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The clouds outside the window seemed so different from any clouds he’d ever seen before. These were so close that he felt that he could reach out and touch them if the window of the airplane wasn’t in the way.
It wasn’t just the clouds, it was going to be everything once the plane landed. It scared him; he’d never been away from home before. Never been without his family.
But it was only for a couple days. There was no point ruining this with homesickness. So he tried to put his family and Liverpool out of his mind.
His distraction was in the form of messing about with Michael. Which turned out to be trying to reenact their favorite goals while sitting in their seats.
“Oi, you two! Calm down!” Steve Highway's Irish accent told them sternly.
Stevie, however, could not contain himself at this point. He met Steve's gaze and settled down, but he felt like running laps around the plane. He was on his way to Spain with one of his mates and this was going to be absolutely brilliant (considering he didn’t leave home too much). It just had to be. He was jetting away from Liverpool (like the big shots!) and staying in a hotel room (like an away game!). If this was anything less than entirely perfect he would be severely disappointed. Scratch that, he would be heartbroken.
While Stevie continued to squirm in his seat, Michael turned to Steve, “So where are we going first?”
“The hotel.”
“Aw, I mean the football, when are we going to that?”
“In the afternoon,” Steve responded, buckling his seatbelt as the plane prepared for descent.
“Do we get to play?” Stevie asked enthusiastically.
“No, Stevie, remember you’re here to watch and learn. Don't forget how lucky you are to be here in the first place.”
Stevie wanted to protest but he remembered his manners and the fact that he was so lucky to simply be going to Spain. He settled back in his seat even and tried not to think about playing football. Stevie was having a rare spell of good fortune injury wise, so he had to admit he was a bit disappointed that he wouldn't get to play. He was so used to being on the sidelines.Even a day away from the game was making him physically itch.
“What this cup called again?” Michael asked.
'The Donosti Cup', Stevie thought to himself. The word was foreign to him, so he didn’t say it out loud, but he had been thinking about it constantly for the past couple days.
“The Donosti Cup. Now put your seatbelts on, we’re about to land.”
xxx
Stevie wasn’t usually talkative, but now he was speechless. He was standing in front of the window in his hotel room simply staring at the city below him and the beach and ocean that lay beyond. It was still a city, like Liverpool, but also not. The buildings were different, the streets unknown, the sky brighter. He could see a couple football pitches from his window. He couldn’t wait to go to them. To watch the football, to—
“Stevie?”
“What?” he responded, tearing his eyes away from the scene in front of him.
Michael stood in the doorway looking as at ease as ever.
Stevie didn’t understand how Michael could be so calm, so nonchalant. He was absolutely buzzing to watch football in a new place; to learn everything he could, to soak it all up like a sponge. Such an opportunity! He still couldn’t believe it. He’d show Steve he was worth bringing to Spain.
“C’mon, Stevie,” Michael said, “We’re gonna go down to the pitch. There is a quarterfinal match today.”
Stevie almost tripped in his haste to make it out the door.
xxxx
The trip to the pitches didn’t take long even though they walked.
Stevie didn’t quite know what to do with himself as he walked the unknown streets with Steve and Michael. He was so used to Liverpool, the people, the weather, the city, and suddenly, he felt a little lost. Everyone around him was talking rapidly in a language he’d never heard before (at least, it didn’t sound like Spanish). He felt small. And a little stupid. There was just so much he didn’t know.
“So where’s this place?” Michael asked.
“Just a few more blocks,” Steve responded.
But Stevie wasn’t paying attention, his eyes were following a group of boys running down the street, football in hand. He itched to join them. He wanted to just play. But those boys wouldn’t understand him, and how could he tell them where he liked playing? He wanted to be back in Liverpool, playing with all the boys in his neighborhood everyone knew him already. Where there would be no judging eyes.
“Stevie!” came the sharp call from Steve, “Don’t dawdle!”
Stevie sighed and ran to catch up with the other two. They’d barely been there for a couple hours and he was already getting yelled at.
“Who are the teams?” Michael asked.
Steve said some names but the words didn’t register with Stevie because they sounded so different from anything he’d ever heard before.
Stevie looked over at Steve. “What kinds of names are those?” he asked curiously.
“Basque. That’s the language they speak here,” Steve responded.
Michael nodded and began talking about Basque Clubs.
Stevie just remained quiet. There was so much he didn’t know.
xxx
It didn’t matter what match he was watching, whether it was a Champions League game or a casual kickabout between his mates. He always felt equal parts excitement and frustration. The excitement came from watching the ball move around and great plays of pure talent that could be seen at any level. The frustration came from Stevie’s desire to always be the one playing. And of course, at the age of 11, it couldn’t always be him in a game. But he still wanted to be the one on the pitch, all the time.
Still, he wasn’t reckless in his love for football and knew that he also had to be a student of the game. So he wasn’t too disappointed at coming to Spain to only watch and not play.
“Study how they play, their movement and the quick passing,” Steve said as they sat down to watch.
Both Stevie and Michael had nodded, though Stevie seemed to take Steve’s words more seriously than Michael.
The match started at a relatively slow pace and Stevie could tell that both teams were nervous. Stevie could understand, he wasn’t the best dealing with his nerves and this was a big tournament. Slowly however, the game picked up pace and the crowd, made up of many family members and locals, got into cheering on their respective sides.
Michael nudged Stevie with his elbow, “Why are we watching this?”
“So that we can learn,” Stevie said, his eyes following around a boy who seemed to always be in the open space.
“But they’re our age. Shouldn’t we be watching people who are older than us?” Michael whispered to Stevie, looking carefully over at Steve who was sitting on the other side of Stevie
Stevie shrugged, “Just watch.”
Michael huffed and rolled his eyes.
Michael continued to behave in the same manner and Stevie tried to focus on the match (and watch that one boy who seemed to be simply everywhere). Every once in awhile Steve would look over and say “Did you see that? See why that was such a good play?”
Stevie would nod and try to file it away for use in the future while Michael would just nod and then roll his eyes once Steve was looking away.
Once the game was over (Antiguoko won 3-1), they made their way down while Steve asked Stevie and Michael questions about the game and what they had noticed. Stevie answered as well as he could and Michael continued to just fake his way through the questions Steve asked.
Stevie was starting to get angry with Michael. He was his friend and he adored him, but he wasn’t treating this trip to Spain as he should have been. Being Liverpool's golden boy back home was starting to show. No one was better than Michael there so why should he expect anyone to be better than him here in Spain? Though Stevie doubted whether any 11 year old in Spain could actually match up to Michael, he wasn't about to tell his friend that.
“So what now?” Michael asked.
“Nothing more today, back to the hotel.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Another two matches, and then lunch with one of the managers, he’s the one who invited us to come and watch.”
Michael sighed.
xxx
“Michael’s a natural in front of the goal,” Steve said proudly to the strange man sitting across from Stevie.
Stevie frowned and poked at the food on the plate in front of him. His fringe was falling into his eyes, but he did not feel like putting in the effort to move it. The food tasted much worse than yesterday. He hated it. But he suspected that might have to do more with his current situation than the actual food.
Steve had been talking about Michael for hours now. Well, not hours. But that’s what it felt like to Stevie. He’d been singing his praises for so long now, and Michael had just been sitting there beaming.
Michael didn’t deserve any of this. He wasn’t taking any of this seriously. He wasn’t thankful for this opportunity. But Stevie didn’t say anything, he just pushed his food around his plate (he couldn’t eat anymore) and remained quiet, perking up only at the rare mention of his name.
When they were finished with their dinner, they walked outside where the other three continued to talk incessantly about Michael and what and amazing striker he was and what he should do to be further developed into a star player. Steve also name dropped the attention Michael was getting from Lilleshall already, which opened up a pit in Stevie's stomach. A constant source of anxiety for him, wondering if he'd be good enough to get into the national school in a few years. The longer he had to suffer through the constant praise of Michael, the more the tension within Stevie grew.
Looking up, his fringe hanging over his eyes, Stevie glanced at the group in front of him. He had already been trailing behind them slightly. He stopped. Their steps didn't falter or slow down, they hadn't noticed him hanging back. Stevie thought he could probably slip away and no one would notice. So he did. He sprinted away from the restaurant and to another street. He just couldn’t stand it. This trip was supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be like a dream. But this was a nightmare. He was stuck watching football, but not playing (and even though he was trying so hard to learn, he was missing playing). He hated the food, he wanted to go back to Ironside, to playing football in the park. He even wanted to go back to Paul’s incessant teasing.
Steve wasn’t helping either. He was talking about Michael nonstop. Michael this and Michael that. Stevie knew Michael deserved some that. He was brilliant, a natural in front of the goal. But he wasn’t horrible himself. Why couldn’t Steve mention him a little more, they were both there for a reason surely? He kept telling all the foreign coaches all about Michael. Stevie felt like he was just tagging along for the hell of it. He was constantly being told off as well, while Michael seemed to get away with murder. But this train of thought made him feel selfish. Was he really so insecure he needed Steve’s praises to feel good about himself? Homesickness clung to him heavily.
Stevie sank down against a wall, hugging his knees to his chest as tears began to well up in his eyes. He tired to stop them but they just came even harder. He buried his face in his knees as the silent tears became sobs that shook his body. Everything was piling up. Stevie's anxiety and his frustration at being so far from home and feeling so left out came pouring out through his tears. He hated crying, he felt like it was a weakness, but homesickness mixed in with a feeling of utter helplessness were proving too strong. Did Liverpool even want him? Is that why Steve was so focussed on talking up Michael? Was Steve not talking him up as much because of his injury record? Liverpool had mentioned it a few times already. Maybe they felt Michael was a safer bet. So they can bet on at least one player who won't break down in the next match. Why would they want a player who can't even play two matches in a week? The tears came thick and fast as Stevie buried his head in his sleeves.
He wished he could just go home to where he was comfortable and safe. To where everyone knew him. To where his anxieties weren't blown up to be bigger than they needed to be.
He was so wrapped up in his own misery he didn’t notice the boy who had stopped in front of him.
“Zergatik ari zara negarrez?”
Stevie didn’t look up, he merely hugged his knees closer and tried to stop the tears.
The same voice (it sounded young) spoke again.
This time, Stevie, without lifting his head, mumbled, “Go away.”
But the shadow didn’t move. Instead, it seemed to step a little closer.
“Onde zaude?” the voice tried.
At this, Stevie looked up, scowling, and angrily growled, “I said, leave me alone!”
He was met with the sight of a boy (probably around his age or a little younger) holding a football against his hip. He was wearing a blue kit and jeans with a slight frown. He had sandy brown hair and a freckled face. But it wasn’t his clothes or his hair that caught Stevie’s attention. It was his eyes. He had expected to see eyes mocking him. Instead, these eyes held curiosity and somewhere, maybe a little compassion.
“Porque esta aqui?” the boy asked, this time in Spanish.
Stevie hastily brushed at his tear-streaked face. Feeling more self conscious then he had while sitting with Michael and Steve.
“I haven't a clue what you’re saying.”
The boy frowned. “No hablo ingles.”
Stevie rolled his eyes. “I still don’t know what you’re saying.”
The boy stood in front of him biting his lip. He looked up the street once as though deciding about something.
“You can go now,” Stevie said; he wanted to be left alone in his misery.
But then much to Stevie’s annoyance, the boy sat down next to him.
“No, go away!” Stevie almost whined but the boy just crossed his legs and put his football in his lap.
“Xabi naiz,” he said.
Stevie glared at him. “Are you thick? I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Xabi rolled his eyes and sighed. Then pointing to himself, he said, “Xabi.”
Stevie folded his arms and huffed. “I’m Stevie.”
“Stevie?” the boy (Xabi) repeated.
Stevie nodded and rolled his eyes.
There was silence for a moment in which Xabi absentmindedly played with the football in his lap and Stevie realized that his annoyance with the boy next to him had completely stopped his tears.
“Juegas futbol?” Xabi asked, holding up the football.
Stevie narrowed his eyes a little, “I play footy. If that’s what you’re asking.”
Xabi looked confused.
Stevie put his hand on the football and nodded saying, “Yes, I play football.”
The boy’s eyes lit up, and he clambered to his feet.
“Ven.”
Stevie stared at him.
“Ven,” the boy said, gesturing this time.
Stevie took that to mean he wanted him to come with him but he fact that he just ran off alone in a foreign city was starting to catch up with him. He shouldn’t be going any where with this boy. He was already going to be in so much trouble.
He felt a hand tugging at his arm. Xabi was leaning down and pulling at Stevie’s hand. Stevie started to say “No,” but then relented and stood up.
The boy still didn’t let go of his hand but gave it a little tug and which told him to follow.
Stevie looked back at the direction he had come from, the pitch where he’d been watching with Steve and Michael. He really should go back. But this boy had just light in his eyes, and he was talking about football. Maybe he’d get to play some footy at last!
So they ran of down the street. Xabi led him across streets and through alleys with the same ease Stevie would have done back home. Stevie felt sheer exhilaration course through him as he ran after nearly two days of no real physical activity. Yesterday had been spent with him mum fussing about getting him ready. And today had been spent on the plane and watching the game. No running around, no football. But now, he was sprinting to something familiar. Well, more familiar than say, Basque.
He was wondering how much farther they had to go when he inhaled the cool fresh scent of salt water. They ran around an old church and in front of them was the beach, more beautiful than anything Stevie had ever seen before in his life.
Xabi beckoned to him and Stevie felt his feet sink slightly into the sand as he continued to follow the boy. The sun was high in the sky and beating down on them, but the heat was neutralized by the cool breeze blowing over the ocean.
There were a group of boys who seemed to be waiting for Xabi. Stevie stopped behind Xabi as he started talking to the boys. They seemed to be asking Xabi something but Stevie just quietly stayed behind. Eventually people started splitting off into two groups and it seemed to him like they were picking sides for a football match. He was about to ask which group to be with when he felt Xabi grab his arm and drag him with him to one of the teams.
The game started quickly enough and Stevie was glad for that. The ball was passed around quickly on the sandy surface and there was no time lost in talking. He was pleased to see he was easily one of the better players and was even more pleased to see that Xabi was working so well with him. They weaved expertly in and around all the other kids. Setting each other up for goals. Celebrating each time the ball rolled passed the two jackets they were using as goalposts. Each time Stevie made a run between a few of the kids, Xabi would pick up on it instantly. Stevie smiled widely after he scored his fourth goal and walked over to slap hands with Xabi, something familiar about the boy starting to register. Though he didn't have time to dwell on the thought much longer as play quickly started up again.
Stevie didn’t know how long they played. Some boys would leave, and others would take their place. Slowly the sun went down and more and more boys started to wave and leave. Stevie was a little worried about getting back. But Xabi was still there, running up and down the beach, his hair flopping comically in the early evening sun. So for now, he was okay.
Standing a little behind the play, watching Xabi play a ball across the sand to put someone in on goal, the familiarity of this boy with the floppy hair set in for Stevie. He had watched him earlier in the tournament! Stevie laughed and skipped up to explain his discovery to Xabi, but the conversation didn't get very far. Walking back to their sand drawn center circle, Xabi laughed nervously and Stevie laughed back, rubbing the back of his head. Then another though struck him.
"Antiguoko?" Stevie stuttered, grimacing as he knowingly mispronounced the team's name. He cursed himself for not being able to say it right.
Xabi's face lit up, smirking slightly at Stevie's pronunciation of the team. He corrected him before confirming "Si!".
Stevie nodded, a little red in the face. Xabi smiled again as he patted Stevie's shoulder,
Soon enough however, it was growing darker and Stevie was starting to worry much more. He didn’t know the way back to the hotel. He couldn’t ask Xabi for help since he wouldn’t understand a word he was saying. Staring off towards the direction of the hotel, Xabi seemed to pick up on his thought process. Soon enough Xabi picked up his football and took Stevie’s hand and they were running back through the maze of streets and buildings. It didn’t seem to take as long for them to reach the hotel as it had to reach the beach. But maybe that’s because Stevie didn’t really want to go back to the hotel. They stopped in of the hotel, Xabi still with his football against his hip.
“Thanks,” Stevie said.
Xabi smiled and Stevie grinned back. They both stood there for a moment before Xabi seemed to have gotten an idea.
“Quieres cambiar camisetas?” Xabi asked, pulling at his own shirt a little.
“I don’t know what that means, but do you maybe want to exchange shirts? I mean, just for fun. Like a souvenir or something,” Stevie suggested while looking down and kicking at the ground. He wasn’t sure what made him say it since this was his Barnes strip and he really loved it. But at the same time he wanted to give this boy something. After all, he’d just given him one really good day. Maybe one of the best days that he could remember.
"Swap shirts?" Stevie asked slowly, looking down at his jersey, using his pointer fingers to gesticulate between their two shirts.
Xabi nodded.
"I donno mate." Stevie said slowly, but he looked up into Xabi's eyes and saw the kindness that was radiating from them. Xabi had just made his day, made him feel so much better after Michael and the adults made him feel terrible. He took away the homesickness, and he had heard the player on the back of Xabi's shirt mentioned a few times today. Maybe Ufarte was to Xabi, what Barnes was to Stevie. The young Scouser looked up at his new friend slowly and began to tug off his shirt, watching Xabi do the same. They swapped quickly and both examined their new shirts.
“That’s one of my favorite kits,” Stevie said. “Take good care of it, yeah?”
Xabi nodded even though he didn’t understand a word of what Stevie had just said, though Stevie had a feeling he understood the sentiment.
“Esto es mi camiseta favorita. Ojala que te lo guste.”
Stevie examined the blue and white kit in his hands and saw that on the inside of the collar was the name “Xabi” printed in neat letters. He laughed, apparently all mums were as fussy as Stevie's. Making sure he wouldn't lose his kit by putting his name in it. He smiled at the boy standing opposite him. “Erm, thanks.”
Xabi grinned back and said, “Eskerrik asko.”
Stevie pulled his new kit on over his head. Luckily both him and Xabi were on the small side, so Xabi's shirt fit just fine.
Stevie was about to say good night when a roaring voice interrupted him. Stevie's head whipped round to see a towering figure storming over towards him.
“STEVEN GEORGE GERRARD! Where the HELL have you been?” An Irish voice screamed. Stevie gulped and slowly turned around with his new kit hanging off his shoulders. Steve did not look happy and Michael was stood behind him with a slight smirk on his face, clearly excited for Stevie's story.
“I was with Xabi,” Stevie said, turning to point to the Spaniard, but he was gone.
Stevie looked up the street just in time to see Xabi disappear around a corner, no doubt on his way home.
But Steve wasn’t paying attention and had grabbed Stevie’s arm and was dragging him towards the hotel.
"We've been looking for you all over! How dare you just sneak off like that! Made me feel like a right fool, you did." Steve fumed at him, roughly pulling Stevie into the hotel by the collar of his new kit.
All in all, Stevie couldn't say he really minded. He hid the small smile on his face from Steve. Even if he was in for the bollocking of his life now, the time spent with the odd boy down by the beach had been worth it. It left a warm feeling in his belly. During Steve's long lecture, Stevie let his mind wander and an image of playing in Liverpool's first team with a Spaniard with floppy hair came to the forefront. Michael would still be grabbing the headlines, Stevie was sure, but maybe he'd have Xabi alongside him in midfield, on the same wavelength and there to give him a knowing smile whenever Michael got carried away. Stevie's smile deepened and in turn drew another sharp reprimand from Steve. He let his face fall into a guilty grimace and surrendered fully to whatever punishment he was about to be given.
Hopefully his dad would be understanding enough to buy him another John Barnes kit...
xxx