‘Me robaron Ovación’

Micky Rospigliosi heredó de su padre un apellido y una marca. ‘Ovación’, el legendario programa radial fundado en 1964, fue el principal legado de Alfonso ‘Pocho’ Rospigliosi, el periodista deportivo más popular que este país ha tenido. Micky, hijo y émulo, recogió el encargo de continuar con la obra de su carismático padre. En eso andaba cuando –mala suerte, exceso de confianza, pésimas decisiones, acaso todo junto– le arrebataron de las manos ‘Ovación’, el orgullo familiar que hoy se empeña en recuperar.

Por Enrique Patriau (Domingo-La Republica -11/05/2008)

Micky Rospigliosi prefiere no acordarse. Una mañana calurosa del 2006, en el New’s Café de Miraflores, a donde había llegado para arreglar su incorporación a un nuevo canal de cable, recibió la desesperada llamada de su secretaria. "Micky, el ingeniero Flores está afuera con veinte matones y ha tomado la radio".

Se levantó y llegó tan rápido como pudo a la cuadra uno de Dasso, en San Isidro, a las oficinas de ‘Ovación’. El viaje resultó inútil. Solo lo dejaron entrar al cabo de un par de horas. Entonces ya no había mucho por hacer. La orden judicial se había hecho efectiva. "Me la robaron", nos dice Rospigliosi, algo demacrado, el rostro como chupado por la incertidumbre. Dos años después, el ingrato recuerdo todavía le provoca un cóctel de pica, de rabia y pena.

Para todos a quienes nos gusta el deporte, sobre todo el fútbol, ‘Ovación’ ha sido un referente inolvidable. Desde siempre en la radio, también fue revista semanal (cerró en 1987) y diario (cerró en 1994). Aparte fungió de escuela de muchos de los comentaristas que hoy se lucen en pantallas. Y siempre vinculada con el apellido Rospigliosi. Hasta ahora. Con Pocho, ‘Ovación’ fue un exitoso programa en radio ‘El Sol’. Es Micky quien decide que ya había llegado la hora de cumplir un viejo y anhelado sueño: adquirir una emisora propia. La oportunidad llegó desde Cañete, donde se vendía una pequeña radio antes dedicada a la difusión de programas de perfeccionamiento agrícola. Así nació radio ‘Ovación’.

¿Cómo se le escapó a Micky Rospigliosi el legado que Pocho dejó a su muerte, allá por 1988? La historia gira en torno a una amistad de muchos años, ya irreversiblemente quebrada. Rospigliosi no solamente perdió ‘Ovación’. También a su mejor amigo. Y ése es un drama doble.

AMISTADES PELIGROSAS

Rospigliosi conoció a Carlos Eduardo Flores Wiegering cuando estudiaban juntos en el colegio Santa María. Con el respaldo de una amistad forjada durante años, le ofreció la gerencia administrativa de radio ‘Ovación’, un puesto de gran confianza. Ahora, en retrospectiva, asegura que se trató de un error tremendo, uno de los más graves que ha cometido a lo largo de su tormentosa vida.

Rospigliosi asegura haberse desencantado completamente cuando supo que un préstamo personal por 45 mil dólares, gestionado por él mismo para reflotar ‘Ovación’, había terminado sospechosamente depositado en la cuenta personal de Flores. "Cuando lo fui a encarar se puso rojo, titubeó, y me di cuenta entonces que quien yo asumía como mi mejor amigo era en realidad un tremendo sinvergüenza", declara. A partir de ese momento, decidió apartarlo de su entorno próximo. No lo llegó a botar de la radio aunque sí lo relevó de su cargo.

El episodio del préstamo corresponde al 2006. Siete años antes, en 1999, Rospigliosi le había traspasado a Flores el total de sus acciones en ‘Ovación’. Con letras protestadas en el banco, no podía realizar operaciones financieras a nombre de la empresa. Así, mientras resolvía sus apuros económicos, optó por apartarse momentáneamente del directorio.

Como una manera de protección, Rospigliosi le hizo firmar a Flores un segundo documento mediante el cual este último se comprometía a devolverle el total de su participación. "Se trata de una operación bastante común en las empresas", explica. La realidad le explotaría más tarde en el rostro.

Lo que denuncia Rospigliosi es que Flores se aprovechó del traspaso de acciones para hacerse ilegalmente de ‘Ovación’.

De hecho, cuando quiso buscar el documento que garantizaba la devolución, éste había desaparecido misteriosamente de su propia oficina. Hasta hoy, sigue convencido de que fue robado. "No encuentro otra explicación plausible", afirma.

En este punto se hace necesaria una advertencia. La historia ha sido reconstruida a partir del testimonio de Rospigliosi. DOMINGO quiso entrevistar a Flores, y a pesar de que logramos comunicarnos telefónicamente con él, se rehusó en todos los idiomas, y con cierta dosis de altanería, a ofrecer su versión de los hechos. "Yo sigo siendo amigo de Micky, lo sigo considerando mi amigo. No voy a decir absolutamente nada y usted puede colocar lo que quiera en su nota. No me interesa hablar con su diario, yo tengo mi propia radio", declaró. Dejamos constancia de su negativa.

LO DEJARON SOLO

Perder el legado de su padre y el orgullo familiar le supuso a Rospigliosi un golpe demasiado duro. Y saber que muchas de las personas que trabajaron codo a codo con él (y con el mismo Pocho) durante largos años, hoy lo hacen para Flores, es como echarle sal a una herida abierta que puede que nunca termine de cicatrizar.

Rospigliosi se siente particularmente defraudado de personajes como Héctor Madrid, quien fuera asistente personal de Pocho y suyo también. Sigue en ‘Ovación’ haciendo las veces de productor. "Ese tipo iba todos los días a la casa de mis padres que eran sus padrinos de boda. Apenas pudo, me clavó el puñal", señala.

En realidad, casi todos los comentaristas y narradores que formaban parte del equipo de ‘Ovación’ en las épocas de Micky Rospigliosi, hoy siguen ahí. Nombres como los de Elejalder Godos, Vicente Cisneros, Vides Mosquera y Rolly Cadillo son los que sostienen los programas estelares de la radio, fuera de tener a cargo las transmisiones en directo de los partidos de fútbol.

Al hablar sobre ellos, a Rospigliosi se le confunden y atropellan los sentimientos. Sabe que tienen derecho a trabajar. Aún así, no oculta su decepción. Largamente hubiese preferido que renunciaran por solidaridad con Pocho, con él mismo. "Ya sé qué clase de personas son. Yo fui grato con todos ellos y no lo retribuyeron. No estaban obligados tampoco", apunta.

Rospigliosi dice que vive de otros negocios, pero es ‘Ovación’ la que les dio a su padre y a él un lugar propio en el periodismo deportivo nacional. Por eso recuperarla se ha convertido para él en una cuestión de honor personal.

Y mientras acopia toda la información necesaria para entablar un proceso judicial contra Flores, intenta mantenerse en vigencia con un programa diario de una hora en ‘Radio Miraflores’ y que lleva por sugerente nombre ‘Verdadera Ovación’. Así se juega una pequeña revancha frente al atropello del que, nos asegura, ha sido víctima "por confiado, por tonto, por ser un imbécil que cree en la gente".

La última vez que Rospigliosi pasó frente a las oficinas de ‘Ovación’ fue hace un año y medio. "Lloré", admite. Tampoco la sintoniza. "No me dan ganas. El programa clásico de las siete de la noche es un absoluto bodrio. Es de esperar pues, si quien era cuarto comentarista, el señor Rolly Cadillo, es ahora conductor", ironiza. Y por ahora sólo le queda eso: imaginar que quizás bajo su dirección ‘Ovación’ podría ofrecer algo mejor a sus miles de oyentes. La verdad es una, sin embargo: lo que Pocho dejó detrás de él, lo que construyó con su trabajo, hoy descansa en otras manos. Micky Rospigliosi no solamente perdió una radio. Perdió parte trascendental de la historia de su propia familia.

"SIEMPRE ME VINCULÉ CON LA FARÁNDULA"

La pérdida de ‘Ovación’ significó para Micky Rospigliosi un gran primer golpe. Vinieron más. "Estos dos últimos años han sido muy complicados", declara a DOMINGO.

Efectivamente, la crisis con la radio coincidió con sus severos problemas sentimentales. La traumática ruptura de su relación con Sara Manrique resultó ventilada hasta la saciedad en programas de chismes y en los diarios de espectáculos. Y cada aparición pública añadía nuevos elementos de sordidez. Rospigliosi se arrepiente de esa época de su vida y quisiera olvidarla. Sí deja en claro, en todo caso, que la farándula nunca ha sido extraña para él, desde las épocas en que Pocho conducía ‘Gigante Deportivo’ por Panamericana Televisión y él coincidía en los estudios del canal con artistas, cómicos y vedettes.

Cuando le preguntamos si volvería a relacionarse con una chica vinculada al mundo de la televisión, nos responde que, por ahora, prefiere mantenerse solo. Esta vez, sus preocupaciones apuntan hacia otro lado.

CORSAIR: CABE INDICAR QUE EN EL WEB DE OVACION SOLO SE INDICA QUE ESTE EMPRESA SE FUNDO HACE 40 ANHOS PERO NO SE INDICA QUIEN LO FUNDO. UNA TOTAL INJUSTICIA PARA LA MEMORIA DE POCHO ROSPIGLIOSI. O EN EL MUNDO DE "YO AMI A MI MAMI" DE JAIME BAYLY, EL GITANO RIVASPLATA.

Riding the Waves of Peru
Susana Raab for The New York Times


JULIA CHAPLIN
Published: May 4, 2008
IT was high tide on a scorching Tuesday, and the choppy beaches around Lima, Peru, were crawling with surfers. There were teenagers in ratty flip-flops carrying short boards patched with duct tape, and bronzed women in wet suits paddling out into the shimmering blue waves. There was even a businessman in his 30s, who climbed out of a black-tinted S.U.V. in nothing but shorts, as a muscular chauffeur handed him a freshly waxed board, a bottle of water and a dab of sunscreen.

The only thing missing, it seemed, were tourists. Despite having monster swells on par with those that hit Hawaii’s legendary northern shores, Peru isn’t known as a surfing destination, except perhaps by a small band of jet-setting surfers for whom no wave is beyond reach.

That is, unless you happen to be one of the approximately 28 million inhabitants of Peru, South America’s third-largest country in area. Then you know very well that surfing has swept the nation recently in a pop cultural frenzy. On the wide boulevards of Lima, billboards are covered with the fresh-faced ranks of Peruvian surfers endorsing cellphones, beer and soft drinks. Surfing contests are all the rage. And to the south, where the waves are even bigger, physical attributes like pumped-up lungs, buff shoulders and sun-bleached hair seem to be bred into the local DNA.

And now, as Peru rides a tourism wave propelled by a strong economy and favorable exchange rates for bargain-minded Americans, it is poised to become the new “it” spot on the international surfing circuit. After all, Peru has 1,500 miles of rugged coastline dotted with countless breakers, from pristine beaches tucked around Lima to unexplored pockets up north where some waves are said to last more than a mile. And unlike Malibu, Hawaii’s northern shores and other well-known places, many of Peru’s best surfing spots are often nearly empty.

With so much to explore, surfing has muscled in on soccer and the culinary arts to become an unlikely symbol of national hope. Much of the current craze can be traced back to 24-year-old Sofía Mulanovich, a Peruvian who won the World Surfing Championship title in Hawaii in 2004 — a contest dominated by Australians and Americans. And if the ranks of teenagers who frolic their spare hours away in the swell have any say, surfing in Peru will only get bigger.

That’s true up and down Peru’s coast, whether it’s a small town like Chicama in the country’s north, famous for its super-long waves, or around the busy capital of Lima, where the sometimes polluted breaks are teeming with surfers from dusk till dawn. But the epicenter of the neo-surf scene is undoubtedly in Punta Hermosa, a summer beach community about 30 miles south of Lima, where surfing is virtually a religion.

The hourlong drive to Punta Hermosa provides a sobering look at the arid and impoverished landscape in this part of the country: brown hills devoid of vegetation and pocked with sad clusters of wooden shanties. The town itself doesn’t look like much — dusty concrete houses painted in bright greens, blues and reds in the hills below the four-lane Pan-American Highway. But the fuss is clear when you finally arrive at the beach: curling waves fan out in all directions like Neptune’s block party.

Each break point presents a different challenge. There’s Kon Tiki, which offers untamed waves so massive that it takes a strong arm even to paddle out to it; La Isla, where homegrown pros like Ms. Mulanovich and Gabriel Villarán can often be found; and Pico Alto, a brawny break with swells that can range up to 25 feet high.

ON a recent Saturday afternoon, the Copa Barena Professional Circuit surf competition was taking place in Punta Rocas, one of the most popular beaches in the area. The scene at the amateur competition resembled a South American version of Malibu, but wilder. Barena, a Honduran beer being introduced in Peru, had erected giant inflatable bottles that were flapping like Michelin men in the wind. A stoner reggae band drowned out the announcers. And waiters in baseball hats weaved through an obstacle course of sun chairs with plates of calamari and cans of Inca Kola, a yellow soda spiked with caffeine-laden guaraná fruit.

The surf champ Ms. Mulanovich, who is known as “la gringa” because of her fair skin and blond streaked hair, sat with an entourage near the judge’s perch as she watched her younger brother, Matias, whiz over the lip and down the face of a meaty charging barrel.

“Peru is the best preparation for a pro surfer because there are so many different varieties of breaks and conditions,” said Ms. Mulanovich, who grew up in Punta Hermosa and recently bought a rock-star grade condo nearby with panoramic views of five surf breaks. “It’s much less crowded than in Hawaii and California, and even on the smallest day of the year it’s never flat.”

When her brother paddled in, the group piled into a caravan of S.U.V.’s and drove five minutes down the highway to San Bartolo for a teenage girl competition. It was sponsored by the cellphone company Movistar. “It’s like this all summer,” Ms. Mulanovich said. “Everybody wants to be a surf star now.”


But despite the surf fever, Punta Hermosa remains off the radar for most tourists, probably because there’s little reason to come unless you’re really into surfing. There are no surf shops — boards and gear must be rented or bought in Lima — and only a handful of hotels like Luisfer’s, a no-frills hostel where surfers bunk up, five to a room. Between sessions, guests can be seen doing yoga atop their board bags in the courtyard.

Peru Dining options are limited, too. The sidewalks are lined with cheerful stands that serve ceviche and seafood carpaccios that look amazing, but are far from stomach friendly. Ms. Mulanovich’s boyfriend, a surfer named Scott from Los Angeles, had been holed up in her condo for weeks after getting salmonella poisoning from bad mayonnaise.

The enterprising and friendly locals, however, make up for the lack of infrastructure. The town’s surf museum, for example, is actually the private home of an old-school surfer, José A. Schiaffino. I stumbled upon the 1950s surf shack one afternoon while walking back from the beach. Mr. Schiaffino wasn’t home, which was too bad because I had heard he mixes a mean pisco sour, but his caretaker let me look around.

The living room wall was plastered with archival photos of the Waikiki Surf Club and the ceiling was covered with colorful boards donated by big name riders like Nat Young, Mark Foo and Ms. Mulanovich — a makeshift hall of fame.

Peru’s love affair with surfing actually dates back to the 1940s, when the playboy socialite Carlos Dogny returned from Hawaii with a shiny wooden board given to him by Duke Kahanamoku, considered the godfather of modern surfing. In 1942, Mr. Dogny founded the elite Waikiki Surf Club in Miraflores, a ritzy suburb on the southern outskirts of Lima, where Peru’s ruling families rode the swells and got tipsy in the clubhouse on pisco sours. (The club still employs “board boys” who rush to the water’s edge to carry and wax members’ boards when they’re done with a session.)

The club placed Peru firmly on the international surf map and played host to the World Surfing Championships, which was won by a local big-wave rider, Felipe Pomar, in the 1960s. But by the 1970s, the sport’s reputation sagged as it became associated with dropouts and druggies, and surfing largely lost it cachet.

About the same time, the country became marred by economic woes, political repression and terrorism. Between 1980 and the early ’90s, the Maoist guerrilla group Shining Path waged war against Peruvian society, killing tens of thousands of peasants and small-town leaders, and turning Lima into a fiery battleground.

“Back then there was a curfew at 1 a.m.,” said José de Col, a pro surfer who quit the sport in the ’80s to become an architect because there was little sponsorship money in Peru. “We couldn’t have parties. Blackouts and bombs were part of daily life.”

Things began turning around and, in the last few years, Peru seems to have planted a 180-degree aerial. The country has stabilized politically under the new president, Alan García, though soaring food prices have driven his popularity down. Despite high rates of poverty (almost half the nation lives below the poverty line), Peru’s economy has grown steadily, providing a much-needed morale booster and, for surfers, an excuse to get back into the water.

After spending a day playing sand bunny in Punta Hermosa, and watching the competitions from the safety of my towel, I was itching for my own adrenaline rush. So the next morning, I hired a taxi and set out on an hourlong journey to Cerro Azul, a mellow break immortalized in a line from the Beach Boys’ 1962 anthem, “Surfin’ Safari.”

After maneuvering through four police checkpoints (shakedowns are common along the Pan-American Highway), we pulled up on a dirt road to the port town. Cerro Azul felt abandoned, like a Western ghost town, except for a few shiny condos and the lazy sounds of salsa lulling through the hot dusty air. The shoreline, however, buzzed with anticipation. True to its reputation, the break had a mellow but perky wave that rippled around a jagged point as though made in a water-park wave pool. I paddled out, staked my spot among the teens, moms and old timers, and caught a few rides before moving on to the next break down the coast.

As much as I liked paddling along southern Peru, the word on the shore was that any surf safari must also include a visit to Máncora, a small fishing village in northern Peru near Ecuador. It enjoys an almost mythic reputation among surfers for its balmy water, endless sunshine and crowd-free breaks. “Una paradiso!” my new friends would say between sets.

But it didn’t seem that way at first. I flew on Aerocondor, onboard a clunky plane that still had ashtrays in the arm rests, and landed in Talara, an industrial port city whose airport is now temporarily closed. The region, with a brown dirt terrain as monotonous as a broken record, is the center of Peru’s oil industry. Giant rigs scar the landscape like mechanical mosquitoes and perfume the air with the fetid scent of raw petroleum.

After an hourlong taxi ride, I arrived in Máncora, which looked like a blink-of-an-eye frontier town until I wandered out to the beach. Nubile surfers in string bikinis lounged under palm trees sipping coconuts, taking turns paddling out into the crystal blue ocean. It felt like that secret spot in “The Beach,” the 2000 movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio, except it was not quite a secret.

Máncora has been transformed in recent years from a sleepy fishing village into a busy, international backpacker hub. After dark, the town’s sole street turns into a total party, with flotillas of surfers, weekenders from Ecuador and girls in slinky tank tops getting tipsy at bars like Iguanas and Chill Out. There are also several amazing restaurants in town, serving the nouvelle Asian-Peruvian fusion known as novoandia. La Sirena, run by Juan Seminario Garay, a 28-year-old local surfer who studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Lima, serves dishes like causa maki, dollops of mashed potatoes filled with scallops mixed in a red and yellow pepper sauce.

Peru In the morning, the action moved to the beach, especially at the main surf break in front of the Hotel del Wawa, a small hotel and restaurant owned by the hunky surf pro Fernando Paraud, who is known simply as Wawa. “Every day is like a weekend,” said Wawa, who was holding court at his usual table. “Except weekends are more crowded.”

STILL, the restaurant was packed wall-to-wall on a recent Thursday afternoon with surfers waiting out the high-noon sun and low tides. Over delicate plates of smoked carpaccio and seared tuna steaks, they traded gossip on the day’s best swells and near collisions in the lineup. Then, when the tide finally broke around 4 p.m., everyone put down their forks, grabbed their surfboards and headed back to the water in choreographed unison.

It felt like a scene from a Broadway musical, especially when cheers of “Oy!” “Va!” “Ey!” would wash over the crowd like the chorus of a reggaetón song.

I followed them in. The waves were as gentle and as well-formed as the famously friendly breaks at San Onofre or Waikiki. And almost as jammed. Luckily there was a chain of hidden beaches just a hop away.

After bumming around Wawa for a couple of days, I hired a local surf guide nicknamed Pulpo to show me around. He drove me 10 miles in his teal-blue van to Los Organos, an abandoned oil town with a couple of new beachside hostels.

There were no more than a dozen other riders on the surf. I took my board into the water and waited for my wave. It didn’t take long before I caught one that was head high with a defined peak that tapered off to the right into a long shoulder — perfect for cutting and carving long arcs.

Pulpo seemed impressed because he took me 45 minutes farther south to Lobitos, a hard-to-find break tucked at the end of a ragged dirt road. There were oil pumps, rusty pipelines and crumbling military barracks, some of which had been taken over by squatters and turned into surfing hostels decorated with bumper stickers. I poked my head inside one: several blond French girls were having lunch with their dreadlocked Chilean boyfriends.

Eating would have to wait. We pulled up over the dirt and parked alongside the deserted beach. I pulled out my chunky 7-foot-6-inch rental board with trepidation. The beach looked like a small swatch of an industrial wasteland: a couple of oil barrels with flames flickering on top, and a few giant rigs on the horizon. But the waves, it turned out, had a perky, fun shape. Really fun, in fact. And the water was a seductive clear blue. Pulpo smiled. He had promised me a crowd-free break that was off the grid, and here it was.

I rode the swells for several hours, forgetting about the ominous oil barrels and, apparently, the time. Pulpo called me in. There was another spot up the road that was even better.

ON A SOUTH AMERICAN SURFIN' SAFARI

GETTING THERE

Several airlines including Continental, American and LAN Airlines fly direct from New York area airports to Lima, starting at about $650 for travel next month, according to a recent online search. To get to Máncora in the north of Peru, fly from Lima to Piura on Aerocondor (www.aerocondor.com.pe; 51-1-614-6014; $244 round trip), and then take a two-and-a-half-hour taxi ride to Máncora (about $50).

Punta Hermosa

WHERE TO STAY

Casa Barco (Avenida Punta Hermosa, 340; 51-1-230-7081; www.casabarco.com/puntahermosa) is a modern but charming 25-room hotel with a swimming pool and views of the surf breaks. Doubles from $55.

Hard-core surf safarians bunk up at the no-frills hostel Luisfer Surf Camp (a block off the main beach, Calle 1 — look for the concrete wall with the giant wave mural; 51-1-230-7280), which offers Polynesian-style décor and meal times based on the tides. Bunk rates are $16 a night and include three meals a day.

WHERE TO EAT AND SHOP

A lively evening scene can be found at Donde Luis (Frente la Playa Punta Hermosa), an Argentine-run cafe filled with antique furniture and surfers dressed up in their best flip-flops. Dinner, including delicious pizzas, salads and wine, about 50 sols (about $18.20 at 2.75 sols to the dollar).

El Piloto (Panamerica Sur, Kilometer 138, San Luis; 51-1-284-4114) is a classic 1940s roadside restaurant with murals of bullfighters, bamboo ceilings and long tables of families and truck drivers sharing ceviche (55 sols) and the spicy river shrimp (also 55 sols.)

The Kon-Tiki Surfboards Museum on the main beach in Punta Hermosa doubles as the private home of the surfer José A. Schiaffino. There’s an impressive collection of vintage surfboards, archival photos and other memorabilia.

There are no surf shops in Punta Hermosa, so if you need gear try Klimax in Miraflores (José Gonzales, 488; 51-1-447-1685; www.klimaxsurf.com). It offers a good selection of locally made Boz wet suits and surfboards, including short boards designed by the champion surfer Gabriel Villarán, starting at 542 sols.

Máncora

WHERE TO STAY

The epicenter of the local surf scene is Del Wawa (Avenida Piura, Frente al Point; www.delwawa.com), a small hotel with an excellent beachside fusion restaurant and lots of hammocks. Surf lessons are $15 an hour or board rentals $5 an hour. Doubles start at $25.

An upscale alternative is the Sunset Hotel (Avenida Antigua Panamericana Norte, 196; www.hotelsunset.com.pe), a boutique hotel with six suites, a secluded beach and a romantic restaurant perched on a cliff. Doubles start at $73.

WHERE TO EAT AND SHOP

La Sirena (Panamericana Norte, 316: 51-19-9811-5737) serves exquisite nouvelle Asian-Peruvian fusion, known as novoandia, in a little garden off the main drag. Dinner for two with wine, 108 sols.

El Tuno (Panamerica Norte, 233; 51-19-9408-2410) is a bright orange Peruvian-Italian restaurant that features an accordion player and specialties like tuna tartare with shaved avocado and mango salsa (50 sols).

Soledad Surf Shop (Avenida Piura, 316) sells a full range of gear for men and women such as rash guards, flip-flops and waterproof sun block.

SURF TOURS AND GUIDES
In the north of Peru, try booking Octopus Surf Tours based in Máncora (51-19-9400-5518; www.wavehunters.com/peru/Nperu.asp). Marco (Pulpo) Antonio Ravizza knows all the secret breaks and cevicherias: $895 for the week, including lodging, three meals a day and all gear.

For lessons and guides in the south, near Lima and Punta, call the former national surf champion Luis Miguel (Magoo) de la Rosa (www.magoosurfperu.com; 51-19-9810-1988), who has the insider tips and water smarts.

peru a lo italiacreo que los que propones de la primera linea de volantes doble "6" (o doble "5" a la argentina) es algo como hizo italia en el mundial.Tener a Pirlo y Gatusso en primera linea. El primero con mas movimientos verticales, limpiando la cancha a Totti, y/o descarcagando para Perotta, Camorsanessi.El segundo con mas movimientos hozirontales, protegiendo, segun sea el caso las subidas de zambrotta, o grosso.Claro los dos , si italia no tenia la pelota estaban en la misma linea.Creo que esa es la idea de Del Solar.La diferencia en Italia, tenian laterales que podian subir. Nosotros no tenemos laterales ahora.En fin esa es otra cosa, En este esquema la labor de los extremos es muy importante. Cuando tienen la pelota son virtuales punteros a la antigua (turnandose con lo laterales segun sea el caso). Y en posicion defensiva, tienen que morir con el lateral que esta en esa zona.No se si exactamente esa es la idea de Del SOlar.Creo que en este esquema, la funcion del volante mixto de primera linea es muy importante. Es la bisagra, y el que le da el equilibrio al equipo. A mi impresion, Italia nunca lucio descompendada ni en ataque ni en defensa.En fin , a mi me gusta esta propuesta, pero el problema es que no ha habido tiempo para desarrollarla. Ojala que saquemos 4 puntos en estos dos proximos partidos. Seria una buena inversion-->

A PROPOSITO DE CELEBRAR UN GOL

Si de celebraciones se trata me quedo con la de Marco Tardelli en la final Italia-Alemania Federal en la copa de 1982. Hacer un gol en la final con toda la presion y la adrenalina, debe ser lo maximo. Cuando lo veo me digo el futbol es el mas bello deporte sobre la tierra Sin duda la mejor celebracion de un gol