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It was only November, but with a couple of weeks off football Terzic had invited Mourinho to see a German Christmas market for the first time. Mourinho hadn’t been excited by the idea—he hated cold weather—but he was interested in spending more time with Terzic. The two had met in person at a Weird Managers’ Club dinner, and had started to bond over email and WhatsApp messaging. So Mourinho bundled up in his thickest and warmest coat and let Terzic drag him off to Dortmund’s most famous Christmas market.
So far, Mourinho hadn’t been impressed by most of the market’s more famous tourist attractions. Not the giant Christmas tree in the middle, not the mulled wine, not the stand that sold weird Christmas ornaments shaped like chiseled mermen or ogres or Chinese dancers. What had interested him was the stand selling pretzels, because who didn’t like hot carbohydrates on a freeze-your-butt-off winter day?
Now they were seated at a table, eating from a shared stack of pretzels and drinking hot coffee. They had just seen a random guy dressed up in a Santa costume being chased by about twenty schoolchildren, waving their Christmas wish lists in the air. That had prompted Terzic to take two pieces of holiday-themed writing paper out of his pocket…and pass one to Mourinho.
Mourinho regarded the paper with the special form of distaste he reserved for holiday merchandise. “What the heck am I supposed to do with this?”
Terzic looked up from his own paper, a wide smile stretched across his almost-frozen cheeks. “Aren’t you going to write your letter to Santa?”
“Hell no,” Mourinho said, almost immediately. “I can’t believe you still believe in Santa.”
“I don’t.” Terzic glanced at the schoolchildren mobbing “Santa Claus”. More kids poured in like a swarm of bees, holding up letters, presents, and even younger siblings and pets. “But it’s still kinda fun, right? We have to be serious all the time, we might as well let our inner child loose now.”
“ No.”
“Come on, write the letter!” Terzic dug a pencil out of his pocket and handed it to Mourinho. Upon inspection, Mourinho realized that the eraser was shaped like a tiny bus. “You can even use my special pencil.”
The appeal of a pencil referring to his most glorious tactic was too much to resist. “Fine, but nobody had better catch me doing this or you’re going over my barbecue when we get home.”
Dear Santa,
Do you even exist?
“Nope, no way.” Terzic erased the second line, glaring at Mourinho. “I don’t think Santa will like you questioning his own existence, Jose.”
Mourinho just glared back. “So what? You don’t believe in him, either.”
“But I need to make it look like I believe in him,” Terzic protested, “or I don’t get any goodies.”
“Yeah, good point. Let me try again.” Mourinho let the tip of his pencil hover over the paper as he tried to think.
Dear Santa,
I have been a very good boy this year.
Terzic nearly fell off his chair laughing. “That sounds like Karim wrote it, not you! It needs to sound like you.”
Mourinho shrugged. “You’ll regret it.”
Dear Santa,
Goddamn you.
Terzic shook his head in disapproval. “I didn’t expect anything better from you. But Santa will. Try again.”
Mourinho furiously erased what he’d written and restarted for the fourth time.
Dear Santa,
I have been a very naughty grown man this year. There is no way you will see this sixty year old man calling himself a boy. I’ve done many naughty things and I enjoyed every single moment. DEAL WITH IT.
I enjoyed every red card, every fine, every respect rant. Everything you call naughty, I fully enjoyed it. If you caught me dancing to MC Hammer after every one of our wins, it’s not your forking business. I have long accepted that I am an unapologetically proficient s**thouse, and I am immensely proud of my s**thousery.
For Christmas, I would like you to stop being such a judgmental piece of besteira. So what if some of us are naughty? If everyone was good, there’d be no drama or roasting or juicy secrets or chaotic bulls**t in the world. And plus, I’ve been kind of good—laundry basket sales went up in London after I hid in one to escape a touchline ban.
Yours naughtily,
Jose
Terzic tried not to laugh and failed. “You really let loose this time, Jose. You held nothing back, absolutely nothing.”
“I’m sending this in the mail.” Mourinho proudly checked over his handiwork for errors. “Santa needs to learn that without people like me, there’d be nothing to laugh about.”