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Klopp had been stuck in his house all day, answering phone call after phone call. Admittedly, most of those calls hadn’t been to his boys or staff—they’d been to officials, owners and reporters. All of which were driving him insane.
He’d wanted a break, not an exile. Just a few hours away from the boys, away from anybody was driving him crazy. He tried to stand up and walk around, but pacing in circles with the snowy world outside only made him more antsy.
By two o’clock, Klopp couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed his phone onto the desk, pulled on a winter coat, and ran outside like a fugitive. He had to move around, somehow, anyhow. So he decided to go to a place he knew well—Formby Beach.
There were two ways to get to the beach, which was often not very occupied in this weather. Either he drove, or he walked. And while the walk was much longer than the drive, and more strenuous due to the large sand-dunes at the very end, it was the perfect thing to distract Klopp from the stressors of his job; serene, tranquil and peaceful.
And that was when he ran straight into Jesse Marsch.
“You again!” Klopp exclaimed, brushing the snow out of his hair. “What the heck are you doing here, again?”
“I’m bored,” Marsch said as if it was the most obvious thing that afternoon. “I wanna go with you, wherever you’re going. Unless you have to go alone, that is.”
“Oh, it’s nothing fancy. Just Formby Beach, I go there all the time.” Klopp started walking again, waving for Marsch to follow him. “Come on, man, we don’t have all day. The sun’s going to set by six!”
*
"You hear that sound?"
Marsch snapped out of his trance, glancing around the woods the two were now in. The American hadn't talked much during the walk at all. "No, what?"
Klopp pointed to the trees towering over them, blocking out the sky almost entirely. "That's the February Merseyside wind going through the pines. I never knew how that sounded until I came here."
"You sure know a lot of things," Marsch noticed. He stuck close to Klopp, following him as they traipsed through the snow and fallen pine needles. "What's that?"
"Oh, that's a pine marten." Klopp chuckled at the small mammal scurrying across the ground, pouncing upon a mound of melting snow. "I'd tell you that they love it here because there's pine trees, but then that's kind of obvious, huh?"
Marsch nodded in agreement. He, too, was amused by the pine marten's seemingly fruitless hunt. "We have pine martens in America, too."
They walked in silence for a while, punctuated by Marsch asking Klopp about a random animal or plant. The trail, known as Fisherman's Path, went on for a long time, and soon the stillness was pierced by something else: Marsch's complaining.
"Are we there yet? My feet are freakin' killing me!" Marsch turned to Klopp, who was also in some degree of discomfort. "How do you do this all the time?!"
"I usually wear walking shoes when I take this path, I don't drive here very often." Klopp dramatically flopped onto a log, pointing down to his feet. "Life advice from a top-flight manager: never wear snow-boots to go hiking."
Marsch's grin was crooked, slightly lopsided. "I could've given you that advice--if I was still a top-flight manager."
"I'm still mad at those people who think they're managing Leeds. They're lucky that we're both famous or I would've slapped them across the face."
Marsch almost fell over at the thought of Klopp slapping the Leeds ownership ala Zlatan Ibrahimovic. "You'd do one heck of a job.”
“Who are you kidding?” Klopp got back to his feet, motioning for Marsch to follow him. “I can’t even prevent my boys from getting humiliated in a league game. That’s why I called two days off for all of us.”
“Y’know, I saw this movie one time where some weirdo talking sheep said some words of wisdom.” Marsch almost had to jog to keep up with Klopp’s brisk pace and long strides. “When you hit rock bottom, the only place you can go is up.”
Klopp only walked faster, sidestepping twigs and pine needle piles. “Yeah, problem is that I thought each little setback was rock bottom only to get a bigger one. How do I know what’s rock bottom?”
“Trust me.” Marsch barely held back his laughter as Klopp tripped over a root, tumbling down the incline like a human snowball. “You’ll know what rock bottom is when you get to it. You’re that good.”
*
Formby Beach was isolated, undoubtedly because of how cold it was outside. Klopp and Marsch hiked around snow-dotted sand dunes for a while before they arrived on the shore. They sat on two large rocks, surrounded by the sound of waves crashing and the brisk wind sweeping their hair back and forth. Neither cared to rearrange it; they were too lost in their thoughts.
"Do you ever feel like you're in love, but you're not?" Marsch said out of the blue.
Klopp pulled his attention away from the deceivingly tranquil horizon. "What?"
"I mean...I've coached other clubs before, but Leeds were the first to really accept me for who I am. And then they fired me for the same reason--because I was being myself." Marsch leaned back until he nearly fell off his rock. "I loved the heck out of that club. And I really didn't want to leave."
"You loved Leeds just like I love Liverpool. Anybody who doesn't get that doesn't have a heart." Klopp wrapped his arm around Marsch, pulling the younger man closer to him. "I didn't want you to leave, either. You're a really good competitor and manager, and you're one of my best friends. Goofy, unhinged, yet good-hearted. Loves Budweiser a bit too much for his own good."
"I enjoyed playing versus you guys. And beating you, by the way, I’m still not entirely sorry for that.” Marsch scooted closer to Klopp, staring into the distant sunset. “Want to be friends?”
“I just said we’re friends, Dummkopf . But yeah, I’d love to.” Klopp reached into the pockets of his coat. “Now for a surprise! I brought us some beer!”
“Heck yes!” Marsch’s broad grin disappeared when he saw what was actually in Klopp’s hand. “Uh…you are aware that you have a plantain in your hand, right?”
Klopp glanced down at his hand, groaning in exasperation. “Seriously, again?!”