le hacían un contrato.
Lo ideal, me decía, era contactar chicos de 12-13 años. Esos que viven todavía con los padres.
Muchas veces un amigo de la zona sabiendo que él se dedicaba a reclutar chicos le pasaba el dato.
Lo hacía por pasión, por gusto, por entretenerse. No pensaba hacerse rico. Simplemente ganar algún dinerillo extra.
Le gustaba mucho el fútbol. Sentirse parte del ambiente del fútbol lo hacía sentirse bien.
Realizado.
Como jugador había sido mediocre y no había pasado de jugar en su pueblo.
Había tratado de ser comentarista pero se había fundido con un programa de deportes.
Como entrenador no andaba porque no toleraba los insultos. Sobre todo cuando el equipo que dirigía perdía.
Era un tipo sincero, de bajo perfil.
Un día visitando uno de esos pueblitos perdidos en medio de la llanura, a la hora de la siesta, en un bar mientras esperaba el ómnibus que lo llevaría a otro pueblo para seguir vendiendo, y mientras releía por la enésima vez el diario, vio un chico sentado en la vereda de enfrente, en el umbral de un negocio. Tendría unos 10-11 años. Con un pantaloncito azul, medias de jugador y al lado una pelota de fútbol. Con cara de aburrido. Mirando la calle por donde no pasaba nadie.
Después de un rato el chico pegó un salto y salió caminado dejando la pelota abandonada.
Primero Rosales no le dio importancia pero después de unos minutos se dió cuenta que algo no funcionaba: cómo un chiquilín va a dejar un balón de fútbol abandonado?
Lo que ahora sigue me lo contó Rosales y lo transcribi palabra por palabra.
Cuando estaba por levantarse y ver hacia donde había ido el chico vio algo increíble.
Lentamente la pelota comenzó a moverse y a seguir al chico. Como si fuera un perro.
Primero pensó que era el viento. Pero no. No había viento. A Rosales le latía el corazón como loco. Vio que la calle era totalmente plana, sin ninguna inclinación.
Sin saber que hacer se quedó sentado, estupefacto.
Unos minutos después vio reaparecer el chiquilin comiendo un helado. Antes de sentarse vio que se daba vuelta y metiéndose dos dedos en la boca emitia un silbido (nosotros lo llamamos chiflido) corto y fuerte.
Usted no me lo va a creer. Rodando y saltando apareció la pelota de fútbol. El chico se sentó en el escalón de la puerta, dio dos golpes contra el mármol y la pelota pegó un saltito y se acomodó a su lado. Sola, sin que el chico la tocara.
Rosales desesperado en su intento de descubrir que ocurría apoyó el rostro contra el vidrio del bar para saber si en realidad era todo un truco y manjeba la pelota con un hilo o algo por el estilo. Nada era real.
Estaba por preguntarle al dueño del bar que era eso cuando nota que el chico pegaba un saltito y comenzaba a caminar. Y la pelota hizo lo mismo. El chico hizo chasquear los dedos, se golpeó el pecho y la pelota, como un perrito, terminó entre sus brazos. Y ambos se fueron caminando.
En el colmo del asombro, sin palabras y tratando de encontrar una explicación Rosales se dio vuelta, encuadró al dueño del bar y le preguntó:
-Usted vio, usted vio lo que hizo?
El dueño del bar sonrió y se encogió de hombros.
Moviendo la mano en el aire como para restarle importancia al hecho dijo:
-Está todo el dia así. Usted no sabe el caso que le hace esa pelota. Se la pasan juntos.
Sin saber que responder Rosales se acercó al bar y le formuló la única pregunta que le vino a la mente:
-Pero este chico, juega verdaderamente al fútbol?
-Me parece que si, le respondió el tabernero. Acá todos los chicos juegan al fútbol.
La mente de Rosales era un remolino de ideas. Un chico que había logrado domesticar una pelota de esa manera tenía que ser un fenómeno. No había dudas.
Pero tenía que seguir viaje hasta el pueblo vecino. En ese momento llegó el ómnibus. Lo tomó pero antes ya había averiguado todo sobre el chico. Donde jugaba, cuántos años tenía, el nombre, si estaba fichado.
Y, como buen buscador de talentos, se guardó el secreto y no lo comentó con nadie.
This was told me once by a boy who was looking for boys to take to clubs.
Well, one says a boy but today he will be a man of my age. A big man.
I was looking for boys who played football well. He worked for a medium-sized club, Central Córdoba, it seems to me, from Rosario. Or for Independent of the Federal Capital. I'm not sure. Rosales was called.
He did not live on this. At that time the fabulous figures that are paid today to players, coaches, managers, representatives, etc. did not exist.
He visited the villages selling products. He was a salesman. I don't remember whether it's porcelain or detergents. But he was selling something. He sold several things because he represented several companies in order to reduce expenses and thus increase his profits. Cats traveling and visiting customers were tall. And he was forced to reduce them in some way.
And he took advantage of each town to enter the clubs especially after noon when the businesses closed, to have a coffee and get some information.
It was an ant job, difficult, because the same village clubs had contacts in the same board of directors with the big clubs and as soon as a promise appeared they would make a contract.
The ideal, he told me, was to contact 12-13 year old boys. Those who still live with their parents.
Many times a friend in the area, knowing that he was recruiting boys, would pass the information on to him.
He did it out of passion, for fun, to entertain himself. He was not going to get rich. Just earn some extra money.
He really liked soccer. Feeling part of the football environment made him feel good.
Accomplished.
As a player he had been mediocre and had not gone beyond playing in his town.
He had tried to be a commentator but had merged with a sports program.
As a coach he was not walking because he did not tolerate insults. Especially when the team he led lost.
He was a sincere, low-key guy.
One day visiting one of those little towns lost in the middle of the plain, at siesta time, in a bar while he waited for the bus that would take him to another town to continue selling, and while he was rereading the newspaper for the umpteenth time, he saw a boy sitting across the street, on the threshold of a business. He would be about 10-11 years old. With a little blue shorts, player socks and next to a soccer ball. With a bored face. Looking at the street where no one passed.
After a while the boy jumped up and walked out leaving the ball abandoned.
First Rosales did not give it importance but after a few minutes he realized that something was not working: how can a little boy leave an abandoned soccer ball?
What follows, Rosales told me, and I transcribed it word for word.
When he was about to get up and see where the boy had gone he saw something incredible.
Slowly the ball began to move and follow the boy. As if it were a dog.
First he thought it was the wind. But no. There was no wind. Rosales's heart was beating like crazy. He saw that the street was completely flat, without any inclination.
Not knowing what to do, he sat stunned.
A few minutes later he saw the boy reappear eating an ice cream. Before sitting down he saw her turn around and putting two fingers into her mouth emitted a short and loud whistle (we call it whistle).
You won't believe me. Rolling and jumping, the soccer ball appeared. The boy sat on the door step, hit the marble twice, and the ball jumped up and settled next to him. Alone, without the boy touching her.
Desperate in his attempt to discover what was happening, Rosales leaned his face against the glass of the bar to see if it was really a trick and was handling the ball with a string or something like that. Nothing was real.
I was about to ask the owner of the bar what that was when he noticed that the boy made a little jump and began to walk. And the ball did the same. The boy snapped his fingers, hit his chest, and the ball, like a puppy, ended up in his arms. And they both walked away.
In the height of amazement, speechless and trying to find an explanation, Rosales turned around, framed the owner of the bar and asked him:
-You saw, you saw what he did?
The bar owner smiled and shrugged.
Moving his hand in the air as if to downplay the fact, he said:
-He's like this all day. You do not know the case that makes that ball. They spend it together.
Not knowing what to answer Rosales approached the bar and asked the only question that came to mind:
-But this boy, does he really play soccer?
-I think so, answered the innkeeper. Here all the boys play soccer.
Rosales's mind was a whirlpool of ideas. A boy who had managed to tame a ball like that had to be a freak. There were no doubts.
But he had to continue his journey to the neighboring town. At that moment the bus arrived. He took it but had already found out everything about the boy before. Where he played, how old was he, the name, if he was signed.
And, as a good talent scout, he kept the secret to himself and did not discuss it with anyone.
