My Father's Father - Part 1
Title My Father's Father
Part: 1 of 2
Characters: OFCs: Javier Alcantara, Antonio Messi. Thiago Alcantara, Carles Puyol, Mazinho, mentions of other 'former' players.
Words:1,400
Rating/warning: G; none
Disclaimer: obviously this hasn't happened.
Summary: In 2032, Thiago’s son, Javier, is breaking into the FC Barcelona first team. So far he has followed in his father’s footsteps. La Masía. The Spanish youth levels. But when his grandfather, the manager of the Brazilian national team, calls him up in the middle of a stellar season, a choice must be made.
Author's note: this is the most crackish/au thing I've ever written.
Javier Alcantara is momentary blinded as he exits the training building. He closes his eyes and rubs them, following the sound of football boots on concrete as his teammates head for the training pitch.
“Come on, Javi, you’re going to be the last one!” someone shouts from behind him.
Javier cracks an eye open to see Antonio, even younger than he is, whizzing by.
The older players ahead of him just chuckle as the little Argentine passes them. There are three things Antonio inherited from his father, Lionel: his skills, his height, and his enthusiasm.
“Toni, slow down!” Carles barks as the group rounds the edge of the gap to the training pitch. The former defender and team captain had brought his no-nonsense on-pitch attitude with him to managing. Good thing he had too - under his hand, the team had won four leagues in six years, three Champions, and a handful of Copas.
Antonio drops onto the grass to begin stretching and Javier joins him. At 17 and 18 respectively, they are the youngest on the squad and have been friends since they were infants. As the sons of two of the players who won the second sextuple in Barça’s history (though Antonio’s father had been part of the first, too), they’d grown up together, attending matches and training sessions, tournament finals. It made sense they both entered La Masía, the famed youth system that had built their fathers, when they were old enough. Ten years later they are reaching the pinnacle - official members of the first team, with everything to play for and nothing to lose.
In usual day before a match training session fashion, the work is light. An hour of rondos, ending with a quick scrimmage, just to keep everyone on their toes and limber and focused for the match ahead. When Carles signals the end of the session and sends everyone back to the dressing room to get checked out by the physios and shower, Javier is the first to gather his boots, ready to go home for dinner and finish his homework for uni.
“How was training?” his father asks as soon as he comes through the door in the kitchen of their house in Maresme. The older man stands over the sink, draining pasta into a colander.
“Good,” Javier replies, dropping his bag on a chair at the table in the corner in front of the windows.
“Just good?”
“It was training, Dad, and nothing bad happened. So yes, it was good.”
Javier crosses the room to pull a Powerade from the refrigerator and twists it open as he leans against the counter beside his father.
“You know what I meant.”
“Yeah. Where are the others?”
“The boys are in the game room playing FIFA, and I think your sister is doing homework. Dinner is ready. Could you go get them please?”
Javier nods and starts downstairs to the large family room. When his father had been eighteen, he’d already been living away from home with his brother, Rafa, and best friend, Jona, but Javier knows he can’t do that, yet. Ever since his mother, Julia, passed away a few years ago, he’s been helping out with his younger siblings in between football and school. As the oldest, he knew how much his father valued his help. And even so, he loved his family too much to go.
“Oh, come on!” Emilio shouts at the television as the player he’s guiding in the simulated match trips.
Luca laughs, quickly spinning in a circle and the player he is guiding does the same, dancing around Emilio’s defenders with the ball.
“Dinner’s ready,” Javier tells them, leaning over the railing of the staircase.
Luca quickly makes a slashing motion with his hand and the match on the screen freezes before fading to black with a hum.
The eldest brother steps back as the twins race past him up the stairs to the kitchen, chattering loudly about the game. Javier just smiles and follows them.
Gabriela is setting the plates out as Thiago comes in carrying a bowl of pasta and sauce, Emilio and Luca behind him with salad and bread.
“How was training?” Gabriela asks with a smile as they all sit down at the respective places at the table. Thiago had very few rules for his children, but his main was they ate dinner together as a family as often as they could. Unfortunately they were only able to a few nights a week, but Javier looked forward to the family time.
“The usual. Rondo after rondo.”
“Bo-ring.”
After dinner as Javier began to clear the table, Thiago waved him away and set the younger boys to do it instead, shooing his eldest son up the stairs.
“Go finish your homework and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Alright. Night.”
***
Javier closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, which would have been easier, had his mascot not been jabbering excitedly to the little boy in front of her. As usual, the tunnel was fairly loud as the two teams lined up with their escorts and prepared for the match. Half-way through the season, this is his seventh start, and he still hasn’t yet learnt to calm his nerves. Once he’s onto the pitch he’ll settle into a calm, collected mindset, but until the first whistle is blown, the nausea will not go away.
Suddenly Joan behind him is nudging him forward and then they’re on the pitch, then hymn is playing, they’re posing for a photo, and taking their positions. Javier settles at the left side of the midline, watching the official.
And then they’re off.
He plays with everything he has, as he always does. His heart and soul are on full display as he crosses over to Víctor, megs defenders, gets into position. He anticipates where the ball will be and gets there, always on the alert.
So when Pablo sends a ball in through the opposing defense from the midfield, he’s ready. It greets his feet with the kiss of leather ball on leather boots and he’s moving it forward, tap tap, looking for his next move. No one’s there, the net is nearly open, so he shoots.
With a hiss, the ball slides down the back of the net, and the opposing keeper is on his knees, looking over his shoulder at it.
Javier, grinning, spreads his arms like wings as he turns and runs towards the centre of the pitch again, before he raises six fingers towards the sky. His father’s number. His namesake’s number.
It’s Bartomeu who reaches him first, throwing his arms around him as they collide, and then everyone else joins in and they fall to the grass a laughing tangle of limbs.
This feeling, this incredible happiness, is a feeling he will never get over. And he never wants to.
***
“You’re so going to get a call-up from Llorente!” Antonio chirps from his place on Javier’s bedroom floor. They’re watching the news after finishing a movie a few days after the match against Mallorca, and all Antonio can talk about are the call-up lists due to be announced the next morning.
“I doubt it,” Javier says, thinking of the Basque manager who scored the winning goal in the 2014 world cup. “I’m too young.”
“Oh please. You’re older than Bojan was.”
“Still. He won’t call me up.”
Antonio looks back to the television.
“You’ll see.”
Javier rolls his eyes.
***
As he predicted, the call does not come the next morning and when the list is officially announced by lunch, Javier’s name is not on it.
“Maybe next time,” Thiago says and claps his son on the shoulder as the boy tries not to look too disappointed.
He really hadn’t been expecting to be called up, but a tiny spark of hope had been there. A slim chance, maybe, he could have been.
Whatever.
He pulls his chemistry text up on his tablet to read the pages for lab tomorrow afternoon and sighs. Next time.
The vibration of his mobile in his pocket startles him out of his concentration and he digs the device out to look at the screen.
“Hey, granddad.”
“Don’t call me that right now,” Mazinho says through the phone.
Javier frowns.
“Then what should I call you?” he asks in confusion.
“Coach.”
Javier sits up straighter.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is me, manager of the Brazilian national team, calling you up.”
Part: 1 of 2
Characters: OFCs: Javier Alcantara, Antonio Messi. Thiago Alcantara, Carles Puyol, Mazinho, mentions of other 'former' players.
Words:1,400
Rating/warning: G; none
Disclaimer: obviously this hasn't happened.
Summary: In 2032, Thiago’s son, Javier, is breaking into the FC Barcelona first team. So far he has followed in his father’s footsteps. La Masía. The Spanish youth levels. But when his grandfather, the manager of the Brazilian national team, calls him up in the middle of a stellar season, a choice must be made.
Author's note: this is the most crackish/au thing I've ever written.
Javier Alcantara is momentary blinded as he exits the training building. He closes his eyes and rubs them, following the sound of football boots on concrete as his teammates head for the training pitch.
“Come on, Javi, you’re going to be the last one!” someone shouts from behind him.
Javier cracks an eye open to see Antonio, even younger than he is, whizzing by.
The older players ahead of him just chuckle as the little Argentine passes them. There are three things Antonio inherited from his father, Lionel: his skills, his height, and his enthusiasm.
“Toni, slow down!” Carles barks as the group rounds the edge of the gap to the training pitch. The former defender and team captain had brought his no-nonsense on-pitch attitude with him to managing. Good thing he had too - under his hand, the team had won four leagues in six years, three Champions, and a handful of Copas.
Antonio drops onto the grass to begin stretching and Javier joins him. At 17 and 18 respectively, they are the youngest on the squad and have been friends since they were infants. As the sons of two of the players who won the second sextuple in Barça’s history (though Antonio’s father had been part of the first, too), they’d grown up together, attending matches and training sessions, tournament finals. It made sense they both entered La Masía, the famed youth system that had built their fathers, when they were old enough. Ten years later they are reaching the pinnacle - official members of the first team, with everything to play for and nothing to lose.
In usual day before a match training session fashion, the work is light. An hour of rondos, ending with a quick scrimmage, just to keep everyone on their toes and limber and focused for the match ahead. When Carles signals the end of the session and sends everyone back to the dressing room to get checked out by the physios and shower, Javier is the first to gather his boots, ready to go home for dinner and finish his homework for uni.
“How was training?” his father asks as soon as he comes through the door in the kitchen of their house in Maresme. The older man stands over the sink, draining pasta into a colander.
“Good,” Javier replies, dropping his bag on a chair at the table in the corner in front of the windows.
“Just good?”
“It was training, Dad, and nothing bad happened. So yes, it was good.”
Javier crosses the room to pull a Powerade from the refrigerator and twists it open as he leans against the counter beside his father.
“You know what I meant.”
“Yeah. Where are the others?”
“The boys are in the game room playing FIFA, and I think your sister is doing homework. Dinner is ready. Could you go get them please?”
Javier nods and starts downstairs to the large family room. When his father had been eighteen, he’d already been living away from home with his brother, Rafa, and best friend, Jona, but Javier knows he can’t do that, yet. Ever since his mother, Julia, passed away a few years ago, he’s been helping out with his younger siblings in between football and school. As the oldest, he knew how much his father valued his help. And even so, he loved his family too much to go.
“Oh, come on!” Emilio shouts at the television as the player he’s guiding in the simulated match trips.
Luca laughs, quickly spinning in a circle and the player he is guiding does the same, dancing around Emilio’s defenders with the ball.
“Dinner’s ready,” Javier tells them, leaning over the railing of the staircase.
Luca quickly makes a slashing motion with his hand and the match on the screen freezes before fading to black with a hum.
The eldest brother steps back as the twins race past him up the stairs to the kitchen, chattering loudly about the game. Javier just smiles and follows them.
Gabriela is setting the plates out as Thiago comes in carrying a bowl of pasta and sauce, Emilio and Luca behind him with salad and bread.
“How was training?” Gabriela asks with a smile as they all sit down at the respective places at the table. Thiago had very few rules for his children, but his main was they ate dinner together as a family as often as they could. Unfortunately they were only able to a few nights a week, but Javier looked forward to the family time.
“The usual. Rondo after rondo.”
“Bo-ring.”
After dinner as Javier began to clear the table, Thiago waved him away and set the younger boys to do it instead, shooing his eldest son up the stairs.
“Go finish your homework and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Alright. Night.”
***
Javier closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, which would have been easier, had his mascot not been jabbering excitedly to the little boy in front of her. As usual, the tunnel was fairly loud as the two teams lined up with their escorts and prepared for the match. Half-way through the season, this is his seventh start, and he still hasn’t yet learnt to calm his nerves. Once he’s onto the pitch he’ll settle into a calm, collected mindset, but until the first whistle is blown, the nausea will not go away.
Suddenly Joan behind him is nudging him forward and then they’re on the pitch, then hymn is playing, they’re posing for a photo, and taking their positions. Javier settles at the left side of the midline, watching the official.
And then they’re off.
He plays with everything he has, as he always does. His heart and soul are on full display as he crosses over to Víctor, megs defenders, gets into position. He anticipates where the ball will be and gets there, always on the alert.
So when Pablo sends a ball in through the opposing defense from the midfield, he’s ready. It greets his feet with the kiss of leather ball on leather boots and he’s moving it forward, tap tap, looking for his next move. No one’s there, the net is nearly open, so he shoots.
With a hiss, the ball slides down the back of the net, and the opposing keeper is on his knees, looking over his shoulder at it.
Javier, grinning, spreads his arms like wings as he turns and runs towards the centre of the pitch again, before he raises six fingers towards the sky. His father’s number. His namesake’s number.
It’s Bartomeu who reaches him first, throwing his arms around him as they collide, and then everyone else joins in and they fall to the grass a laughing tangle of limbs.
This feeling, this incredible happiness, is a feeling he will never get over. And he never wants to.
***
“You’re so going to get a call-up from Llorente!” Antonio chirps from his place on Javier’s bedroom floor. They’re watching the news after finishing a movie a few days after the match against Mallorca, and all Antonio can talk about are the call-up lists due to be announced the next morning.
“I doubt it,” Javier says, thinking of the Basque manager who scored the winning goal in the 2014 world cup. “I’m too young.”
“Oh please. You’re older than Bojan was.”
“Still. He won’t call me up.”
Antonio looks back to the television.
“You’ll see.”
Javier rolls his eyes.
***
As he predicted, the call does not come the next morning and when the list is officially announced by lunch, Javier’s name is not on it.
“Maybe next time,” Thiago says and claps his son on the shoulder as the boy tries not to look too disappointed.
He really hadn’t been expecting to be called up, but a tiny spark of hope had been there. A slim chance, maybe, he could have been.
Whatever.
He pulls his chemistry text up on his tablet to read the pages for lab tomorrow afternoon and sighs. Next time.
The vibration of his mobile in his pocket startles him out of his concentration and he digs the device out to look at the screen.
“Hey, granddad.”
“Don’t call me that right now,” Mazinho says through the phone.
Javier frowns.
“Then what should I call you?” he asks in confusion.
“Coach.”
Javier sits up straighter.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is me, manager of the Brazilian national team, calling you up.”