way through to the goal and he manages to do a sliding kick which punts the ball up over York, snagging the goal with inches to spare.
“GOOOOOOOOOALLLLLL!”
“Yessssss!!” I shriek out loud, clapping my hands together softly.
The stadium erupts like a white volcano and Alejo is screaming and showboating, running around the end of the pitch with his arms in the air, kissing his badge.
I’m bouncing in my seat with excitement and the therapist next to me, Jim, gives me a derisive look. “Whose team are you on?” he hisses.
“His,” I tell him.
It’s his.
I’ve always been on Alejo’s team.
And Alejo is still joyous and beaming with exhilaration and pride, now running to get back into the game.
He runs past me and it’s like he moves in slow motion.
He’s beaming at the crowd as he passes them, his smile bright and beautiful, and I can’t help but smile back, tears in my eyes. Tears of joy, for him, for this moment, tears of grief because I’m staring at the man I’ve lost.
And then his eyes meet mine.
He doesn’t stop but it feels like time does.
Time comes to a standstill and it’s just his gorgeous, soul-sweeping eyes held captive with mine.
I’m still smiling.
I can’t stop.
Alejo looks like he’s seen a ghost.
He keeps running and I watch him go and I wonder if that moment really happened.
The game plays on.
It seems to grow even more intense, United doubling down and trying even harder to keep the ball down at Madrid’s end. There are a few shots on goal that go too high or bounce off the top of the posts. Too close for comfort, but they stay out.
The pressure is building.
Real Madrid score again, this time Benzema.
Everyone goes crazy.
I don’t even bother to keep my clapping quiet. I cheer too.
Hala Madrid.
It’s at that moment that I know I’m going to get in shit for this. Stewart is out there yelling at the players but the medical team and assistant coaches are definitely noticing my behaviour.
It’s not that I’m purposely sabotaging myself.
It’s just that I can’t help myself.
All the roads lead to this moment, to this place.
All the roads lead to Alejo.
Back to the game, Luciano now has the ball.
Alejo is in position.
Man United is coming down hard.
Alejo is surrounded, there’s no way for the ball to get through to him.
But he’s tall.
And he knows how to use his head.
Luciano punts the ball up high and the ball arcs through the air like it’s a heat-seeking missile right on target.
Alejo leaps straight up, a magnificent feat of power.
And then it all happens so fast, it’s almost a blur.
Half a second later after Alejo leaps and makes contact with the ball, Mark York does the same, vying for control, his shoulder slamming up into Alejo.
The impact causes the ball to head off in another direction.
And just as Alejo comes back down, York is still going up.
His shoulder slams into Alejo’s head with brute force.
Alejo crumbles before my eyes and falls face first on the ground, knocked out cold.
He’s unconscious.
He’s not moving.
I stand up, my hand at my mouth, gasping for air.
People in the crowd scream and whistle for York to have penalty and there are hushed murmurs around me and people are starting to freak out and all I know, all I can see, is Alejo lying there motionless, face down on the turf, the players standing over him, trying to talk to him, their faces pale and scared.
Someone tries to move him.
I don’t even think.
I just run.
I leap off of my seat and I’m running across the pitch as fast as I can, running all the way across it, navigating between players. I know that the commentators must be going crazy with this, the sight of Manchester United’s physical therapist running over through the middle of the game. And I’m not going to check on York, who is standing off to the side and holding his shoulder, the ref talking to him along with our goalie, and some other players, arguing the play.
No, I’m running right to Alejo.
“Don’t move him!” I yell at the players who are starting to crowd around him, not just Real Madrid but a few Manchester United players too. At times like this, people put the game aside and tend to unite. “He might have a broken neck!”
I stop in front of Alejo and stare down at him, trying not to panic.
I’m not a doctor, I’m not a medic, I’m not trained to be cool and collected in these types of