fic: over the rainbow (there’s a ball waiting for you)
Title: over the rainbow (there’s a ball waiting for you)
Fandom: Football RPF, Liverpool, Chelsea, Atlético Madrid, Spanish NT
Pairing: Fernando Torres-gen + friendship
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5238
Disclaimer: If wishes were true, they’d be mine and Nando wouldn’t be sad ever again.
Notes: My first fic foray into the abyss that is football RPF! If you can’t tell, I definitely care too much about Nando’s life. Israel and Mari are his two older siblings. I tried to be as accurate as possible with real life events. I was going to make endnotes for stuff, but I am also lazy. So if you have questions about any of the events, just ask me! Silly things like feelings and emotions got in the way when I was writing this. Cute football babies to for the beta.
Summary: Somewhere between the slick pitch and goalposts, Fernando Torres falls in and out of love.
Somewhere between the slick pitch and goalposts, Fernando Torres falls in and out of love.
September 1995
Football is nothing like Captain Tsubasa. There is no instant friendship with teammates, sharing of packed snacks and complicated handshakes. There is jealousy and dissent amidst all the passion. There is questioning. At age eleven, isn’t football supposed to be fun?
The youth team of Atlético Madrid is spirited and more than a little reckless. All too young, they understand the weight of never being the best, always being edged out of the spotlight. Of course this only makes them push harder, unable to understand the complex resistance to change that is the Spanish football league. Children never cheer for the underdogs.
Fernando Torres didn’t care. At age eleven, being able to train everyday, no matter how hard; being able to play in a team, no matter how dysfunctional, was an absolute joy.
His mother drove him to practice daily so he could get an extra hour of sleep by not having to take the bus. On the weekend, his whole family, including his avid grandfather, sat in the stands and cheered fiercely anytime he touched the ball.
People always told him he would grow up and fall in love with a girl. At age eleven, Fernando Torres is already utterly in love with football.
May 1999
He has always wanted to play football, but he only lets himself dream of professional contracts in the brief instances after a stunning goal. He thinks its okay to have fantasies as long as he doesn’t say it out loud.
His team wins the Nike cup championship. The Atlético boys, tired of being trampled on in Spain, destroy other teenage hopefuls from England, Germany and France. At age fourteen, they vote Fernando Torres as the best player in the under-15 category.
The cameras flashes in his eyes after the game, leaving behind vague imprints of future trophies to come. They ask about his career, and Fernando can only reply “I see myself with Atlético Madrid, winning many titles”.
A couple months later, the club’s senior team came calling. They come with a sixty-page document that outlines his life for the next five years. His parents spend a week going through it all. One day they go out and came back to find it signed. Fernando didn’t even flip through it.
July 2000
Israel is back from university that summer and the family decides to spend a month in a rented bungalow on a beach. With a shinbone fracture that is going to keep him off the pitch until December, Fernando finds himself away from football for the first time in years.
They sit on a abandoned dock, chatting and drinking beer that Mari had bought in a rare fit of rebellion.
“So we were in an economics lecture when some engineering guys streaked in without any clothes, and they climbed out the window while the professor turned red and started squaking. And then later that night, there was a crazy rave in the dorms for art students that ended up with the proctor showing up at 2am,” Israel reminisced fondly.
Mari was listening aptly; she’ll be joining him next year in university. Though she has yet to decide where, or even thought about what subject to major in.
Fernando interrupts, “What about football? How is the university team?”
Israel gives him a pointed look, “I have no idea. Heard they were shit though, so I never paid any attention. The girl’s volleyball team is amazing to watch, I try to go to every game.”
“But don’t you want to play?”
There is laughter from his brother, “Football was just for fun.”
That laugh resonates with the pain in his leg and Fernando drains the rest of his drink.
April 2001
Even though he signed with the senior team almost a year ago, he still plays with the youth team. Everyone said it was temporary, until he matures into his form, which makes absolutely no sense to Fernando. How is he supposed to mature when he is surrounded by juveniles every day?
He would be more disappointed with this season’s finish, if he hasn’t been called up to start on the Spain under-16 team to play in England. The junior national teams are different from playing for the club.
The training is different. Not tougher, just foreign. They do drills and five on fives. But there are also trust exercises and games that involve running around holding hands with the other boys. There is a good variation of players from different teams. They all joke around about their clubs and tease each other about girls and losing at Nintendo.
Fernando rooms with Andrés Iniesta, who is a serious sort of boy from Barcelona. He thought Andrés would be a bit more of a show off; after all, La Masia wasn’t somewhere anyone who could kick a ball could get into. But the boy mostly keeps to himself, though he does tag along when most of the team sneaks out for ice cream.
The final against Germany is the most nervous Fernando had ever been. He had called his sister in a panic last night, who promptly told him that if he lost, she’d set him up on a date with her classmate. He hung up and spent the rest of the night tapping a rhythm on the pillow.
In the tunnel, his hands keep on pulling his socks up, even though they are stretched as high as it can go. Andrés shots him a small smile, “It’s just like another game”.
Fernando doesn’t tell him that he can count the number of games he’s had this season on both hands.
An hour later, he scores the only goal that let Spain take the championship.
After being hugged and crushed and patted by teammates and coaches and parents, he tells Andrés, “That was the best game of my life”. Andres only smiles wisely in return and tells him to pack quickly.
March 2004
He is nineteen. But nineteen is too young. Nineteen is not enough to carry the burden of a broken club.
The club president had resigned over a financial scandal. The coaches left for other clubs. Players submitted transfers. Players demanded change. Players looked at him and asked for the world.
The armband that he should be wearing with adoration is too tight. There is nothing he can do other than to put it on.
They play with what they have. Despite not qualifying for Champion’s League or the UEFA Cup, they make it to the final of the Intertoto Cup.
When they lose, nineteen is too young to accept defeat.
2006 World Cup Qualifying: Spain - San Marino [6-0]
“Hey Niño!” A slap on his back.
“Guaje.” Fernando smiles.
“Awesome hat trick out there.” David Villa grins at the younger man as they walk back to the change rooms.
Fernando blushes; it is still a huge deal for him to be complimented by other members of Spain’s senior team. “It’s San Marino. We have more kids in the youth leagues than their entire country.”
An arm casually slings over him as Sergio Ramos comes up from behind the tunnel. “You’re too much of a realist for being El Niño. Come on, let’s go celebrate by spiking Puyi’s drink with soap and watch him blame all the Madridistas again.”
Fernando gives his younger friend a look. “You are a Madridista.”
Sergio eyes twinkle. “Yeah, but he always thinks it’s Raúl out to get him.”
He laughs as Sergio rambled on with more amusing plans for the rest of the team. Iker Casillas walked by and eyes them suspiciously. He still hasn’t figured out who replaced his shampoo with hair removal cream at the last friendly.
2006 World Cup Round 16: Spain - France [1-3]
It is a tough match from the start. The defense gets pushed back hard, the wingers cut off from contact altogether and the forwards finds they are blocked at every angle. Fernando wince as David gets brought down in a hard but otherwise legal tackle nowhere near the box.
“You alright?” He pulls the older man up.
His teammate scowls at him, but Fernando knew it’s really for the French. “Let’s go wreak havoc in their box.”
The chance comes soon after as Fernando slides a smooth pass and Villa slams in the first goal of the game inches away from the goalkeeper’s hands.
The ten man pile up is the closest Fernando physically has been to some of his teammates. There is lots of touching and ruffling of hair. The two kids, they said, are going to win this tournament so the old ones can retire.
But then Ribéry scores, and then Viera and finally Zidane. All talk of not playing becomes a reality. Spain is out.
October 2006
Back in Madrid, teams has come a calling. Fernando’s agent told him that even though Spain crashed at the World Cup, but shone a spotlight on him. He didn’t feel grateful at all.
The English Premier League was interested. There were also some inquiries from La Liga: Sevilla, Valencia… But this was Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal. The EPL was willing to pay seven figure numbers for him, and he was more taken back by the sheer magnitude of their offer than the actual teams he would be playing for.
His club is thrilled. A big payout from selling their local stars would patch a plethora of issues at Atlético. Losing an integral part of the team would require some shifting around, but there were lots of options when one plays in the Ségunda Division.
His parents tells him to do extensive research, just like when Mari was picking universities. They advise him, “Look up the teams, the managers, the training programs, their reputations. Don’t sign your love away without knowing what you’re getting into this time”.
He doesn’t tell them that he gave his heart to the club long before he signed. He does agree to put more thought into his future career than he did at fifteen, which really isn’t too hard.
“Choosing a club is like finding a girl to marry.” He grandfather was getting increasingly cryptic with age.
“I haven’t decided if I’m going to spend the rest of my life with Olalla yet.”
His grandfather’s eyes crinkles. “No. But how many girls have you dated before her?”
Fernando feels a little uncomfortable having this conversation. “One. You know that.”
“Then maybe your next club will be the one too.”
April 2007
His phone rings in the middle of the night.
“Hola?” Fernando hopes it there’s no emergency.
“Niño! Say yes to Liverpool. Xabi and I will personally teach you English and take you to the best chipperies.”
Another voice slowly added, “Fish and chips are definitely not on the approved diet list. And our English is not at teaching standards.”
“Pepe Reina? And Xabi Alonso?”
“Who else from Liverpool would call you! Have you been getting calls at night propositioning you from other clubs?” He can hear the bald man’s excitement through the phone.
“Nobody else calls me at 3 am.” Fernando wonders where this conversation was going to end up when Xabi chimed back in.
“Listen Niño. Consider the offer seriously. Liverpool is breaking their transfer fee limit for you. We are serious, but only if you are too.”
August 2007
England is a foreign planet and he an alien visitor. Even the game was different, not a complete stranger, but not the same lover either. Having other Spaniards around made it a little bit easier, but Fernando is determined not to rely on them in order to adapt as quickly as possible.
Olalla had come with him, and he is grateful. He thinks back to the conversation with his grandfather. Maybe it would come true after all. Here are Anfield.
“Welcome to Liverpool!” the crowd at the Kop chanted as he debuts in red. His eyes though, was searching for red and white.
February 2008: Liverpool - Middlesbrough [3-2]
“Congrats Nando!” Steven Gerrard grins at him as he is handed the match ball.
More teammates came up and huddle around the winning team, always making sure to give Fernando a congratulatory gesture. Álvaro Arbeloa jumps on his back and chats excitedly in broken English, “Another hat trick. You soon break Liverpool goal record. Then Rafa gets silverware, no?”
Xabi gives him a one-armed hug. “You were great out there today. Single-handedly gave us the three point league win.”
Fernando laughes, “Oh yes, because the midfielders didn’t pass the ball to me at all. And the defense held the pitch open for Middlesbrough.” His English was getting better and better.
Jamie Carragher chucks a water bottle at him. “Oi Nando, you need to be more narcissistic when you get compliments. Learn from Reina here. He’ll teach you the tricks of pretentious vanity. Look at him, still using shampoo when he’s got no hair.”
The whole locker room bursts into laugher.
2008 Europe Cup Final: Spain - Germany [1-0]
“Hey, it’ll be alright.” Iker, captain Iker, the anchor of the team squeezes his arm affectionately.
Fernando who has been obsessively re-lacing his boots for the past twenty minutes glances up, “We’re missing Villa! Xabi’s injured. We’ve never played this formation before. Fuck, I’ve never been in an Europe Cup final before. What if the midfielders get cut off? Klose is the leading goal scorer for this tournament.”
Iker grabs his arm more tightly and tilts his chin up with the other hand. “Niño, look at me.” He was using his unarguable captain voice as he stares solely at Fernando. “It doesn’t matter who we’re missing, all that matters is who is going to be on that pitch. You know this team, you’ve played with this team dozens of time, trust them, because they already trust you to win the game for us tonight.”
All he can do is nod. The captain’s armband looks good on Iker.
“Forget about what game this is. All games are the same, just kick the ball around for ninety minutes and try your best to find the back of the net.”
Another nod, he doesn’t trust himself to speak; to not lay out all his frustration and insecurities again.
Villa grabs him when they wait in the tunnel with the kids. His eyes are dark with pain. As nervous as Fernando is, not being able to play is an infinitely worse fate. “I’ll be counting on you.”
Fernando gives a firm nod in return. “We’ll win this.”
Standing on the pitch, arms wrapped around the shoulders of Xavi and Cesc, gazing at the national flag, Fernando know his previous words to David were more than just a promise for the game. It was a declaration of love.
On the pitch, whenever he had the ball in possession, it was as if there was no one else on the field. Iker was right, he forgot about the game. It was just him with the ball and a wide expanse of grass. His heart was beating strong, and not just from running. This feeling, in the moment, it is the strongest feeling he’s ever had.
When the ball sails into the net, he hears three words in his heart.
April 2009
“Dude, this is awesome.” Sergio sighs in his lounge chair. The sound of waves crashing and happy shrieks of children drifts in and out of the background. They are resting under a beach hut and keeping it low key; it must be working since they haven’t been bothered yet.
Fernando smiles as he slathered on his third coat of sunscreen for the day. “I’m glad we got a chance to hang out.” As if they were teenagers crashing at each other’s houses instead of football superstars on vacation in Bali.
“Yeah, especially with you getting hitched soon…”
“She’s the one, I know it Sese.” Fernando’s eyes are fond, almost golden in the bright sunlight.
Sergio smiled at his friend, “I’m glad. I don’t suppose Olalla has a cute sister I could hook up with?”
Fernando throws the tub of sunblock at him, “Help me cover my back. And I definitely wouldn’t trust Olalla’s sister to you and your womanizing ways.”
Sergio gestures for Fernando to turn around. “If I had womanizing ways, the only girl in my life wouldn’t be my niece.”
“She is a beauty though.”
“Hey, you’re getting more freckles.” He poked at some of the new dots on his friend’s back.
“That’s okay. Olalla loves the freckles. She thinks they’re a petulant link to the El Niño she fell in love with.”
“Oh Niño, if only love was that easy for me.”
July 2009
Nora Torres Domínguez Liste comes into the world on July 9th, 2009.
She weighs just under seven pounds and cries non-stop for the first two hours. They are out of pink blankets in the maternity ward but Olalla’s mother brings a whole bag of them and she looks no less beautiful swaddled in red and yellow.
When she opens her eyes, they are blue. He is a little surprised, since he and Olalla both have eyes in varying shades of brown. He is told that 40% of children were born with blue eyes.
The attending nurse shows them how to change a diaper, how to give Nora a bath and how to hold carry her properly. It is the most important lesson he has ever attended.
Fernando didn’t know it was possible to have so much love in his heart.
April 2010
His knuckles are white with strain, from clutching the edge of the bed he is propped up in. Around him, the manager, coaches and doctors from the club are discussing “sodium channel inhibitor”, “total synovial destruction” and “interdisciplinary rehab”.
He’s tired. He is in so much pain. He would like to sleep for a month and wake up in untrimmed grass.
“Surgery is probably the best option,” the stern-looking doctor says.
The younger one with hair edges in, “The new laser procedure has cut down recovery time by half.”
Fernando closes his eyes and tries not to think. “What’s the timeline we’re looking at here?”
“You’ll be able to play again in four to six weeks. However, your knee won’t reach the same level of mobility for another five months. Dependent on rehab of course.” The doctor states bluntly.
Half a year. Half a year of playing. Half a year of playing at sub-par level. Half a year of loving, but not being loved back.
July 2010
They are back in Madrid again, this time with the world cup trophy. The crowd is just as (if not more) enthusiastic as two years ago. The bus pumps out music and alcohol at a rate never recommended for professional footballers. Sergio is dancing with Cesc and Piqué. Xabi and Pepe are leaning out the front of the bus, dangling the trophy like it isn’t the most precious thing in the world. Villa is forcing more drinks on a half-heartedly protesting Silva.
Fernando is happy. They won the World Cup. He is happy, but he isn’t happy.
Yes, they won it all. But in his mind, he simply cannot include himself as part of the they. He doesn’t deserve to. His performance was absolutely atrocious. His shots went wide, he lost possession too easily and he couldn’t score a single goal. When you had the failures build up, no success was big enough to wipe them away. Not even the World Cup.
He settles for tucking himself into the corner near the front, huddled by the steps that raises the upper platform. He’s not necessarily hiding, because it’s impossible on an open top double-decker, but this way he’s not really part of the cliques either.
“You’ll get that knee in good form again,” Vincent del Bosque says, like he was commenting on the weather and not his future everything. He is also drinking from a glass of cava.
Fernando genuinely likes his coach. Del Bosque gave him chances to play even though they both knew his knee wasn’t ready yet. “They all said it was a mistake you know. You calling up an injured player for the world cup.”
The coach rolls his eyes, the first time in his memory’s recollection. “My mistakes won us the World Cup. Kid, there are always going to be critics, there will always be slander. We live in the spotlight and everyone has an opinion. Just remember on this team, mine happens to count the most.”
Fernando was passed a glass of cava. “Think about it kid, an European Cup and a World Cup is a lot more than most teams can ever dream of.” Del Bosque even winked before wandering towards the assistant coaches.
But, Fernando thinks, love shouldn’t have to be a dream.
November 2010
It didn’t get better. In fact, everything just unraveled.
The pain got worse.
It wasn’t just his knee; it wasn’t even just the leg anymore. It was his pride at sitting on the bench, having to miss more games than not. It was his unspoken voice, who couldn’t defend himself from Liverpool board members grating about his 20 million pound transfer fee. It was his soul, seeing the disappointed and defeated looks in the fans every time the opposing team slammed in a goal that he couldn’t give them.
The pain had long spread from his knee and Fernando couldn’t remember a time before it.
Despite all the pain, Chelsea had come calling. He would’ve been a little flattered, if it wasn’t Chelsea.
December 2010
“Xabi. Can anyone truly leave Anfield?” asks the voice from the phone.
“Oh Niño.” Xabi fels for his younger teammate. He hasn’t seen El Niño in months; the latter hadn’t been called up for an international friendly since the World Cup.
“It’s just. How did you know it was the right choice to go to Real?” Fernando sounds shaky, like Xabi Alonso was a lifeline.
“There was no right or wrong. When you leave a club, there is only decision and indecision. Whatever you decide, do it for your football.”
“But Xabi, it’s Chelsea.”
Xabi grinds his teeth. “The fans will hate you forever. But remember who you’re playing football for; it was never about the fans for you.” He can see it already; they’ll call him the betrayer of Merseyside, the angry crowd at future EPL games and jeering chants.
There is a trembling laugh from Fernando. “It won’t be the same. They said you were going home. They’ll say I sold out for money.”
“Only you, Niño, only you will know why you did it.” Xabi closes his eyes. “Just tell Stevie first.”
February 2011: Chelsea - Liverpool [0-1]
Fucking Roman Abramovich. The fucking manager, the fucking press. Of course they had to plan it this way. It was dramatic. It was stupid. It was fucking cruel.
His official debut for Chelsea. On the 6th of February, against Liverpool Football Club.
The crowd that night was fiercer than he’d expected. The Chelsea fans were out for bloodthirsty action. The Liverpool fans were in minority, but snarled and booed loud enough over everything. They were right; he’ll never walk alone.
Prior to kick off, hawk-eyed club officials and hovering teammates blocked Fernando from the Liverpool players. However, in the tunnel, Daniel Agger slid up beside him. “We’ll destroy you tonight.”
The Liverpool defense certainly upheld that threat. Every time Fernando had the ball, he was heavily challenged by someone. He hasn’t hit the ground that many times in a game, since three years ago against Reading.
John Terry kept on waving to the ref. The coaches were shouting about penalties. The rest of the team half-heartedly protested for the new kid.
He didn’t score. Jamie Carragher did. It was the first Liverpool goal celebration he wouldn’t be joining in on.
André Villas-Boas clapped his back. “It was a good debut.” But his eyes were accusing.
Fernando knew though. It wasn’t because he felt guilty. It wasn’t he didn’t try. It wasn’t even karma.
His heart just didn’t want to play.
December 2011
“I’m sorry. I Youtubed what happened,” Fernando says quietly.
David snorts. “You didn’t even watch it live? How dare you.”
“It was the Club World Cup,” he replies dryly.
“Exactly! You should’ve watched us win. And cheered for us from that miserable island of rain and doom.” Even injured, David is smirking.
“My island is a thriving economic powerhouse,” Fernando retorts. “What’s Spain’s unemployment rate at now?”
“You might as well be unemployed, with all the bench sitting Chelsea’s making you do.”
Fernando sighs, “50 million pounds. My transfer fee can support a whole region of Spain. I don’t know whether to be flattered or depressed.”
“Listen Niño. Don’t tell anyone yet. But the doctor said my chances of recovery before June is next to none.” David was using the same voice that he talks to Zaida in.
Fernando’s breath hitched. “But the European Cup…”
David’s tone is dark. “I know. That’s why you need to start scoring. Can you imagine, La Selección missing both their top strikers. What are they going to do, pass the ball around for ninety minutes?”
“I’m trying! But coming on the last fifteen minutes of each game doesn’t exactly give me many opportunities. And we have a midfield that doesn’t understand the concept of passing.” Fernando feels the anger building, as it does lately with every time football and goals are mentioned. He hates this, everyone telling him to score, like he’s holding his abilities back.
“Niño, do or do not, there is no try. Quit explaining yourself and just play.” David would be a good Yoda. They both had mastered the Force.
“I’ve given football everything. Everything David.” Fernando sounds sad and old, like he was halfway to the funeral home.
“Football isn’t a one-way street. You give, but you have to take too. Everything they’re saying about you, it doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong. You take it and you play. That’s all there is to it.”
February 2012
He doesn’t wait for the call. The call never comes.
The night Spain plays Venezuela in a friendly. Fernando takes Olalla, Nora and Baby Leo out. They eat at The Fat Duck because even though he hasn’t been scoring goals, everyone still knows he is Fernando Torres. They get wine pairings and eat over a dozen things forbidden on his strict diet list.
Later when the kids are asleep, Fernando holds Olalla in bed and thinks about everything he is so grateful for. His supportive family. Leo said his first word “Dada” this week. The finger painting Nora drew of him on green construction paper. His brother and sister who, despite having a busy and successful career, are flying in next month to celebrate his birthday.
Family and friends.
Football.
The next morning he gets a text from Pepe.
“9 will always be Niño.”
2012 Champions League Quarterfinals: Chelsea - Barcelona [2-2 (3-2 aggregate)]
This is Barcelona. This is Camp Nou. This is where the legends play. Xavi. Puyol. Piqué. Fernando has never felt more like an outsider.
From his seat at the bench, Fernando tries to make out where the small contingent of Chelsea fans are grouped. There is nothing blue. Everything is blaugrana. Everyone is Culé.
He’d never admit it, but a part of him is relieved that he isn’t in the starting eleven. Even though he has been scoring lately, his form was nowhere near the level of his teammates, much less the “best club in the world”. Playing against la Selección teammates was tough, but fun. But only when it wasn’t cat and mouse.
Plus, he can’t even call them la Selección teammates anymore. He mused morosely on the bench, watching as Chelsea first went down on points, then went down on men as Terry was sent off in a storm of yelling and red cards.
One of the trainers waves him to stretch fifteen minutes before the end of the match. He almost rolls his eyes; Chelsea has become quite predictable. Sit on the bench for eighty, run around for ten. Story of his life for the past two years.
Didier came off with a smile and gives him a quick hug. “Go get them Fer.”
Fernando smiles, but it was more like a grimace. Chelsea wanted people to see their fifty million pound substitute.
He might as well be a statue though. Everyone was playing deep in Chelsea territory. Messi’s missed penalty must have been mentally damaging, because the world’s best footballer was missing shots and shifting out of positions. Fernando watches from just inside the halfway line.
Čech is spectacular tonight. It’s a wonder he only let two go through. Fernando remembers the brief stint he did in goal and was glad he’s a striker. Strikers are far more easily replaced than keepers.
Three more minutes of stoppage time; it would have to go into added time. And then penalties if they were still down by a goal. He is so busy thinking that he almost doesn’t see the ball being punted over to him. His body reacts, his chest controls the ball and he started running towards the Barcelona goal. Everyone is still deep in Chelsea’s side and it’s a half pitch of empty green.
It is a single moment. He and the ball move as one. Víctor lunges but it’s too late, and he sends the ball to where it belongs.
Later, the camera would show him collapsing to his knees. The fierce hugging. Being piled on by overjoyed teammates in the corner. Him embracing his teammates, from both teams.
Fernando doesn’t remember any of that. He remembers that feeling. The strongest feeling he’s ever had.
2012 Europe Cup: Spain - Italy [4-0]
He sits on the bench again. This time, he isn’t troubled. He was called up when it mattered. He is a member of La Selección.
Spain has the most talented bench in the world. Both of the secondary goalkeepers are fully aware they wouldn’t spend a single minute in the goal, but they supported the team, the game fully.
Fernando feels lucky. He started two games. He’s scored two goals.
Juan Mata, his only Chelsea teammate in Kiev, was jittery even though they were up by two goals.
He puts a hand on his friend’s knee. “It’s okay. We’ll win.”
“I just wish.” Juan is at a loss for words.
Fernando smiles reassuringly. “You will. We will.”
He is still El Niño on the team. But he has also progressed. When the younger players look at him, they don’t see the struggles, only the triumphs. They ask him about certain techniques. They ask for advice on leaving childhood clubs. They ask what the English Premier League is like. Fernando is never annoyed. He is proud of his path here, his teams, their defeats and triumps.
He is being called up. He hugs Cesc as his name booms over the speakers and runs onto the field.
The crowd is chanting. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t see the red or the white or the green in the stands.
He sees the ball on a grassy pitch.
He is in love.
~~~
1. In the 2006 World Cup, David's kick was actually a converted penalty and not an assist from Nando.
2. I don't think Sergio and Fernando actually went on vacay together. Especially since Olalla was very preggers at the time.
3. All people in here are real. And they're not mine. Basically this is the fine print disclaimer.
4. If you have not seen pictures of Nando's adorable children yet, click here, you will not regret it.
5. My final apologies for butchering the English language, one that I've never fully gotten the hang of.
6. I need a Fernando userpic. And some la roja ones. And Mesut ones...