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If it was up to Klopp, he never wanted anything to do with Real Madrid again. Not Ancelotti, not his eyebrow, not Vinicius or Benzema or Bernabeu or anything. Never, ever again.
Every one of his Champions’ League campaigns with Liverpool had ended in Madrid or versus a team from Madrid. Seven years ago, he’d had nothing against the Spanish capital, but now he prayed for the day that both clubs would vanish into thin air.
Benzema? More like benzene. He’s toxic to our defense and the world, why not just break his legs and make him retire already?
Instantly, Klopp felt bad for even thinking about it. It wasn’t Benzema’s fault at all—the striker was very good, far better than the Liverpool defense. It wouldn’t be fair to wish such a terrible fate on him unless he’d seriously injured one of the boys.
You’re being such an onager right now, hoping that people get injured so you can have an easier time. You should be ashamed of yourself, you horrid—
“ Quiet, for God’s sake!” Klopp now knew what some of his players meant by the negative voices in their heads. Those kinds of voices never gave him any problems before, but ever since April of last year they had begun to appear.
He hadn’t given them much thought, since Liverpool had been in blistering form last spring. But after losing the UCL, and their miserable season that they were still in, the voices had snuck into Klopp’s psyche, slapping and shouting at him. But he had no time to get rid of them—first he had to get rid of Liverpool’s problems.
He was glad that the international break was approaching soon. He didn’t want to see football, or the Premier League, or anything having to do with Liverpool. All he wanted to see were his boys…and nothing else. He never wanted to see Liverpool, ever ever again.
“Ay, de mí, llorona, llorona de azul celeste…”
The soft sound of a guitar strumming and painful lyrics managed to snap Klopp out of his thoughts. After a dreadful loss like this, the only thing worse than the self-deprecating voice in his head was the pain of his boys.
Quietly, he peeked around the doorframe of the locker room, analyzing the scene within. The players weren’t fighting or screaming or arguing like the last time they’d faced Real, thank goodness. Instead, they sat quietly and dejectedly on the benches in order, watching Alisson, Diaz and Firmino. Alisson had his guitar in hand, and Diaz kept the beat while he and Firmino sang.
“¡Ay, de mí, llorona, llorona de azul celeste!”
Klopp silently adjusted himself so that he leant against the doorframe, in a prime watching spot. I won’t disturb them just yet.
“Y aunque la vida me cueste llorona, no dejaré de quererte.” Diaz paused and wiped at the corners of his eyes, clasping Firmino’s hand. “¡No dejaré de quererte!”
Klopp recognized their song as “La Llorona”. It was an old Mexican folk song that had been popularized in part by Disney’s Coco. He didn’t know much Spanish, but after some research he’d figured out that the song was about never-ending love.
He refocused his attention on the boys. Some of them had joined Diaz in keeping the beat, and others started humming along. It was soft yet insistent, and echoed with a shared pain. “Me subí al pino más alto llorona—”
“A ver si te divisaba,” the others sang back. Some were tapping their feet as well, harmonizing with Alisson’s guitar chords.
They all stopped, leaving no music or accompaniment at all. Alisson set his guitar to the side, holding Fabilo and Firmino’s hands. “Como el pino era tierno, llorona—”
The others joined in, resuming their harmonizing and rhythm keeping. Alisson didn’t start playing guitar again, though. “¡Al verme llorar, lloraba!”
Klopp watched his boys, singing their broken hearts out. They joined hands and linked arms in a large circle, similar to when they’d reached the finals of the 2019 UCL. They all had their kits off and wore simple knit tracksuits and t-shirts, each a different color. With the crest lifted off them, now they could be themselves again.
I could quit, but stay at the building, Klopp thought. Then there wouldn’t be any pain every three days.
You vollposten! You should be ashamed of yourself. Abandoning them like this? Your parents would be so disappointed in you if they saw their only son thinking these thoughts.
“Are you alright?” Unbeknownst to Klopp, Lijnders had come up right behind him. He embraced him from behind, barely reaching above his shoulders. “You seem to be deep in thought.”
Klopp shook his head, relaxing into Lijnders’ touch. The two had been friends for five years now. “Pep, I hate the voices in my head.”
“Y aunque la vida me cueste llorona, no dejaré de quererte!” The players had continued singing, the quiet lamenting making way for loud proclaims.
Klopp and Lijnders exchanged a single look before walking into the locker room. “Y aunque la vida me cueste llorona, no dejaré de quererte, no dejaré de quererte!”
The players broke out into wide grins upon seeing Klopp and Lijnders in the room. “ Boss, you’re here! ”
“Did ya hear us singing?” Carvalho asked, bouncing up and down in his seat. “Did ya, did ya? We were the second coming of Bruno Mars!”
Klopp simply hugged him, as the others gathered round for a group hug. “ Ich werde nie aufhören, euch zu lieben, Jungs. Niemals!”