From Tim : Back home
It’s a warm Tuesday night in Catalunya.
The bus is slowly moving along the street as it makes its way to the large stadium across the corner.
Crowds bang on the side of the bus and sing loudly once they see the name on the side. The locals adore their stadium and the heroes who play in it, the world also waits with delight as the gladiators get ready to square up to each other.
Fabregas is sitting on the team bus, trying to listen to some relaxing music on his headphones. The butterflies in his stomach get bigger as the bus eases through the crowds in maroon and blue stripes, who are singing odes to the great team they are about to see. He can hear their muted songs through his headphones and they transport him back to a carefree time when he played football for fun.
The bus stops and he steps out with his teammates. Everyone is lost in their world, the night ahead ripe with anticipation. The energy buzzes through the air as he walks along the corridors to the changing rooms.
He’s in awe, he’s here at last. At last to play, back home and for a moment his heart skips a bit.
Robin taps him on his shoulder and he removes one bud from his ear, they chat and laugh nervously as they change. A few minutes later he’s standing in the tunnel about to head out. He’s chewing nervously like he usually does before every match, no gum in his mouth really, but it keeps him calm.
The air is heaving around him as the crowd gets louder and louder with every step.
Finally, he steps out into the floodlit night and the ground shudders with screams of delight from both sets of fans, “They are happy to see me” he muses, as he feels a warm glow and a tight knot in the pit of his stomach both at the same time. The air is tense, his body is tight and the hairs on the back of his neck bristle unexpectedly.
After lining up on the pitch, Xavi comes over and with a glint in his eye, shakes his hand firmly. Then they all come walking by, one by one, looking all confident, they walk like warriors who look like they’ve fought in this Colosseum a thousand times before and won.
Shortly they enter the battlefield and everyone takes their positions. The crowd goes deathly silent for an instant. And for that instant, time stands still.
Fabregas can hear his heart beating wildly.
The guy in white blows the whistle and the heavens quiver as the ball moves across the grass at full speed. Ping pong ping pong as the choirs sing worship songs and the air breathes and wails with each pass.
Fabregas feels his body heavy and tight. He’s not feeling like himself, his mind is tortured as he gets the ball and misplaces a pass. He looks up to see a loud banner urging him to come back home. He steels himself and tries to ignore the emotions that are speeding through his mind. The blaugrana warriors move like assassins, gliding across the field like ninjas and whizzing all around him.
“This is not how its supposed to be”, Fab thinks to himself. “We can fight, we are Spartans, we can defeat them”.
But his spirit feels like it’s betraying his own people and every minute that passes he feels like a Judas. His head wills him on to be a professional, but his heart aches to be a ninja, to zip and glide and caress the ball with his friends and laugh and carry away the spoils of war every year.
So he tries again and again, but with every second he feels himself disappearing from the game. Samir and Jack are fighting for every scrap, Johan and Laurent are straining every sinew, but the fog in his head grows and grows.
Suddenly a roar that touches the skies reaches him and he wakes up as if from a daze. They’ve scored.
And he’d made a horror flick to the wrong person.
The little man with magic feet has made the ball do his bidding again. The net is still swaying gently as Almunia gets up slowly to pick it up, he’s still wondering how the ball got past him.
Phrrrrrrrr it’s half time, and the sweaty, breathless gladiators stroll to chill out and re-group. Fabregas sits calmly in the changing room sipping his energy drink, he listens to the tall Frenchman who adopted him and deep down, he feels guilty for wanting to change sides. He remembers the long candid talk they had together 9 months ago.
The prof. weaves and woos, encourages and soothes their tired spirits and tries to instill belief in them, Fabregas wonders whether that will be enough but like the true professional he’s been trained to be, he rouses himself and rallies his troops for a second round.
But the second part is worse than the first and his soul is even more pained now than it was before.
Even after Sergio gifts him a goal, he still feel strangely disconsolate.
And for the next few minutes it’s all a blur as the ninjas are like shadows moving across the night. He tries to fight but he has no heart for it. From a distance he hears a fatherly voice calling him, and he knows it’s time to leave the pitch. Head down, he walks away knowing this is a night he’ll never forget.
And goes to sit, feeling ashamed about the way it has all gone.