Selfish
Title: Selfish
Rating: G
Disclaimer: while this could totally be real, it's just my imagination
Pairing: none
Summary: Football is a selfish game.
Word count: 266
It’s not that Fernando doesn’t understand. He does, better than most, actually because he’s supported a team that struggled to survive for years, he saw players come and go. He’s loved players and lost players, so it’s not as if he doesn’t understand the way they feel about him. It doesn’t make it better though, doesn’t make things hurt less when he comes out to the loud chorus of boos from the people who used to sing his name until it shook the roof, to hear the hate coming from the people who loved him so fiercely just eighteen months before. He tries not to be rattled by it all, but in the end he is, in the end coming back to anfield isn’t as beautiful as he dreamed, isn’t filled with the kind of acceptance he hoped he would someday get from the fans he once loved almost as much as they loved him. The scoreline says it all.
The bus ride back to London is long and wet and Fernando is tired. Not so much from the game itself but from the weight of the game, the weight of the words shouted at him. As a fan he once understood, but as a player, he doesn’t. As a player he doesn’t understand the focus on him, the fact that they would rather bring him down than cheer on their own players. He doesn’t understand, not when Liverpool should always be more than just it’s players, when the club is so much more than that, so much better than that.
He doesn’t tell people that it hurts sometimes when he thinks that he will never again score at anfield (because even if he tries, he’s not really trying, there’s something about doing it there in that blue shirt that’s wrong and he knows it). He doesn’t tell a soul that it bothers him that people don’t understand, that he can’t put it all out there and make them. Football is a selfish thing, it’s selfish to people for their own reasons, for the players and the fans. But he doesn’t tell anyone how it cuts when he hears people yelling at him that he thought he was bigger than the club, that he’s only chasing cash and glory. Fernando wants to shake them, wants to scream at them that he has his reasons - that’s he’s twenty eight years old and playing on a ruined knee and he’s always been chasing his dream of a champion’s league trophy. He came to Liverpool chasing glory, he wants to tell them all, and he did the best he could for them. He’s getting old, he wants to scream at them, he’s getting old and there’s not much time left, not as much as Liverpool needs. What choice did I have, he wants to ask them, it was me or you and I had to choose me.
And it’s not... Fernando doesn’t feel like he made the wrong decision. He looks at the schedule and sees the 19th of May and the words Champions League Final and it’s the first of his career. He’s waited his entire life for this moment, dreamed of it since he was a kid. He was never going to get there in his beloved red and white, so he tried it with the reds. He came close but never close enough, and eventually it was slipping even further away. It had to be the blues, it had to be Chelsea, he had no other choice. It was me or them, he thinks, and I chose me and the Champions League final is on my schedule.
It was me or them, Fernando thinks, and football is a selfish game for selfish people.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: while this could totally be real, it's just my imagination
Pairing: none
Summary: Football is a selfish game.
Word count: 266
It’s not that Fernando doesn’t understand. He does, better than most, actually because he’s supported a team that struggled to survive for years, he saw players come and go. He’s loved players and lost players, so it’s not as if he doesn’t understand the way they feel about him. It doesn’t make it better though, doesn’t make things hurt less when he comes out to the loud chorus of boos from the people who used to sing his name until it shook the roof, to hear the hate coming from the people who loved him so fiercely just eighteen months before. He tries not to be rattled by it all, but in the end he is, in the end coming back to anfield isn’t as beautiful as he dreamed, isn’t filled with the kind of acceptance he hoped he would someday get from the fans he once loved almost as much as they loved him. The scoreline says it all.
The bus ride back to London is long and wet and Fernando is tired. Not so much from the game itself but from the weight of the game, the weight of the words shouted at him. As a fan he once understood, but as a player, he doesn’t. As a player he doesn’t understand the focus on him, the fact that they would rather bring him down than cheer on their own players. He doesn’t understand, not when Liverpool should always be more than just it’s players, when the club is so much more than that, so much better than that.
He doesn’t tell people that it hurts sometimes when he thinks that he will never again score at anfield (because even if he tries, he’s not really trying, there’s something about doing it there in that blue shirt that’s wrong and he knows it). He doesn’t tell a soul that it bothers him that people don’t understand, that he can’t put it all out there and make them. Football is a selfish thing, it’s selfish to people for their own reasons, for the players and the fans. But he doesn’t tell anyone how it cuts when he hears people yelling at him that he thought he was bigger than the club, that he’s only chasing cash and glory. Fernando wants to shake them, wants to scream at them that he has his reasons - that’s he’s twenty eight years old and playing on a ruined knee and he’s always been chasing his dream of a champion’s league trophy. He came to Liverpool chasing glory, he wants to tell them all, and he did the best he could for them. He’s getting old, he wants to scream at them, he’s getting old and there’s not much time left, not as much as Liverpool needs. What choice did I have, he wants to ask them, it was me or you and I had to choose me.
And it’s not... Fernando doesn’t feel like he made the wrong decision. He looks at the schedule and sees the 19th of May and the words Champions League Final and it’s the first of his career. He’s waited his entire life for this moment, dreamed of it since he was a kid. He was never going to get there in his beloved red and white, so he tried it with the reds. He came close but never close enough, and eventually it was slipping even further away. It had to be the blues, it had to be Chelsea, he had no other choice. It was me or them, he thinks, and I chose me and the Champions League final is on my schedule.
It was me or them, Fernando thinks, and football is a selfish game for selfish people.