02 - Welcome Home
Title: Welcome Home
Characters: Mesut Özil, Sami Khedira, Thomas Müller, Bastian Schweinsteiger, Philipp Lahm
Disclaimer: Nothing is real, as far as I know.
German translation is done by finy. She's super fantastic! Without her all the German speakers would all have headaches lol
The moment his feet hit the pavement, he instantly felt better. It took a hundred percent of his effort to not kneel on the ground and kiss the tarmac passionately. He’d just have to settle for thanking Allah for the safe flight home.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The silence in the car was deafening. His agent was in front of him, talking endlessly on a phone, and a bodyguard was beside him, tapping his shoes on the rug, but to him the silence was absolute. Is this what being deaf felt like?
He stared outside the window, taking in everything that he felt had been snatched away from him so quickly. He breathed slowly, never taking his eyes off the drab scenery and the grey skies. It had never been this beautiful to him. His chest felt fit to burst.
There are other people in here, he reminded himself. He bit his lower lip and forced the rising emotions down. There would be enough time for that later, maybe.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His steps echoed down the long hallway. His heartbeat thumped just as loudly in his chest. He looked at his reflection in the polished marble floors while walking. The other Mesut looked at him austerely, as if saying, “What are you doing, child?”
A loud voice woke him up from his reverie. “OY OY OY! ES IST MESUT, ES IST MESUT!”1
Blame it on Lukas and his loud voice.
All of a sudden, he was surrounded by familiar faces, familiar scents. Bodies jostled to get close to him, arms were wrapped around his body, and everyone was shouting something different all at the same time.
“Mesut!”
“Özillll! What up!”
“Du schreibst mir ja nie 'ne SMS!”2 someone said in an accusing voice.
“Bleib bis zum Ende des Ramadan!”3 another one chimed in jokingly.
“Du siehst dünner aus. Hat da etwa jemand Diät gemacht?!”4 someone said, and everyone laughed. Mesut had to laugh, too. Before he could reply to the speaker though (it was Thomas Müller), he saw a well-known pair of eyes in front of him. The dark blue eyes stared gravely back into his brown ones, and then suddenly they crinkled and crow’s feet formed. Another sight he would have recognized anywhere. It made his heart twist strangely.
“Philipp,” he managed to say, and all hands let go of him as he reached out to embrace his captain.
Lahm smiled and told him the words he was waiting to hear. “Junge, willkommen zu Hause.”5
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For Mesut, the next few days were a whirlwind of stretching, funny and not-so-funny anecdotes, and insane, quiet smiling as they all got ready for the European Cup qualifying games. It was quite tiring, to be practicing all day again, especially because it was Ramadan (and that meant the obligatory sawm6 for him), but for once he didn’t feel like complaining.
Quite the opposite. He surprised himself by feeling sparks of joy at little, ordinary things: hearing his last name pronounced correctly, being able to understand the people around him, and most of all Joachim ordering him around and actually being able to follow these orders through. He sometimes burst into soft laughter while running his laps on the treadmill, or dribbling balls around cones on the ground. This usually drew odd stares from his teammates but he was so elated he didn’t care. He could see the change in Sami, too, see the way his eyes lighted up at the smallest things, although his furrowed brows belied it.
His transfer to Real Madrid seemed like the best decision at the time. He didn’t want to be constrained by emotions or loyalties - when he started out, he had promised himself that as long as he was serious about football, no matter how hard it became, he would always put his career first. Of course there were mixed reactions. Some German fans didn’t want him to leave. Some Madridistas didn’t want him in their team. Some were supportive. And there was a silent, intimidating majority, waiting until he moved in and watching carefully for the first slip.
Almost every night, he would lay awake in bed, restless even after he had spoken his final “Assalamu alaykum wa Rahmatullah”7 aloud in the silence of his room. Did he make the right choice? Of course he did. But was he sure that was what he wanted? Of course he was!
...Wasn’t he?
He would often fall asleep out of sheer brain exhaustion and would stumble to wake up early enough just in time for the Fajr8 and the Taharah9.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sitting on the bench in the unfamiliar and slightly disconcerting Spanish stadium, Mesut looked on helplessly as the other men played against Mallorca. They’re your teammates, not ‘the other men’, he chastised himself. He told himself repeatedly, You were meant to be here. They requested for you specifically. They fought over you. And you let them buy you. Yes, Allah has a plan. You were meant to be here, but he still felt weird and out of place.
“Sami,” he said and his fellow midfielder looked squarely at him. They didn’t say anything, but they both knew what the other was feeling at this moment, and it didn’t feel good.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As he was leaving for the airport, his teammates clustered around him and said their goodbyes one by one.
“¡Adiós!” said a grinning Thomas, handing him a small book. “Das ist Spanisch für ‘Auf Wiedersehen’. Ich hab mir gedacht du möchtest vielleicht was sagen wenn es Nacht ist. Abgesehen von ‘¡hola!’, natürlich.”10 He ducked just in time to avoid getting hit with Mesut’s hand. They laughed at the same time.
“Paß auf dich auf,”11 Miro told him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.
Bastian allowed himself a small grin and held him tight. “Es war schön dich wieder zu haben, Mesut, wirklich.”12
Top of Form
Lahm hugged him and smiled, concern and pride showing in his eyes.
Mesut tried hard to keep all these pictures in his memory. As much as he hated to admit it, he badly needed further motivation to keep going on in Real, to prove to Mourinho that he had what it takes to play in the starting XI, fluent in Spanish or not.
“Ich werde mein Bestes geben,”13 he promised as he waved his hand. Realizing he hadn’t seen Thomas’ gift yet, he held the book up to the fading light. He laughed and shook his head. Typical of Thomas to do something like it.
He placed his brand new Spanish-German dictionary in his training bag, hitched it over his shoulder, and resolutely walked towards the sunset.
Footnotes:
1: “It is Mesut! It is Mesut!” (Deu.)
2: “You never sent a text message!” (Deu.)
3: “Stay until the end of Ramadan!” (Deu.)
4: “You look thinner! Who’s been dieting?” (Deu.)
5: “Kid, welcome home.” (Deu.)
6: Fasting for Muslims during Ramadan.
7: “May the peace and mercy of Allah be with you.” Usually said after prayer by a Muslim.
8: The first prayer of the day for Muslims.
9: Required purification by Muslims before prayer.
10: “Adios! That’s Spanish for ‘Auf Wiedersehen (goodbye)’. I thought you might want to say something else during the night. Aside from ‘Hola!’, of course.” (Deu.)
11: “You take care of yourself now.” (Deu.)
12: “It was good to have you back/see you again, Mesut, it was.” (Deu.)
13: “I will do my best.” (Deu.)