madrid is: part 2
The next day there’s no practice and it’s just Mesut and Sami, just the two of them. They Skype Holger, who’s hanging with Thomas and Toni Kroos, and so they shoot the shit for over an hour and it’s really nice, exactly what he needed, Mesut thinks. A reminder of home.
Later, they make butter-free popcorn and put on some trashy telenovela and make up ridiculous plotlines to go with it, only to end up becoming legitimately interested in what’s going on.
“Wait, is she-I thought they said she died?” Sami says.
“No, no, that was her sister,” Mesut says. “Looks just like her, though.”
“Whatever, they’re both hot. As long as one of them lives,” Sami says, and something about that is so funny to the both of them that they can’t stop laughing and they miss a good chunk of the program. When they do calm down, Javier is racing to stop a wedding and they’re both just sitting there with these big stupid grins on their faces. Mesut looks over at Sami.
“I feel like I never see you even though I see you all the time,” Mesut says. He doesn’t know why he says it. It’s stupid and he knows they both have to focus if they want to know what’s going on in the show.
“That’s because you’re always with Cristiano,” Sami says. He nudges Mesut’s knee with his own.
“Shut up. Am I really?” Mesut asks.
“No. Yes. Kind of. It’s okay, though,” Sami says.
“Okay.”
Sami’s sitting on the couch, ice strapped to his ankle.
“I think this injury might do me in,” he says. “Mesut, I want you to have my stereo.”
“You’re not dying, get over it,” Mesut says, picking up their dirty dishes and heading towards the kitchen. “You rolled your ankle at practice; you’ll be fine. And besides, the stereo I already own is better than the one you’re giving to me as a deathbed gift.”
“Yeah, what is up with that?” Sami asks. “Your bedroom stereo is better than the one in my car.”
“I just like music,” Mesut shrugs, and that’s really all there is to it.
Someone knocks on the door as Mesut’s making his second trip to the kitchen and Sami says, “You can get that.”
“What? No,” Mesut says. “You get it. I’m cleaning.”
“But I’m crippled,” Sami says, and Mesut just laughs, yeah, no. “Fine, fine,” Sami grumbles, and he hobbles his way over to the door.
Mesut’s just finished loading the dishwasher when he hears Sami yell, “Mesut, you’ll never guess- it’s Cristiano,” followed by a Spanish, “Hey, hey, no German!”
Mesut wipes his hands on a dishtowel and heads out to the foyer.
“Hey, Cristiano,” he says. Cristiano’s dressed in a dark sweatshirt and athletic sneakers and he’s standing in Mesut’s doorway, a football trapped between his arm and his hip.
“Are you busy?” he asks Mesut, biting his lip and rocking forward onto his toes.
“Not really,” Mesut says.
“Okay, awesome, then throw on some sneakers, I’ve got something to show you.”
Cristiano leads him outside and down the street. It’s dark and there’s no moon, and if it weren’t for the streetlights, Mesut wouldn’t be able to see anything.
“Where are we going?” Mesut asks.
“A public football pitch, just down the road,” Cristiano says, and then teases, “You probably don’t know it’s there because you never leave your apartment.” He drops the ball from his hands, steadying it with his foot until he’s just pushing it ahead of himself with his toes. “And I know I didn’t say anything about it in practice, but I thought about what you said on the bus, and if you’ve forgotten how to score, I’ll show you. So come on.”
And at first-at first Mesut finds it laughable, what Cristiano says, but then they get to the pitch and something about it makes him think of home, of being young again. It’s dark but Mesut can see some metal bleachers off to one side, can tell that there are spots where the grass has been worn down to just dirt, and he thinks about rushing out of the house after dinner when he was just a boy, playing football with whoever was allowed out until he had to go to bed.
“Alright, you ready then?” Cristiano says, and then he kicks the football at Mesut. It bounces off his shins and back to Cristiano, who takes it and runs with it all the way down the pitch. Mesut peels off after him, but Cristiano’s gotten too large a head start, and the ball gets to the goal and then goes between the posts before Mesut can even catch up. Cristiano comes jogging back afterwards, hands in the air, waving to an invisible crowd.
“Is that jogging your memory, Özil?” Cristiano asks. “Remember how to score yet?”
“Shut up,” Mesut starts to say, but then Cristiano cuts him off.
“That’s 1-0, Mesut. Opening seconds of the match and you’re already down,” he says.
“I didn’t know we were playing!” Mesut objects.
“Ah,” Cristiano says, shaking his head and tsk-ing like Mourinho does. He motions as if he were taking out a little notebook, writes in the air with an invisible pen as he says, “Not observant; sore loser.”
Mesut laughs and then darts his foot out, stealing the ball back from Cristiano before racing away, back towards the other goal, laughing.
They play first to five, and then first to ten, and then first to twenty. Mesut’s sweaty, but it’s a good sweaty, a different kind of sweaty from matches and practice because this is just a game, just for fun. He’s smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.
“Watch closely now,” Cristiano says. “I’m going to fake left and then go right.” They’re standing a foot apart and he does his signature move, the footwork, only he fakes left, fakes right, and when Mesut goes right, Cristiano goes left.
“Hey!” Mesut says. “Cheating!”
“Not cheating if the ref doesn’t see it,” Cristiano says, and he makes a face like, What are you going to do about it? “Not, of course, that I would ever cheat in a real match.”
Mesut makes a noise, one in the back of his throat that says he’s annoyed, and says, “Give me the ball. Look, this is you.” He does Cristiano’s move-fakes left, fakes right, fakes left, fakes right, again and again and again, so exaggeratedly-and then just collapses to the floor, moaning and grabbing at his ankle.
“Oh, joder,” Cristiano says, dropping to his knees at Mesut’s side and grabbing Mesut’s arm. “What happened? Joder, joder, are you okay?”
“No,” Mesut groans. “Give him a red card.”
And then Cristiano’s throwing Mesut’s arm away from himself, laughing and cursing up a storm in Spanish, saying, “I really believed you! I thought you were hurt!”
“And that’s the difference between you and me,” Mesut says, and he’s laughing too, high and light and free.
They stay out for a while longer, longer than they should, each taking turns at making ridiculous shots and playing keeper and seeing who can score from farthest out. They only leave when it starts to rain, and then they jog back to Mesut’s.
“You want a, uh-a-” Mesut stutters out when they get there. How does he not know that word?
“A towel?” Cristiano guesses.
“Yes. Or something?” Mesut asks.
“No, no, I need to get home,” Cristiano says. “We’ve got early practice, anyways. See you tomorrow, Mesut.”
“Yeah, see you,” Mesut says, and then Cristiano’s gone, hunched over and running through the rain to his car. Mesut watches.
Mesut has a dream.
He has a dream and in it, all he’s doing is falling, falling and falling and falling. There’s nothing around, nothing for him to see except for blackness, and then: a dot. A green dot. And as Mesut falls closer and closer to it, he sees that it’s a pitch, it’s the Bernabéu, and everyone’s there playing football without him-Real Madrid and Werder Bremen and Die Mannschaft.
Only-only they’re not playing without him, because he’s there. Mesut can see himself on the pitch, wearing the Real Madrid white and the Werder Bremen green and the Die Mannschaft black, and then suddenly he’s moving too fast, getting too close to the pitch and he’s still falling, still falling and falling, faster and faster, and just before he’s about to hit, Mesut wakes up, teetering on the edge of his mattress.
He throws up in the bathroom and Sami hears him, brings him a glass of water.
The next La Liga game is against Deportivo, and it’s pouring. Mesut is soaked to the bone way before kickoff, and he’s cold, too. His hair sticks to his forehead as they line up, and after Iker shakes hands with the Deportivo captain, they head onto the pitch.
He’s starting and it makes him unnecessarily nervous. He’s started hundreds of games before, he’s started in games more important than this before, and yet-he’s nervous. He wants to do well, wants to hear the crowd cheer for his goal and not just for his good effort.
“Hey, Mesut,” Cristiano calls over to him as they wait for the referees. “Watch closely, alright? I’m going to fake left and then go right.”
Mesut laughs, finds it funnier than he should, and then the whistle is blown and he’s off, all of his worries forgotten, left behind him on the pitch at midfield.
Four minutes in and Mesut lines up to take a corner. He pulls his leg back, lofts the ball into the box and then-Cristiano’s running towards the cameras in the opposite corner, his arms wide as he slides on his knees-goal.
Mesut gets over to him a minute later, hugs him and says, “Nice header.”
Cristiano laughs, says, “Nice corner,” and then turns around, his face to the stands, and makes grabby hands at the box seats.
Mesut laughs and jogs to line up. Cristiano’s an idiot.
Twenty-three minutes in and Higuaín slots Mesut a pass-a perfect pass-only by the time Mesut has it under his control, he’s swarmed by about four Deportivo players. He turns, weaves his way through them, and shoots a clumsy shot that hits the post, bottom left corner and-
And suddenly, it’s 2-0.
Mesut goes running, hugs Marcelo cause he’s right there. He kisses his finger, points to the sky, thanks God. Sami’s got an arm around his waist when Cristiano makes it to him, his hand on the back of Mesut’s head and his forearm following the line of Mesut’s spine.
And Mesut doesn’t really know when Cristiano’s opinion became so valued to him, but it did, it is, and Cristiano’s an amazing player, so it only makes sense.
“¡Goooool!” Cristiano says in his ear, and Mesut’s smile stays put long after they start up again, long after Ángel and Higuaín score, long after Castro’s own goal, and long after Cristiano leaves them all in the dust again.
6-1.
It feels good.
Mesut likes when they do bike workouts. They all head to the cardio room and the bikes are set up close enough that they can all still talk when they’re not working hard, and he gets to just listen to all the Spanish being flung around, gets to hear how much he understands. Mesut likes getting to hear all the stories, usually embarrassing ones, because he likes getting to know his teammates like that, like they’re people and not just futbolistas.
Their first time on the bikes after the Deportivo match, they make fun of Canales and why women seem to love him.
“It’s that hair, you see. Makes him look like a child,” Pedro says. “Women love that shit!”
“No, no,” Esteban says. “They like how he matches his outfit to his girlfriend’s-”
“The pink!” Pepe roars, and then Cristiano’s saying, “There’s nothing wrong with pink!”
“Yeah,” Canales says. “Besides, my mom bought me that shirt.” And that sets them off again, laughing at Canales who’s blushing beet red.
“You’re not any better, CR7,” Marcelo’s saying. “What was with that cutesy shit at the Deportivo match, huh?” And then he’s scrunching up his face and making grabby hands, the same ones Cristiano had made after his goals.
“Shut up,” Cristiano says, and he swats a hand out to smack Marcelo on the arm.
“Does someone miss Kaká?” Benzema laughs. “Do you need a tissue?” And that-that’s where Mesut had seen that gesture before, from a photo in Cristiano’s house. He dedicated his goals to Kaká.
“You’re one to talk,” Cristiano says. “You’re French.”
And then Lass is yelling, “What is that supposed to mean?” and everything just kind of falls apart until they’re all yelling atop of one another and Mesut’s stopped listening because he’s thinking of Kaká and grabby hands and box seats at the Bernabéu.
Mesut gets a text message and at first he’s not sure what’s going on because no one really texts him besides Bastian, and even then it’s just Bundesliga scores and gossip, but it turns out to be from Cristiano.
“Want to play pool tonight?” the text says. “Revancha.” And Mesut doesn’t know what revancha means, but he looks it up and it means rematch and so he goes over. Sami makes fun of him, says, “Be sure to use a condom!” and Mesut rolls his eyes, ignores him.
Mesut’s good at pool; he’s confident he’ll win again.
What he doesn’t expect is for Cristiano to answer the door holding a baby, his baby.
“Um,” Mesut says.
“Come on in,” Cristiano says, and he waves Mesut in. “And now you finally get to meet little Cris! Say hi, Cris!” And then Cristiano takes his baby’s hand, moves it to make a waving motion, and he laughs and laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
The baby is cute, Mesut can’t deny that. He’s all big cheeks and a tuft of dark hair, and Mesut doesn’t normally like babies, doesn’t particularly like this one, although he’s quiet and still and so Mesut thinks he’s alright.
“I was just about to put him to bed,” Cristiano says. “One minute, yeah? You remember where the pool table is. Drinks are in the kitchen,” and then he’s off, down the hall, somewhere else.
Mesut goes, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and wanders towards the game room. There’s a baby toy on one of the chairs, some sort of rattle, and the noisemaker is shaped like a football. It makes Mesut smile.
“Alright!” Cristiano says when he comes back. “Are you ready to lose?” Mesut looks surprised, darts his eyes around the room.
“Why?” he asks. “Who am I playing?” and Cristiano laughs, points a pool cue at him and says, “You,” not an answer to Mesut’s question, but something else entirely.
Mesut racks the balls and as he’s hunched over, he sees that Cristiano has a baby monitor clipped to his Gucci belt. It makes Mesut smile, and he wins before Cristiano’s even gotten started.
Later, they throw themselves onto his couch and watch Gol Televisión, listening to the announcers talk about Barça's draw (“The enemy,” Cristiano says) and their own 6-1 victory as they show clips of the match.
“That’s a goal,” Cristiano says as Mesut is on the screen. “That’s fancy, right there,” and he’s referring to how Mesut weaves his way around the opposition.
“Yes, but it’s only one,” Mesut says, and Cristiano laughs.
“You know, you’re exactly what I expected when I was told you were transferring here, only you’re more,” Cristiano says, and Mesut doesn’t understand. Thinks maybe it’s a cultural barrier rather than a language one, or maybe just a Cristiano-Mesut barrier.
“You’re nothing like what I thought,” Mesut says. “You’re quieter, not as-” Mesut waves his hand, “not as loud.”
And at that, Cristiano laughs and laughs and laughs, loud and long, almost as if to prove Mesut wrong.
“What are you talking about?” he asks. “Haven’t you seen my ads? Haven’t you heard me yelling up and down the pitch? I don’t do anything quietly.”
“You love quietly,” Mesut says, and then immediately feels like he’s overstepped his boundaries. They both know who he’s talking about, and they don’t say much after that.
Things get serious when people start to realize that El Clásico is right around the corner. He and Sami don’t go out as much, Cristiano doesn’t call as often, they all start showing up to practice early.
“It’s the big one,” Iker tells him. “As big as it can be and not have there be any hardware at the end.”
So Mesut pushes himself that much harder and Mourinho yells that much louder-not just at him, not anymore, but at everyone and anyone.
“If we lose this, you are done,” he tells them as they run past him on the pitch during warm-ups. “If we lose this, you embarrass your club, you embarrass me. And if you embarrass me, you are done. The Castilla will welcome you with open arms.”
And maybe it’s bad, Mesut doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care about embarrassing El Míster; he worries about embarrassing himself, his parents. He runs faster, though, the grass falling away beneath his feet and each step pounding in his ears.
Mesut blinks and then it’s here.
Despite what everyone had said, Mesut never thought that a regular season La Liga match could feel this heavy, could weigh on his mind and his shoulders this much. The locker room is quiet; Mourinho’s and Iker’s speeches are short. The tunnel is tense.
His match day mascot is a little girl, one with bright eyes and blonde hair and who can’t be older than six. As he puts his hand out for her to take, she says in German, “I wanted you to win the World Cup.”
He smiles, forgets everything for a minute, and says, “You speak German!”
The girl slaps a hand to her mouth, surprised, and says in Spanish, “My mom is from Germany. I was born in Kolbermoor.”
“Hey, my good friend was born there,” Mesut says, and they all start filing out of the tunnel. He wants to keep talking to the little girl because he likes her, because she’s sweet, but the time has passed and before he knows it, they’re out on the pitch.
They line up, stand about. The crowd sings, and Iker shakes hands with the referees. And then, just as the mascots are about to walk back to the sideline, the little girl tugs his hand and says, “I’ll cheer for you extra loud today.”
Mesut smiles, says, “I’ll be sure to listen,” and she smiles back at him, a mouth full of missing teeth.
Mesut runs a lot-back and forth, back and forth-and he takes a couple of corners. He doesn’t score; Cristiano doesn’t score; Ángel doesn’t score. The first half is full of missed opportunities-should haves, would haves, could haves-and one lone, conceded goal. Messi scores off a cross from Villa and for a minute, from midfield, Mesut thinks it’s beautiful football. But then he sees Iker punching the ground, hears Sergio yelling, “Come on, guys, we have to watch him!” and then Mesut doesn’t feel so good about it.
Barcelona had their turn last year, and the year before that; they had it four times in a row, but now it’s Real Madrid’s turn. Now it’s his turn, and Sami’s turn, and Iker’s and Marcelo’s and Xabi’s and Raúl’s, and they are down, 1-0.
The second half is just as hard, just as empty as the first, and the score doesn’t change. There’s a couple of yellows on both sides for harsh tackles, but nothing else really besides that. Mesut didn’t know Valdés was as good as he was; he only ever studied Iker for the World Cup.
And then, in the eighty-second minute, something interesting finally happens. Mesut’s just on the Real Madrid side of midfield and the ball’s being cleared from the around the Barcelona goal. Mesut jumps, goes to header the ball, sees Xavi jumping too, and then-and then.
Must have been a real nasty collision, Mesut thinks, although he’s not sure who’s at fault. He can’t-he can’t really remember it, to be honest; it’s all a little fuzzy. But he comes back to and Villa’s face is hovering right above his own-Villa, that’s someone he really respects; he did tremendously at the World Cup-one hand on his shoulder and his other waving over the medics.
Mesut tries to sit up, but Villa’s hand holds him down.
“No, no, don’t move,” he says. “The medics are coming.”
“But I’m-I’m fine,” Mesut says, and he rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Part of his hand comes back red and Mesut looks at Villa. “I’m bleeding,” he says.
Villa laughs a little, says, “I know,” and, “You sound like Piqué,” and, “You’ll be fine.”
The medics come then, and they sit him up and tape gauze to his head. They ask him how he feels and he says fine, dizzy. They ask him if he wants water and he says yes. They ask him if he can still play and he shoots them a look, says of course and don’t you dare take me out when there’s only minutes left.
When he stands, Xabi’s there to help him in case he loses his footing. The crowd goes wild.
Xabi says, “You’re gonna want to watch that one on tv tonight,” and Mesut tells him, “I feel like you. Like De Jong just kicked me.” Xabi laughs.
“Cristiano got a yellow card, you know,” he says. “When you were down. He was arguing with the ref because Xavi didn’t get tossed. Let out so many bad words that your mother would-” Xabi motions at his face, “would get red in the cheeks.”
Mesut looks over to where Cristiano is, talking with Messi like they’re best friends. They’re the best players in the world; it only makes sense that they know each other. A part of Mesut wishes that Cristiano came over to see how he was rather than just arguing on his behalf. Mesut doesn’t care if Xavi stays or goes; he doesn’t even know what happened or whose fault it was.
Real Madrid doesn’t have a stand out star, doesn’t have one single face for the club. It’s hard, considering they’re all galácticos, but it’s better that way, too. Divided attention, divided pressure, divided victory and divided failure.
But there’s nothing divided at all about the way Higuaín takes the ball and weaves through his defenders, nothing divided about the way he rockets it into the top right corner, just past Valdés’s fingertips in the eighty-seventh minute.
No, that’s all Higuaín.
In the ninety-second minute, halfway through stoppage time, Barcelona gets a corner. Mesut watches everyone in the box, pushing and shoving and struggling and he thinks this could be it. Xavi sets up, places the ball down on the corner and steps back. He readjusts the ball placement, steps back again. He sends the ball flying and Mesut watches from outside the box as Piqué’s head gets a piece of it and sends it up and over everyone else, but then Iker-San Iker-gets a fist on it and it clears.
The ball gets to Sergio, who sends it up to Mesut, who takes it and runs with it. It’s him and Cristiano, side-by-side, charging two-on-one to the goal and then-and then Mesut passes to Cristiano and Cristiano has the perfect opportunity, it’s only him and no one else. The keeper-Valdés-comes out, though, slides at Cristiano’s feet and manages to sweep the ball aside for a corner. Cristiano stands there, face to the sky and hands on the back of his head, immobile, in disbelief.
Mesut can’t believe it either.
But then he’s in the box, pushing up against someone stronger than him-Puyol, maybe. It’s the last play of the match before stoppage time ends and it’s theirs. Xabi is taking the ball to the corner and Mourinho has pulled Iker, sent him to the other end of the pitch. Everyone’s there. It’s do or die.
Xabi kicks the corner and it’s all slow-motion for Mesut. The ball skims the head of Piqué again, is cleared and then sent back in by Álvaro and everyone’s gunning for it, all of them, and Sergio gets a head on it. Valdés has it blocked, easy, except he can’t get control of it and the ball bounces of his hands, hits Mesut in the side of the face as he stumbles, and then there’s nothing in the stadium louder than the sound of ball finding net.
Mesut watches it land from his position face-down in the grass, and then Sergio’s hauling him up by the armpits, one hand smushing Mesut’s cheek to his lips, and then they’re tearing off towards the cameras, him and Sergio and all of them, and in that moment, he is a Madridista, he is Real Madrid.
Mourinho pulls him aside later, after the match and the celebration in the locker room. He smiles at Mesut for a minute, doesn’t say anything, just chews his gum.
And then, “I have been hard on you in practice, you think?”
“Ah,” Mesut says, and he looks down, scratches the back of his head. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants without being offensive, thinks that the correct response is probably, No, you haven’t, and I can take it. Mourinho just laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
“You did very well today, Mesut,” he says. “Today, in the match. My pushing has paid off like I knew it would. You’re a great asset to this team.”
Mesut just says, “Thank you,” and then says it again, “Thank you,” because he needed to hear that from Mourinho more than he had realized.
“I’m proud; you played well.” A hand on the back of his head, fingers in his hair. A stick of gum pressed lightly into his palm.
He heads back to his teammates and his smile is splitting his face.
They go out for dinner one evening to a Portuguese restaurant. Sami was supposed to come but bailed at the last minute when Sergio called and asked if he wanted to go see a bullfight.
“It’s Spanish culture, Mesut,” Sami says. “Don’t you want me to be cultured?”
So he and Cristiano go by themselves and that’s fine. Doesn’t really matter either way to Mesut.
The restaurant turns out to be nearby, not far from Mesut’s apartment, and it’s something he drives by every day on the way to practice and just never noticed. He finds it funny the way the waiters and waitresses all say hi to Cristiano, how they greet him when he walks in the door. They act like they know him.
“I used to come here a lot,” Cristiano explains. “Back when I first got here last year, especially. It’s so good.”
“I’ve never had Portuguese food before,” Mesut says, and Cristiano looks wounded.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, and then tells Mesut that he’s just going to order the best stuff for him. Mesut opens his mouth to remind Cristiano but then Cristiano beats him to it, saying, “No pork, no alcohol, no problem. I know, Mesut,” and Mesut has to laugh at that.
They eat sopa de tomate e cebola and then espetada, both of which Mesut likes, but his favorite is something called milho frito, a side dish that kind of looks like French fries.
“These look so unhealthy,” Mesut says when the plate is put down in front of him.
“That’s because they are,” Cristiano says. “They’re fried.” Mesut eats them anyways and so does Cristiano.
“I don’t know why,” Mesut says, “but these remind me of Badische Schupfnudeln back home. Like, uh-potato noodles.”
“Potato noodles?” Cristiano asks.
“Yeah,” Mesut says. “But they’re shaped kind of like this. Kind of like fingers.”
“That’s gross,” Cristiano says. “They just remind me of being in Madeira. I remember, when I first went to Sporting, I missed my mom’s milho frito so bad.”
“Do you miss Madeira a lot?” Mesut asks.
“Yes,” Cristiano tells him, “I think so. But I’ve been missing it for so long that I don’t even know how to tell anymore.”
Mesut thinks of trees and the Gelsenkirchen skyline. He thinks of Nordsternpark and Hochstraße and Jazz Tage. He thinks of the Veltins-Arena and the matches he watched there as a boy and of the house he grew up in. He hopes he never forgets to miss it because what Cristiano just said-Mesut thinks that’s the saddest thing in the world.
And just like that, just when Mesut’s just getting in the swing of things, the middle of December comes and everyone’s getting ready to head home for the holidays. Mourinho and the other trainers give them lists, massive lists of what they can and can’t eat, of what workouts they have to do and of dates when they need to be back.
Kaká throws an early Christmas party-nondenominational, the invite says, but it’s Kaká-and the whole squad goes. Caroline’s there and she’s gorgeous, walking around and talking to everyone. She’s just as nice, just as generous as Kaká, too-nothing but warm smiles and open arms. Mesut thinks she floats.
He’s sitting on the couch with Sami as Sami teaches Raúl German curse words. Raúl’s accent is terrible, but it’s nice for a change, not being the one to have to try so hard.
“Why do you need to know these?” Mesut leans forward to look around Sami, and Raúl shrugs.
“I’ve got some things to take care of,” he says, and Mesut just shakes his head, okay, then. “Alright, give me some other ones.”
“Okay, well, there’s this,” Sami says, “but it’s really, really rude.”
“I want to know it anyways,” Raúl says.
“Sie sind eine haarige Ziege,” Sami says, and Mesut almost spits out his drink. Calling someone a hairy goat-it makes Mesut wonder what else Sami’s been teaching him; maybe he should have paid more attention.
He hears Cristiano laugh from across the room, and when Mesut looks over, Cristiano’s got one hand around Kaká’s shoulders, the other on his chest. They’re both wearing ridiculous sweaters, both looking good anyways. Mesut’s a little bit envious of that; his eyes.
He watches them for a minute. He thinks about how Cristiano never mentions it, never says a thing. He thinks about how you could know someone for months and months, or for your whole life, and never really know them.
Kaká laughs at something Cristiano says and then untangles himself from Cristiano’s arms. He makes a gesture like later, later, and then Mesut watches as he wanders around the room, making his rounds. And he knows that it’s wrong, but when Kaká gets to his side of the room, Mesut moves.
He manages to avoid Kaká for a while, although he doesn’t know why he wants to. He likes Kaká, genuinely likes him, but he just doesn’t want to talk to him.
Turns out it doesn’t really matter either way, because Kaká corners him in the kitchen when he’s getting more water.
“Thank you for coming,” Kaká says, and the fact that it’s the first thing he says to Mesut and that he really, truly means it-that’s so Kaká.
“Thank you,” Mesut says, “for, uh-inviting me.” It takes him a minute to find the word.
“Yes, of course, of course!” Kaká says. “I can’t believe it’s almost January. Are you going home for the break?” And he does that same thing that Cristiano did at first, talking slowly but not talking down. It’s still a nice thought, even though Mesut doesn’t really need it as much anymore.
“Yes,” Mesut says. “And then coming back for training.”
“Training,” Kaká says, and his smile is so wistful. “I can’t wait.”
“Having you and Cristiano together again will be good. No one will catch us.”
Kaká laughs, says, “Thank you,” and, “I’m really looking forward to playing with you.” Mesut feels his face flush, and even though it’s just Kaká, it’s still Kaká. “Cristiano says you’re only going to keep getting bigger.”
“But that’s-that’s Cristiano,” Mesut says. He’s still uncomfortable with getting so much of that kind of attention because he doesn’t feel right correcting people, saying, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for God,” and “I’ll only ever be as good as He wills.” So Mesut just does what he knows and shifts the attention away from himself.
Kaká laughs.
“Cristiano,” he says. “He’s different from what most people think he’s like. Kinder, more generous.”
“I know,” Mesut tells him.
“I know you do,” Kaká smiles. “That’s why I like you.”
And it’s only then that Mesut gets it. With Kaká’s eyes on him and his smile so honest, his stance so open, Mesut understands why Cristiano likes Kaká so much. There aren’t a lot of people like Kaká out there.
Mesut leaves around eleven and Sami gets home a little bit later, after Mesut’s already showered and stretched and changed into some old sweats.
“That was nice, don’t you think?” Sami says as he’s searching through the kitchen cabinets for a cup. “Everyone getting to just be together, no football-not that I mind the football.”
“Yeah,” Mesut says. He’s sitting on a barstool, his legs swinging. It was nice. He likes everyone, Ángel especially, but they never really talk aside from at practice or matches, or when they’re in the locker room, so it was a nice change.
“Did you see Marcelo knock over that lamp? I thought he was going to cry,” Sami says, and Mesut laughs. “He had a bit to drink, though, so I guess-I don’t know. It was hilarious though.”
“If all that’s broken is one lamp, Kaká’s lucky,” Mesut says.
“Yeah,” Sami agrees. “I like him. Kaká, I mean. He’s real nice and everything, even when he’s telling Cristiano off for being too loud. I can’t wait until he’s on the pitch with us. Seeing all his trophies and awards and all his traded jerseys and stuff-it’s like I forgot how good he was because he’s not playing, and now all of a sudden I remember.”
Mesut thinks of Cristiano’s hand on Kaká’s chest, of the way Cristiano’s eyes crinkle at the corner as he smiles up at Kaká.
“He’s alright,” Mesut says. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and then heads to bed. He’s tired and has an early flight.
Mesut goes home for the holiday season. It’s nice; he’s missed his parents, missed his brother and missed Germany. Seeing everything covered in a layer of snow is nice, too; quiet.
His room at his parent’s house is exactly how he left it and he flops down on his bed, stares at the stucco ceiling for a while. The best part about being back in Germany, Mesut thinks, is being away from Spain. He needs-he needs to think.
Marko’s in town for most of Mesut’s visit and Mesut is infinitely grateful. Marko is someone who just gets it, just gets Mesut and football and life, and it’s nice not having to explain things, especially when you don’t have the words.
They go out the second night Mesut’s back-first night is with his family, always, of course-to some restaurant, nothing fancy, just average. Marko asks how Madrid is and Mesut says shrugs and says, “Good,” and then Mesut asks how Werder Bremen is faring and Marko rolls his eyes and says, “Good,” and there’s a whole conversation, right there.
When the food comes, Marko’s meal comes with Badische Schupfnudeln and Mesut snatches a few off his plate.
“Every time I see these, all I can think of is milho frito now,” Mesut says.
“Think of what?” Marko asks, and Mesut flushes, looks down, scratches the nape of his neck.
“Nothing, it’s-Portuguese food,” Mesut finishes lamely.
“Ah,” Marko says, and there’s another whole conversation, right there.
Christmas comes and Mesut doesn’t do much that day because it seems like all of Gelsenkirchen is asleep or with their families, celebrating the holiday. So he sleeps in and his mother makes him hot chocolate when he gets up and then they all play Scrabble in the late afternoon. Mesut loses, does the worst by far, and his brother laughs and says that it’s because Mesut’s turning Spanish on them.
Later that night, Mesut calls Cristiano to wish him a Merry Christmas. The phone rings and rings and when he gets prompted to leave a message, Mesut is caught totally unprepared.
“Um, hi, Cristiano, it’s Mesut. I guess I just wanted to say-oh, right, Spanish, right-” and Mesut has to take a minute to remember how to speak it. “I just wanted to say Feliz Navidad, Cristiano. So, um. Feliz Navidad. I’ll see you in a few days. Bye.”
Once he hangs up, though, Mesut starts to feel weird about even calling in the first place. He’s not calling anyone else on his team.
He tries not to think about it.
Mesut gets back to training and it’s like he never left. Or maybe it’s glaringly obvious that he was gone because he comes back and he’s on, doing better than ever and feeling on top of his game.
The first game back is against Getafe and it goes well, so well. His passes are on target and his feet are fast. The first time he scores, it’s a quick shot from the top of the box and he slides on his knees at the cameras and the stands in celebration. His team surrounds him and arms are slung around his shoulders and waist, hands are touching his head. He thanks Ángel for the pass and God for everything else.
The second time he scores, he isn’t actually expecting to score. He’s hovering closer to mid than he is to the goal and when the ball gets to him, he notices that the keeper is off his line and so Mesut fires a lob, only meaning to catch him a little off guard and teach him a lesson about coming too far out, but he doesn’t actually expect it to go in. It does and Mesut wants to laugh. He feels happy and light and is subbed off in the seventieth for Kaká to get his first minutes back in La Liga. They win, 2-0.
After the game, Cristiano tells him, “Good match tonight,” and his hand is heavy on the back of Mesut’s neck. Mesut wants to say, “You too,” and it’s on the tip of his tongue because Cristiano always does well, but then he remembers that Cristiano only took three shots, two of them on goal, and so Mesut just says “Thank you” instead.
Part 3