so much devotion and so much hope.
I stand there, dazed, in awe, and then snap out of it when I realize I need to get to my side of the technical area.
Don’t look down the pitch, I tell myself.
But I do.
My eyes are drawn there and I’m powerless to stop it.
I see the boys practicing.
My boys.
Real Madrid.
Mateo is watching them, his back to me.
Beyond him is Luciano and Rene and the rest of them.
I see a glimpse of who I think is Alejo but Mateo is blocking most of the view.
It’s probably for the best.
I look away before my heart swells.
I keep my head down, take out my phone and try to immerse myself in another world, when really I’m dying to be a part of this one, the world I gave up.
I keep my eyes down until the warm-up is over and the players go back inside, and only then do I steal another glance at the stadium, wowed by the crowd once again.
There’s something in the air tonight, something that’s not just in my head. There’s just so much energy and passion that it almost makes the space crackle, like right before a thunderstorm.
And then…
The teams come back out, Los Blancos on one side, Man United on the other, each player holding the hand of one of the child team mascots as they walk out onto the pitch.
Stewart comes to our area.
Mateo goes to his.
Right beside us.
And that’s when Mateo sees me, maybe not for the first time tonight, but it’s the first time our eyes have met.
He holds my gaze and though his look is intense, he’s completely unreadable.
I stare right back and give him a faint smile, to show him I’m not the enemy.
I’m not sure he knows that.
I’m pretty sure he thinks I am an enemy, a traitor to have quit and then come right back to the team before.
He looks away, his attention going back to the team.
I do the same, but not the team I’m supposed to.
The national anthems are sung – Spain’s is a deafening roar with passion you can feel in your bones – and then the coin is tossed.
The game begins.
Somehow, it feels like the most important game of my life.
My eyes are glued to number twenty-eight, I can’t look anywhere else.
Looking at Alejo is a lot like looking at the sun. He’s radiant, glorious, burning with this incomparable energy. It feels dicey to keep watching him, like I might get burned, but I can’t help it. He moves with beautiful synergy, his legs moving at a breakneck pace, all his muscles in his calves, his thighs, reacting like a well-oiled machine.
I marvel at him. He’s breathtaking.
He’s the man you love.
He’s the man who owns your heart.
I can’t even feel the sadness right now, or the loss of him. How can I when he’s right in front of me, living the life that God put him on this earth to do? Making the fans cheer and the opposition cower, handling the ball like it’s physically attached to his cleats, doing it all with that intensity in his eyes that shows just how committed to the game he is. I know he has tunnel vision right now, he only sees the ball and nothing else.
And I can only see him.
As if the stakes of the game aren’t high enough, both teams are playing at their absolute best. It’s thrilling to watch and nearly flawless as Real Madrid takes control of the ball and Man United takes it back. The ball goes back and forth, down one end, down the other, the crowd’s chants and calls rising and falling with the movement. It’s like watching a very fast and brutal ballet.
At one point Luciano runs past me and catches my eyes.
He raises both eyebrows in response as if to say, this is weird, right?
I give him a nod in response.
But it’s not weird, not right now while the game is going.
Maybe because I know who I’m cheering for. It feels like I’m back in the past and I pull the nostalgia around me like a cloak.
Now Rene has the ball and he’s running toward the goal with Alejo just up ahead of him, Mark York coming right behind him, trying to get in Alejo’s way, but Alejo sidesteps him and then Rene passes to Alejo, which Alejo receives with ease.
He’s about to shoot and then York gets in front, deflecting it.
But the ball bounces right back to Alejo, even though there’s no