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You stayed. You moved to Spain, you learned another language. You left your father and mother back in Japan and stayed with your brother.
Goddess of victory. Doesn’t that sound great? Goddess of victory.
Your brother needs you and so you stay. You see him make progress in Spanish, in talking with his teammates. You’re proud. You’re proud because he’s doing better, and you’re proud because you know you played a part.
You’re in the stands. You get to travel with your brother and your friends. You get to know the staff, your Spanish is getting better. Your brother’s Spanish gets better (he’s a little slower than you in his progress but steady, so you think it’s fine). You’re proud of him.
You attend the games. You cheer when others cheer, you stare at them, a little lost, when they groan and throw their hands in the air in disappointment or annoyance. You learn a few words you get to yell along with your friends (tarjeta roja, órsay, penal) and a few words you can’t say because they’re bad words but whisper sometimes with your friends before giggling.
You’re happy. You’re happy because your brother is flying, because there is no stopping the young lion Fukuda, because victory is his, victory is a given. And you’re happy because you know you played a part.
The roar around you, the fan songs, the laughs and smiles and warm hugs when finally the game ends on a supreme, total victory. A streak that doesn’t want to end. You don’t want it to end. The lights, the runs, and the fans who keep singing in the streets, long after the end of the game.
It’s still warm at night in Sabadell. There are so many people out at night in Sabadell. People are so happy at night in Sabadell.
Your brother talks about everything he’s planning to achieve. He talks about winning with his team, then moving to a bigger club. Of course you’ll follow.
You don’t understand a thing about football, but you understand what victory is. It’s a roar, it’s a fire, it’s a moment, however fleeting, where nothing else in the world matters. Life couldn’t be better and you hope the moment never ends. With every victory, you earn another wing on your back. With every victory, your brother gets closer to the sun.
And then he falls.
It’s strange how quiet the world gets when tragedy strikes. It’s strange how quiet the world gets when the medical staff enters the pitch. You hear whispers around you. It looks bad. Did you see the angle of the knee? Oh it’s a bad injury. Let’s wait for news. Yes, let’s wait for some news. You take the advice. You wait.
Despite how calmly you wait, it doesn’t change the verdict.
It’s over.
You watch your brother safely hidden behind the door and you hesitate. The great Fukuda, the second half of the Garulla-Fukuda duo, the one who brought victory back to Sabadell. He has fallen and broken into a thousand pieces.
But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re here to support him. Didn’t Ethan tell you? Family is a huge support. You have to step in, you have to fulfill your job. Family is a huge support. Right now, he doesn’t have football. Right now and until his mother flies in, he only has you.
You enter the room slowly, cautiously. You can see the rage and despair in your brother’s eyes and you feel your heart break again. The floorboards creak under your steps, but your brother doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge your presence. He keeps his head down, his body stiff and still. You know he wants you to get out. But you know he needs you to stay. Like he did a few months ago.
You’re devastated. You’re devastated because he is, because he’ll never play again and because there is no turning back. And because you know you played a part.
You hug him. You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything he hasn’t been told by Ethan, by his mother, by his coach, by the medical staff. So you hug him. You’re his support. You’re his family. You’re his goddess of victory.