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The final whistle hadn’t even blown yet, and Klopp didn’t know what to do. Football-wise, he’d only felt like that a couple of times, and usually, there was still time to salvage something. Now, though…
Last-minute winners for your team were awesome as hell. He knew that. But against your team? Heavens above, they sucked.
After the interviews were over (or rather, after he’d run away from the interviewers), Klopp went to the locker room for the post-match team talk. It was like a grey cloud was hanging over the team. Poor Kelleher was especially distraught, which was something serious in itself; basic sadness was rare for the Irishman, whose heart was usually as light as a feather. Klopp reassured his players that they would figure out what went wrong and that they had a great chance at winning the other two available trophies. But while they’d agreed and perked up considerably, there was a certain something in the air that still hung unresolved.
Klopp stepped outside of the locker room and closed the door, and for a moment a strange sense washed over him. It was as if somebody had yanked him from his colourful, lovably chaotic reality and dropped him into an endless grey void. The only thing he could see was the game replaying in his head, trying to figure out what went wrong. Was it the team's strategy? Or was it just a matter of bad luck?
Do the next right thing. Take a step, step again.
Frozen 2 had certainly been a strange choice for the staff's pre-matchday movie night. But maybe Lijnders was a clairvoyant. Step after step led Klopp to the away office, which was as stark and empty as he felt.
Well, he knew what he wasn't going to do. He wasn't going to run away this time. He'd run away before, and it hadn't worked. It had only made them more afraid of what was going to happen.
He was their leader, the indicator. If he stood firm, they would all line up behind him. If he ran, they would all run away with him. If he looked lost, they would be lost.
He couldn't afford to be lost now. They had a Europa League quarter-final and were second in the Premier League only on goal difference. Some of the players were preparing to come back from injury, while some had international games to play, while still others had much-needed holidays scheduled.
"You know you don't have to stay in the building, right?" Lijnders appeared out of nowhere, holding two paper cups in his hand. "The press conferences are over, we talked to the boys together. You can go outside now, maybe walk a little.”
"I went out to take a walk like, four times last season. I got lost and ended up making the boys worried every time." Klopp set the cup aside, ignoring the fact that it smelled like hot chocolate instead of coffee. "I've got sixty-four days left as manager. I don't want to worry the boys again."
Before either could say anything more, the phone buzzed. It was the WMC group chat.
Jessethe🐐: (to the tune of Rolling In the Deep) DAMN YOUUUUUUUU MAN UUUUUUU LET US CATCH A BREAK
UCan’tTouchMyBus: who’s us
Jessethe🐐: Jurgen, Patrick, the cats and I! The fam, you get it?
ArseneFanTV: hey I’M supposed to say damn you man u
Edin: who let this wrinkled old fossil into the chat?!
UCan’tTouchMyBus: well after Mikel insulted the Porto manager about his deceased mom (RIP) we kicked him out of the chat and we needed a new Arsenal representative
SayWeAreStayingUp: you could’ve gotten Unai
Jessethe🐐: no we couldn’t have, Patrick
ArseneFanTV: nobody wants Unai in the chat
Klopp showed the chat to Lijnders. “Arsene’s in there, too. He’s never going to let us forget this.”
“Well, you’re never going to let yourself forget this, either. And I’m never going to let you forget that we still have a chance at a treble in our final season.” Lijnders pushed the paper cup back towards Klopp until it was touching his hand. “We’ll have two weeks to analyse that match and see what went wrong. So stop forking moping, drink the forking hot chocolate, answer our forking friends, and move the fork on.”
With that, Lijnders left the office to go check on the players. Klopp got up to follow him, but Lijnders steered him back to the desk, claiming that he “needed to take a mental breather”.
TheNormalOne: Welcome to the chat, Arsene!
ArseneFanTV: YOU AGAIN
ArseneFanTV: Last time I ran into you, you denied me an epic comeback win at the Emirates
UCan’tTouchMyBus: about time
ArseneFanTV: DAAAAAAAMN YOUUUUUUU JOSE!!!
Jessethe🐐: While those two wrinkled, overripe, fossilised onions argue about the Stone Age, you okay J?
UCan’tTouchMyBus: no, because Arsene’s in the chat
TheNormalOne: well…I’m in one piece and alive, so that’s a plus
SayWeAreStayingUp: is the bar in hell?!
ClubAmerica: that’s called counting the little victories, Patrick
ClubAmerica: we do it all the time in Chelsea
ArseneFanTV: Because when it comes to the big victories, you drop like dead flies?
ClubAmerica: oh, go create another utterly irrelevant European competition with FIFA again
Edin: like the Conference League?
UCan’tTouchMyBus: siuuuu
Edin: no offense Yuri, but aren’t you usually with your boys right now?
TheNormalOne: I talked to them after the match, and told them to get some good rest and everything. I wanted to go see them again, but Pep went instead
TheNormalOne: He says I need to “take a mental break”
Jessethe🐐: he’s right 👍 self-care is important
TheNormalOne: like you crashing my house so we can both have a night in while getting drunk? 😉.
ArseneFanTV: Jesus Christ Jurgen your age is showing in the chat
ClubAmerica: Your age is showing in your face and mile-deep wrinkles
UCan’tTouchMyBus: Your trophy allergy is showing 😜
Jessethe🐐: Your attacking allergy is showing 😜
SarcasticMilner: and your defending allergy is showing, Jesse, so stfu
Jessethe🐐: WHAT THE-
SarcasticMilner: as for you, boss, take that walk in nature. Who knows? You might find a new inspiration
TheNormalOne: For some reason, it seems like you know what you’re talking about 🤨.
SarcasticMilner: 🤐 I will reveal nothing 😤
SarcasticMilner: Now, as your Yorkie Best Player Friend Forever AND your former vice-captain, I command you to TAKE A WALK
*
There was a reason Klopp had written his college thesis about walking. There were a lot of good things, but for him, the best thing about walking was the movement. If the surroundings were plain enough, he found that his mind drifted after a few minutes. It was almost like travelling out of his body.
A bird, probably a nightjar, called softly from a tree. The wind rustled through the trees’ limbs, then blew through his hair, sending it every which way. He could already feel the beginnings of a classic “tornado hair” incident, and a painful future of detangling his hair and counting the hairs that had been pulled out.
Step. Step. Step. His mind still hadn’t calmed or settled. He’d run away again. Was it running away if he’d left a note for the team and posted it on Van Dijk’s room door, saying that he was just going to Kenworthy Woods and that he’d be back soon and there was nothing for them to worry about?
He loved the constants in the squad. Robertson calling out to Salah at the top of his lungs every morning, pouncing upon him from nowhere. The Anime Club’s watch sessions every Tuesday. Alisson hugging somebody every three hours or less. Tsimikas trying to sneak into the Latino Reds, and the good-natured jokes of “speak Spanish, then!” before bringing him into the discussion. But his old constants were all gone, either from this earth or from his life.
What comes then, when it’s clear that everything will never be the same again?
You’ve got to stand up straight, and carry your own weight. Those tears are going nowhere, baby…
He shook the thought quickly from his head and continued walking. A duck led its group of young ducklings out of the lake, only disappearing into the bulrushes when all the ducklings were out of the water.
Stop, his aching feet begged him. He obliged, collapsing under a tree near the lake. He checked his watch, and the numbers 21:00 flashed back at him in bright digital blue. He’d walked for almost a full hour and a half without stopping.
He leant against the trunk, feeling the rough bark behind his head. He inhaled the scent—cypress, with hints of chestnut and buttercups. It was woody, spicy, and oddly familiar; but when he looked around, he couldn’t see any chestnuts hanging off the trees or buttercups dotted in the grass.
Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. Klopp closed his eyes, crossing his legs so that one was on top of the other. That’s when he heard the violin.
The familiar tune was almost like a hum, weaving through the mist and settling instead of piercing it. It was clearly being played by a more experienced player rather than an amateur. But every time the melody seemed to be establishing itself, a note was shifted or the key transposed to a minor where it was supposed to be major, or a sharp where it was supposed to be flat. Slowly, the intrigue pulled him to stand, blindly stumbling into the inky mist.
Klopp didn’t know where he was supposed to be walking, or why he was even following the violin’s melody. All he knew was that he had to follow the melody. One step after the other led him away from the cypress tree with no sense of clear direction. The darkness and the mist did not combine well for Klopp’s sense of balance, and he tripped over several stones and logs. One even landed him in a creek, filled with lily pads and bulrushes.
“That’s it, buddy!” Klopp shouted into the mist. He grasped a nearby tree root and pulled himself out of the water, shaking dragonfly larvae and minnows out of his hat. “I’m done following you, it’s over! What’s the point of looking for you if you just keep leading me to fall every single time? I’m finished with you, I’m giving up! I’m going to turn around this instant and walk away, and I’m never looking back, not ever again!”
He leant against the tree, trying to catch his breath. He could almost feel his insides bubbling over with…well, everything. Frustration, disappointment, anger, the whole gamut. They hazed his inner vision just like the mist hazed his outer vision—quietly, but thickly.
Wait a minute. Quietness wasn’t supposed to even be there. Klopp strained to hear the violin again, but was met with nothing.
“Come on, talk, you coward! If you’re going to lead me all this way for you, maybe you should speak up!”
“Hello darkness, my old friend—”
Klopp screamed, scrambling up the tree. The branch he chose was strong but also highly elastic, and it launched him off the tree and into the air. He landed face-down into yet another river, this one being filled with little pebbles and worms.
“—I’ve come to talk with you again.” The voice was louder now, and seemed even closer. And…it was recognizable.
Klopp almost teleported to the river bank, ignoring how his jacket was dripping wet. Picking up his hat from a drifting lily pad, he began to run across the grass.
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams, I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
He slipped on the wet grass beneath his sneakers and fell over, but not before seeing what was in front of him. Beneath an almost identical cypress tree to the one he’d been underneath earlier, sat none other than Buvac. Holding a violin in one hand and a bow in the other, and looking straight at him.
Straight…?
SHUT UP, MIND!
*
“Zel…it’s you.” Klopp finally managed to find words, but then screamed, slamming into the ground so hard that he could hear the echoes in the air. “What the fork?! We’re reuniting for the first time in years and that sounded so lame! Ugh, where’s the nearest volcano? I need to launch myself in there and burn—”
“No, you don’t.” Buvac rested his violin and bow on top of the large suitcase next to him. He knelt down on the moss-like grass, reaching a hand out to Klopp. “I left without a proper explanation or goodbye, then ignored you for years. I’m the one who should go burn in a fire.”
“You were in our WMC chats.” Klopp took Buvac’s hand and allowed him to pull him off the ground. His hand was the same way as he remembered; calloused on the fingertips, but soft around the palm. “You didn’t entirely ignore me.”
This is not the time to point out how he’s still following your moisturising advice.
He let go of his hand as soon as he was up, and that was when the awkwardness washed over in floods. For a moment both of them just stood there, not knowing what to do next, until Klopp trapped Buvac in a hug.
“I missed you.”
“No kidding, genius.”
“You were gone for six years.” Klopp pulled away from Buvac and slapped him hard on the arm. His own hands shook until they found his hat, gripping it tightly. “We spent six whole years wondering why you’d left, wondering why you never came back. Why didn’t you just respond to one of my freakin’ letters, or emails, or anything? Why didn’t you clear things up in a press conference or something, instead of privet -ing with your sporting director buddies? Why weren’t you there?”
Buvac clutched his arm, wincing when he pressed against where Klopp had slapped him. “That hurt.”
“Your departure hurt more.”
“I know, I know, and believe me, I feel guilty. But I’m here now.” Buvac tapped the suitcase next to him. It was dark blue, stood at 1.2 metres, and was obviously packed to the brim. “And Dynamo’s on international break, too, so you might be happy to know that I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
"You'll be here.” Klopp repeated to himself in disbelief. He launched upon Buvac and hugged him again, burying his face into the older man's sweater. “You'll be here with us. With me."
Buvac nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was the same smile Klopp had dreamt of seeing again for the past half a decade. “I can’t stay here and never go back again, but I will be here. And I know I have a lot to make up for, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make things right. I've also brought something for you. It's a surprise, but I think you'll like it."
Klopp raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What is it?"
Buvac shook his head, still smiling. "You'll have to wait and see. But for now, let's just catch up. I want to know everything that's happened since I left."
Klopp finally released Buvac from his arms, checking his watch. "We have to get back to the hotel. Come on, our boys are waiting for us."
"Don't you mean your boys?"
"No, Zel. Our boys."
And so they talked. They talked about the new training ground, Buvac's new job, the differences between Russia and England. They talked about the new staff and players, the flowers outside, and even the basements.
As the mist began to clear and the hotel came within sight on the horizon Klopp couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. Maybe things wouldn't go back to the way they were before Buvac left, but that didn't mean they couldn't build something new together.
He looked over at Buvac, who was now playing a soft melody on his violin, and smiled. Maybe the sound of silence wasn't so bad after all.