6. Tragedy in Buenos Aires (3 pgs.) – Champions Renaissance

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ACT III- CHAPTER 6

TRAGEDY IN BUENOS AIRES

Thursday November 26, 2020

Buenos Aires Argentina

Days before he entered the clinic for a minor issue, Arturo walked along Florida Street in Buenos Aires, wearing a hood and sunglasses to avoid being noticed. He stopped in front of the display window of the Atenea bookstore. He read the title and smiled: THE CHAMPION’S RENAISSANCE, Objective Philosophy for an Exceptional Mind. It was the book’s final title. The same store sold educational games, and there it was, in its cardboard box. The game shared the book’s name and was sold with it or on its own. His eyes filled with tears. What a goal! he thought.

Arturo had achieved everything. He knew his true friends loved him, and he loved them in return. He was the footballer, the showman, the politician, the father, the son, brother, cousin, and uncle; the addict, the genius, the blond, the dark-haired, the fat one, the thin one, the millionaire, the famous man, the frank one, the funny one; the kid from the neighborhood who empathized with the poor, the one who signed autographs without bodyguards. He could wear a white tuxedo and stop a muddy ball with his chest. He achieved with his feet what he set out to do with his mind. He learned from his mistakes, and kept scoring goals on and off the field. But his book, the book of Ronald and the others, was his hidden treasure.

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It was what filled him with the greatest pride. Feats are for eagles, he thought as he wiped away his tears. He had always wanted to write that book. Shared values were what brought Alexandre, Ronald, and Ricardo together. He smiled, thinking that the one resurrected from the dead was the first cause, an exceptional mind behind an exceptional feat by an exceptional group. He was part of it. The most beautiful thing: he would remain anonymous. If anyone doubted it, no one could prove otherwise. After all, he was God.

Arturo was hospitalized when President MacDoe denounced electoral fraud. The events at the Buenos Aires hospital were rare, atypical, strange, suspicious, just like the elections in the United States. Without explanation, a substitute doctor appeared with two substitute nurses and insisted on a brain scan. The scan detected a hematoma. He was rushed into surgery, and his skull was opened. Unusual.

The surgery had been successful. He recovered at the clinic. Days later, at home, he died. It stunned everyone, like a midfield goal that caught everyone off guard. Millions posted messages online. People said, “It seems he died.” When the media confirmed it, disbelief spread. “He’ll recover. Like before,” some said. “It’s a bad joke,” said others. “Fake news. No, he can’t die.”

It was the day when Argentines and the world knew the answer to the question everyone asked when he was alive: what will happen when he is gone? No one knew, but now he was gone. Millions mourned him. In Argentina, many said he deserved a bigger funeral than Eva Perón. It would have been, but the pandemic robbed him of it.

‘Social and judicial condemnation of the guilty,’ read a flag at a massive march under the Buenos Aires Obelisk. ‘The guilty must go to prison,’ said another. ‘They killed him, but he will live in the people.’ Many banners appeared. Incidents occurred when police tried to disperse them; the government had banned large gatherings due to the pandemic.

A lawsuit accused the neurosurgeon, his primary doctor, a substitute doctor, and two nurses. The press released footage showing their disdain for him.

“We need justice. They should have cared better,” said a journalist in a prestigious network TV.

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The official report stated that Arturo died at 59 on November 23 from a cerebral thrombosis, kidney failure, and cardiac arrest. How could this happen if he was healthy and recovering? Since when were brains operated on for minor issues? Questions flooded social media.

Alexandre was furious. He would not forgive the guilty. He would hunt them to hell itself. How he missed him! His intelligence! His genius! His metaphors! His humour!

The Argentine president declared three days of national mourning. His coffin lay two more days in Congress, wrapped in the flag. Among those who paraded before it were Ricardo, Alexandre, and Ronald. Thousands said goodbye, singing and waving flags as the procession moved to the cemetery.

Tributes came not only from Argentina but also Naples, Manchester, Dubai, Mexico City, London, Paris, Moscow, Madrid, and Rio de Janeiro. Few football games with fans — because of the pandemic —observed minutes of silence. Leaders and former leaders from France, Mexico, Ireland, Brazil, Russia, Australia, Spain, England, Italy, and even the Pope sent condolences.

Alexandre visited Arturo’s church, where fans worshiped him as the Hand of God. He gave the priest ten thousand copies of the book to distribute among more than eight hundred thousand followers across sixty countries.

He also gave him a red granite tetrahedron, similar to the black one, polished like a mirror. Alexandre said it could become a sacred object of the church.

His free, intelligent, honest spirit embodied Argentinian ingenuity and creativity: untamed, happy, affectionate, kind, and gentle. Argentina, with a well-educated middle class, had been a global power in the early twentieth century, but was collapsing under corruption.

The pandemic stole many things, but not the indomitable spirit of the Hand of God.

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