year ever. It wasn’t easy, though. It took a lot of trial and tribulation to get to where we got. As a team we all had to dig deeper than we’ve ever gone before, and it paid off. But also, it doesn’t matter what happened last year. It doesn’t exist. Poof.” He snaps his fingers and looks at each of us. “Just like that. Football holds no memory. It moves forward for us all, and it moves quickly so all that we have is the here and now. This game is a tabula rasa, a blank slate. We have to treat it like it’s the first game we have ever played and we have to go out there knowing we’ll do whatever it takes to win.”
He clears his throat, a grave expression coming over his face. “This team is the best of the best and we are all honored to be a part of it. It was founded by the King of Spain. The name Real means royal. And each and every one of you are the kings and princes of Madrid, of Spain, of Europe, of the whole world. And we’re going to go out there and rise to our titles. We are going to put on our crowns and we are going to win! Hala Madrid!”
“Hala Madrid!” we all bellow in unison, the adrenaline pumping so hard through me it’s making me breathless. Goosebumps erupt all over, my hair standing on end.
This is the best part of the game to me.
The moments right before.
When we’re all ready to prove ourselves to the world, to be worthy of the titles we hold.
The energy is electric, like lighting coming out of our souls, illuminating the way forward, the way to win.
Luciano comes over, and we do our funny handshake and end with a high five.
I slap Rene on the back.
We all cheer each other on and then we’re going up the stairs and out onto the pitch as Los Blancos, the warriors in white, while Sevilla steps out beside us and we walk side by side to the battleground.
The sound around us is deafening. The stadium is packed with 81,000 people, all of them cheering, either for us or for Sevilla, it doesn’t matter. Unless you’ve been on this pitch, looking up at the stands around you, hearing this impossible, almost supernatural sound, it’s hard to imagine and even harder to explain.
All I know is that it gives me faith.
I belong here.
We run out to the middle of the field and take our places while the refs go to the center circle with the ball.
Luciano and the opposing team captain, Jesús Navas, pick their sides and then the coin is tossed.
It goes in favor of Sevilla, but that’s okay. They choose the goal. We get first kick.
I keep my eyes bored into Felipe Gual, a defender who goes out of his way to try and stop men like me. I stare at him until he knows that I won’t be fucked with, that whatever he’s going to do to me isn’t going to work.
The ref makes the signal; the ball is kicked.
I’m immediately running as the ball ends up with our midfielder Toni Kroos and then it’s coming at me. I’m in no place to go at the moment with Gual right there, always there, so I dribble for a bit until I pass it to Rene just before Gual slams into my side. I’m nearly knocked down, but I manage to spin on a dime and keep running to see the ball get intercepted just before Rene has it on lockdown.
I’m trying to calculate the goal in my head as I run down the side, going as fast as I can to get ahead of the play. Turf is being ground up in my cleats, there’s warm wind in my hair, and my shirt is already soaked from exertion, nerves, and humidity. I run like lightning and I feel like lightning.
I know Gual and the other defenders are on me or watching me, so I need to do something to gain freedom. They know I’m running for the goal, so they’re marking me and setting up an offside trap.
I suddenly turn, narrowly eating shit on the turf, and make a run toward the ball which Rene now possesses.
I can see in his eyes that he knows what I’m doing, throwing them off.