Work Text:
The Last Week
On Monday, Firmino and Fabinho watched Liverpool and Aston Villa draw 3-3 in a chaotic game. It was as avoidable as it was poetic, considering that Klopp had drawn his first away game with Liverpool, but for some reason that didn't seem to sink into Firmino.
"Hello?" Firmino pressed the call button over and over again. The pressing morphed into stabbing as he pushed it over and over again. "Answer the phone! Peluche! Vamos, responda!"
"Va dormir." Fabinho rolled onto his side, watching his roommate struggle with his phone at one in the morning. "Are you still trying to call Ali?"
Firmino nodded, although it was so dark in the room that Fabinho could barely see it. "He'll pick up soon, just give him some time."
Fabinho shook his head, tossing the blanket back over him. It had been Firmino's idea to gather the former Premier League players into one big house—the Saudi Mansion. But between Henderson going to the Netherlands, travel distances between clubs, and plain old disagreements and conflicting personalities, things had fallen apart. Now only Firmino and Fabinho lived together, sharing a house smack in the middle of Jeddah.
Fabinho had moved to Jeddah primarily to be with Firmino, who he feared would be too lonely if left alone, and the events of the last ten months had proved him right. They didn't have all their friends, nor all their families, but they had each other, and they had memories, and that would never change.
That was the philosophy Fabinho and Firmino had lived by for nearly a year. Philosophies, Fabinho quickly found, were ways of life; but, if not backed by sufficient return, quickly grew into a state of delusion.
"It's not going to work, Bobby. Nothing's going to work now. There will be no magic phone call, million-dollar question, secret key, deus ex machina, or group song that saved the world. The boss ran out of energy, he said it himself. He's given up on himself, and it's rubbing off. Ali and the others know it, our ex-teammates know it, even I know it. So I don't understand why you can't comprehend that it's over! No matter how much you hold on to memory, things will never be the same again. We'll never play with Ali again, Hendo will never love us the same way again, and the boss will never have the same energy and hope again. The good old days were wonderful. Those five years we spent playing together in England were some of the best days of my life. But they're good, old days. You know what that means? They're never going to happen again. So stop trying to call Ali, stop believing that something will magically come out of nowhere to give us a push for second place, and go to sleep."
There was silence for what felt like a long time. When Firmino did respond, he sounded so broken that Fabinho almost regretted speaking.
“But I loved the good old days.”
“Hey, I did too. Let’s get some sleep, okay? We have a flight to catch in a couple of days.”
“I know…”
*
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite, Jayden.”
“You too, Jarell. Goodnight, Wataru.”
“What’s good about it?! Night, Ibou.”
“Night, Waru. Night, Ali.”
“I wish it was morning already. Sleep well, Kostas.”
“Bold of you to assume I will sleep. See you in the morning, my love.”
“Why wait until morning, querido? Night, Adrian.”
“Night, Romeo. Enjoy the time with your f—”
“CALLATE, ADRIAN!!!”
And they slept. All they could do was sleep, because Aston Villa had left them drained, physically and mentally. The mental part had less to do with Villa and more with the fact that reality was catching up with them.
Klopp was about to leave. Klopp, who to some was the only manager they’d ever known, would be leaving. He’d changed all of their lives, and in less than a week it would be over. This would be his final time waking up in the hotel for an away game, bumping into the jammed elevator before deciding to take the stairs and falling down them anyway.
On Tuesday, when everybody was back at Kirkby, the players began to plan an event that had floated around them for the past three and a half months. Instead of going down to their traditional planning basement, as they’d done on many occasions, they opened up a group chat.
Virgil: right, is everybody here
AdventurerJoel: OOH THAILAND DON’T YOU KNOW HOW I ROLL
AdventurerJoel: here I am ✋
Virgil: JOEL WHYYYYYYYY
Virgil: now I know how Ali felt with Bobby, you’re my original BFF Joel
Virgil: you and Gini, but Gini left a while ago
Robbo: at least you’ll get to see Gini in the Euros 😃
Virgil: yeah
Virgil: but let’s not get sidetracked! Everybody who’s here, raise your chat hand
Ali: ✋ here but barely hanging on
SiSenor: ✋
Flaco: ✋and we’ll be PHYSICALLY here on Sunday
Ali: YES it’s been so long
Thiago: Bobby and Flaco came here in January
TheGreekScouser: still, too long
Gini: ✋ me too!
Cody: JAAAAAAAA ✋
O’Ryan: EURO 2024 DREAM TEAM ✋
Trentski: where’s Domi?
Robbo: apparently in a team meeting with the Hungarians 🙄
Trentski: 🙄 must be nice to know your international team wants you ✋
Conor: ✋ at least I’m here
WhiteShadow: come on, even Trey’s here ✋
Trey: WHAT THE-
Trey: ✋
Ederson: ✋
Adrian: ✋ EDI?!
Kells: ✋ you’re coming, too?
Ederson: of course I’m coming, Klopp cared more for me—me the human, not me the player—than Guardiola sometimes
MartinO: ✋ that’s why I’m here too
MartinO: and btw Edi we are NEVER EVER EVER going to dinner together
Ederson: agreed, that was crazy
Dannsy: ✋ huh?
Ali: don’t worry about it
Lucho: ✋
Diogoal: ✋
Harvey: ✋
Divvy: ✋
Taki: ✋
Naby-lad: ✋
Dejan: ✋
Joey: ✋
Wataru: ✋
Xherdan: ✋
Simon: ✋
Loris: ✋
Adz: ✋
SarcasticMilner: ✋ GOOD MORNING SUCKERS
Fabio: ✋
Marcinho: ✋
Calvin: ✋
CuJo: ✋
Sepp: ✋
NattheGreat: ✋
Jarell: ✋
Ibou: ✋
Alex: ✋
Darwizzy: 👌
Lexi: ✋ MARTINNNNNNNNN
Lexi: and darwin wth??
Darwizzy: oh ✋ sorry guys, I missed again
EgyptianKing: ✋ well that is not a first
Darwizzy: you’re one to talk
SiSenor: GUYS! Let’s have some peace
JesseDaCanada🐐: ✋ factos!! After all, we’re here to plan the farewell party
Stefanito: ✋ yeah, Tio Thiago, Joel and Adrian are technically leaving on the 30th of June so we’ll have their party after, but this one is for the coaching staff
Ali: HOLD ON TAFFA’S LEAVING TOO?!
Taffa01: ✋ no, my old bones are staying put 😂 that’s why I’m here
Jose: ✋ wait, WHY AM I HERE!!! THIS IS DISRESPECTFUL
Edin: ✋ well, I’m here because Jurgen gave me a lot of advice for managing Dortmund, especially the older players
JesseDaCanada🐐: and I’m here because Jurgen’s my 2nd BFF!!! after Patrick of course
SayWeAreStayingUp: ✋ 😁
JesseDaCanada🐐: plus, I’m going to be giving Pep and Vitor advice about coaching Salzburg
Virgil: Okay, is everybody FINALLY here?
Zel62: ✋ HERE!!!!
Zel62: I know, I know, I’ve not been the best friend in history, but I still want to help
Loris: oh hi Master B!
Zel62: hi Loris 👋
Loris: I missed you 🥺
JesseDaCanada🐐: RIGHT!!! First, let’s update on the news
Thiago: FINALLY
TheGreekScouser: THIAGO AND I ARE ENGAGED, GUYS!!!
JesseDaCanada🐐: STEFAN HARVEY IBOU TREV CONGRATULATIONS!!!!
Thiago: we told Stefi already and Adrian knows, but the rest of you don’t
Jose: congratulations
Robbo: WOOOOOWWWW!!!
Adrian: I KNEW HE’D SAY YES
Ali: 🥹 that’s so sweet
Edin: wow, you two moved fast 🤣
O’Ryan: RAMI AND VIC NEXT
Cody: YEAH
Jarell: I’LL BE THE FLOWER BOY
Marcinho: no I WANT TO BE THE FLOWER BOY
Ali: MARCELO ARAÚJO PITALINHO FILHO DON’T YOU DARE
Darwizzy: Ronald?
Lucho: no Darwin, Thiago y Kostas están comprometidos para casarse
Darwizzy: 😍 SIIIIIIIIIII
SarcasticMilner: Are we surprised? 😒
SarcasticMilner: no seriously you two, congrats
Adz: 😭
Ali: what’s wrong Adam?
Adz: thinking of what Jordie and I could’ve had if he hadn’t moved to Straightland AKA Saudi
SiSenor: aw Adam
SiSenor: don’t worry, there are other people around that’ll take you
Robbo: Like Milly 😉
SarcasticMilner: OI SHUT UP
Taffa01: awwwww that’s so sweet!
JesseDaCanada🐐: yessss!!!! Can I do a keg stand at the wedding
Thiago: EFF NO
TheGreekScouser: please mi amor?
Thiago: okay fine, but only because Kostas is hot when he talks in Spanish
CuJo: can we PLEASE get some other news? I mean I’m happy for you two but GET A ROOM
JesseDaCanada🐐: well, I’m coaching the Canadian national team now
Jose: and nobody gives a single fork
Marcinho: St. Paddys are above the relegation zone, which is more than I can say for Muriel and Vitoria
Ali: congratulations, now LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE
Jose: and nobody gives a single fork
SiSenor: Al-Ahli is in third
Flaco: Al-Ittihad's in fifth
Gini: Al-Ettifaq is in sixth
Ali: oh nice work you guys!!!
Jose: and nobody gives a single fork
Adz: I’m leaving Brighton
SarcasticMilner: I HAVE SIGNED ANOTHER DEAL WITH THE FRIGGIN’ BRIGHTON
Jose: and nobody gives a single fork
Virgil: can we PLEASE get to the topic?
SarcasticMilner: I’ve got this
SarcasticMilner: OI EVERYBODY SHUT UP!!!
Virgil: Thank you
Virgil: Now, as you see, this party will serve many purposes. Besides being a goodbye party to most of the coaching staff, it also serves a retirement/sabbatical party of sorts for the boss and Pete Krawietz, a fare-well-in-future-endeavours party for Jack and the Andreases, and a good-luck-at-your-next-job party for John Achteberg, who’s going to Al-Ettifaq, and for Pep Lijnders and Vitor Matos, who are both going to coach Salzburg
Gini: YES I get to hang out with Johnny again!
JesseDaCanada🐐: OMG Pep is going to be part of the WMC
Virgil: so who’s in charge of the guest list?
MartinO: I’m an amateur wedding planner, so I’m kind of used to managing guest lists
MartinO: I’ll do it
Lexi: I’m good at keeping lists, so I’ll help Martin
Trentski: you just want to hang out with your boyfriend
Lexi: you would too if Domi wasn’t a no-show
SarcasticMilner: Trentski’s been around for a while, so he can help, too, along with me
Virgil: it’s settled—Martin, Alexis, Trent and James on invitations
Virgil: Adrian, Kostas, Ibou, Bobby, and Lucho, you guys are on music
SiSenor: ALRIGHT
TheGreekScouser: this is going to be so SLAY, man!
Thiago: wait wait wait
Thiago: if Lucho’s on the music team, then who’s going to help me with cooking?!
Mona: I will, silly
Stefanito: I can help too, I’ve been learning from you, Tio!
TheGreekScouser: aw thanks lil’ man
Thiago: I think he meant me, I love you but you’ve managed to burn ice cubes
Edin: HOW?!
Lucho: I think I’ll get on the cooking team instead, we need a lot more people for cooking than music
Darwizzy: I’ll be on music!
Adrian: that’s… not a bad idea
Virgil: okay update! Martin, Alexis, Trent, and James on invitations; Adrian, Kostas, Ibou, Bobby, and Darwin on music, and Mona, Thiago, Stefan and Lucho on food
Flaco: That’s still five to four
Flaco: I’ll help cook
Ali: but you’re coming from Saudi Arabia 🙁 shouldn’t you relax?
Flaco: You, Bobby and I can all grill together
Ali: SIUUUUUUUU
SiSenor: SIUUUUUUUU
Virgil: I was actually going to put Ali on decorations
Ali: then I’ll do that too
Xherdan: isn’t that a little too much to do?
Ali: we need everything we can get
Robbo: PUT ME ON ENTERTAINMENT
Virgil: fine, Robbo, Joel, and Wataru on entertainment
Diogoal: then prepare to snooze XD
Wataru: I’m sorry, would you like Virgil to put you in charge of greeting the guests?
Diogoal: NO SOCIALISATION
WhiteShadow: you’re socialising now
Diogoal: yeah, but this is different from standing at the door and pasting on this smile, like ‘hello, please come in’ as if they didn’t already have FREAKING INVITATIONS
Fabio: lol
Virgil: Harvey, you’re on entertainment
Harvey: I find that offensive
Harvey: with my muscles, I should be lifting heavy stuff like the strong man that I am
Virgil: Okay then, James, Mo and Harvey on “strong-man lifting”
Kells: what do I do?
Conor: sit there and look pretty
Kells: 😳
Ali: I can help on the lifting and carrying crew
Marcinho: EVERYBODY’S FORGETTING DECORATIONS!!!!
TheGreekScouser: and who’s gonna bring the drinks?!
EgyptianKing: not me
Emre: he’s got a point
Virgil: fine, Ali on lifting and carrying crew as well
Cody: I’ll decorate!
O’Ryan: I’ll decorate too
Cody: what decoration, your room would be as boring as a sheet of paper if I wasn’t there
Virgil: QUIET EVERYONE!!!!!!
Virgil: let me list out the teams, and this is FINAL
Virgil: Decoration team—Cody, Jarell, Jayden, Trey, Bobby Clark, (okay, generally most of the youth players) Kweev, and myself
Virgil: Music team—Adrian, Kostas, Ibou, Joey, and Darwin
Virgil: Invitation team—Martin, Alexis, Trent, and James
Virgil: Cooking team—Mona, Thiago, Stefan, Flaco, Bobby Firmino (only because they want to) Ali and Lucho
Virgil: Entertainment team—Robbo, Wataru, Joel, Diego, and CuJo
Virgil: Moving team—James, Harvey, Ali, and Nat
Virgil: Greeting guests—Master P
Virgil: sounds good?
AdventurerJoel: yeah
Ali: LET’S DO THIS
SarcasticMilner: I like it
SiSenor: YEAH
Jose: This is footballing heritage
SarcasticMilner: Nobody asked your old flank if this was footballing heritage
Trentski: let’s do this! For the gaffers
Dannsy: FOR THE GAFFERS
Kells: FOR THE GAFFERS
Adrian: FOR THE GAFFERS
(Everybody has left the chat.)
*
On Wednesday, the office started to grow empty for the first time since Kirkby had been built.
“So…Salzburg, huh?” Klopp leaned back in his office chair, counting pens with a knowing smirk written across his face. “Oh, Pep, you sure know how to get deals done.”
“It’s nothing, just a few phone calls here and there and then a recommendation letter from Jesse.” Lijnders taped another box of office supplies shut. Initially, he’d feared Klopp’s response to hearing that he’d agreed to start coaching Salzburg and was taking Vitor Matos with him, but his best friend had responded with nothing but pride and excitement. Immediately, Klopp had started packing boxes, and Lijnders had joined him. “I’m sure that anybody could coach Salzburg well.”
“Don’t say that! Marco tried and got fired, and Jesse tried but didn't get very far. You and Vitor are taking a really brave step forward." Klopp held up a solar hula-dancer bobblehead doll. "Do you want to toss this? I know it was an April Fool's Day joke from John."
"Keep it. It'll remind us of him." Lijnders took a drawing off the whiteboard, smiling at the crayoned flowers and footballs taking up about sixty per cent of the paper. It was a birthday card from Florrie. "I still can't believe he's going to Saudi Arabia."
"He'll be with the other boys, no? And they can all take care of each other." Klopp caught a glimpse of the card, and a bittersweet mist fell over his eyes. "Florrie gave you that this year, right?"
Lijnders shook his head. "Last year. She felt bad that I didn't have a party the year before and tried to make up for it."
"Florrie's a tender soul, but she takes too much responsibility for a five-year-old. It isn't her fault we didn't have a party for you in 2022."
"It's not your fault, either."
"How do you always know when I'm about to blame myself?"
"Because you've done it so much that I know the signs.”
"I think that you're gifted. Speaking of gifts, I've got one for you!" Klopp took Lijnders' hands in one of his own. "Close your eyes."
Lijnders closed his eyes, but he already knew what the round, soft object was as soon as it landed in his hand. Upon looking down at what he was holding, the white, mystical bird stared back at him, wings outstretched as if ready to fly. "You're giving me your hat?"
"I think you can see that."
"But this is your boss's hat!"
"Pep, you're going all the way to Austria to coach, while I'll be on sabbatical." Klopp took the hat and gently placed it onto Lijnders' head, brushing a wayward tuft of his blond hair to the side. "I think it's about time this hat had a new owner."
Lijnders looked at his reflection in the mirror and nearly jumped out of his skin. It wasn't exactly in a physical sense, but with the hair sticking out from under the baseball cap, the energetic smile, the cardboard box filled with everything from office files to little hula-dancer bobblehead dolls—
Good lord, he looked like Klopp.
"Enough staring into space, okay? We'll do enough of that on Sunday." Klopp came out of nowhere, holding two mugs of coffee. Lijnders shook his head in amusement; how did Klopp always know when he was going to lose composure, and how did he know whether to cheer him up or let him cry it out? "How about a toast, huh? Before we finish packing up the office."
Lijnders took the mug and inhaled. Rich Arabica bean, unaltered by creamer and sweetened by the slightest touch of salted caramel. It felt right, just like the past eight and a half years had gone.
"To my boss, best friend, and work-brother. To the only one who knows all my seasonal coffee preferences, plays 'Sir Duke' at nine in the morning to shake me out of my own head, and didn't macerate me when I shared some vital club secrets in my book. To the guy that puts up with my grumpiness in the mornings, my half-true, half-overexcited rants about the academy boys, and my annoying yet relevant calls for him to take a break and get some therapy."
"I don't need therapy!"
"Oh, come on, we both know that's not true. You need so much psychotherapy that John Barnes refused to take you because you had so much to go through."
"Everybody needed me here, so I didn't have time."
"Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to get some during your year off."
"Whatever.” Klopp raised his own mug, which looked more like a mug of hot chocolate than actual coffee. “To my work brother, who followed me to Weird Managers' Club meetings and stayed behind to watch the boys when I had to make diplomatic trips around the footballing grounds. To my vice-manager, who went into the academy every week to look for talent and came out bearing the great gifts that are Trent, Harvey and all the other academy boys. To the man who listened to all my crazy stories from the Pleistocene era, including the one about Vardy almost setting King Power on fire, and who listened to my dreams. And most of all, to my best friend.”
Lijnders nearly dropped his coffee. “I'm your best friend? But what about Jesse, or David, or the rest of the Weird Managers' Club? What about Zeljko?"
"Who says you can't have more than one best friend? I've certainly been long enough to know that you can have more than one.” Klopp chuckled, but Lijnders noticed it was more wry than amused. “Zel was one of my first and oldest friends, and we had some really good times together. But when he left...you stayed. You were the one who was there for me, the one who listened to my rants and insisted I take breaks and actually sleep and eat at normal times. You checked on me during lockdown, you helped me design Kirkby so we could all live together, and you made me laugh when I thought I'd never smile again. You cared for me, Pep. That's why you're my best friend."
*
On Thursday, the players, ex-players, friends of the team, and staff had a barbeque. It was less formal than the party on Sunday would be, which would be held after the last game of the season, but that didn't mean it was any less chaotic.
Alisson, Fabinho, Firmino, Bajcetic, and Diaz were in charge of the grill, which was a full-time job considering how many people there were. Thiago tried to join them, but Tsimikas pulled him away, claiming that Thiago couldn't attend his own farewell on Sunday if he managed to set himself on fire. Instead, the fiancés involved themselves in a chess match against Robertson and Alexander-Arnold, which would've been an immediate frapping if Robertson wasn't busy watching a certain Egyptian splash around with the kids in an inflatable wading pool.
Nemmer, who’d originally been listed on the cooking team for the party preparation, had wanted to help with the grilling as planned, but for the past few days, the smell of any kind of meat cooking had made her nauseous, which only added to her fatigue. After Bajcetic, Diaz, and the three Brazilians insisted that she get some rest, Nemmer sat on the wooden garden swing that Klopp had carved last year, chatting with Milner about some new Indonesian tempeh recipes that she wanted to try.
Ederson, who'd seemed awkward when he first showed up at the door, was now conversing comfortably with the other keepers. He'd claimed that he had only attended the party because he was injured and Guardiola didn't want him around, but Klopp suspected that the Brazilian was lonely.
The Double Dutch raced each other to climb Friedhelm, up and down and back up again. Quansah and Bradley lounged on beach chairs, holding hands as they watched their more chaotic peers run around like crazy electrons. A mini FIFA tournament—Jota still refused to call his favourite video game anything else—had been set up in one part of the yard. The loser of each round had to perform a forfeit, and that's why Nunez was “speaking” via mime, Bobby Clark was wearing a fruit hat, and Konate was stuck speaking Shakespearean English for the next ten minutes. Judging by how Carvalho, who’d driven the three-hour distance from Hull to Merseyside to attend, was jumping around and muttering under his breath as a grinning Elliott watched on from the other chair, it seemed like he would be the latest to get knocked out.
Klopp watched on from the back door, thankful that, even if for a moment, he wasn’t the centre of attention. After several speeches dedicated to him and many, many cards and letters sent from those who couldn’t make it in person, he was ready to take a break and fade into the background.
"Jurgen! The Double Dutch glitter-bombed Virgil and me while we were talking. Now I know how he feels." Buvac walked towards Klopp, shaking bright pink glitter out of his dark brown hair. "What are you doing all the way back here? This is your farewell barbeque, get on the dance floor or something!"
"You know me, Zel. I hate being the centre of attention, and everybody's made me exactly that for the whole week." Klopp narrowly dodged a water balloon from the water balloon fight that had broken out among the kids and teenagers. "Pep and Vitor are about to go on an adventure in Salzburg, Johnny's taking a long-needed break, Thiago's leaving...there are so many things happening here, and for some reason, I seem to be the centre of it all no matter how much I try to shift the spotlight towards everyone else."
"And you feel guilty about it, don't you? You should've known." Buvac leaned on the wall next to Klopp, a wry smile on his face. "I know I'm not one to talk, but you came before almost everybody else here did. And you've got to remember that those who were here before were utter bull before you made them believe."
"Why does everyone keep saying that no matter how many times I tell them that belief starts on a personal level?!"
"Because it's true, man!" Marsch dived off a tree branch onto a trampoline, cartwheeling to the porch with his usual goofy grin. He raised a can of Budweiser in the air, nearly spilling beer foam onto an extremely unimpressed Buvac. "To our bright, brilliant future! And to me coaching the Canada national team!”
"Which will become the Canadian national kindergarten gym class with you in charge." Buvac took five giant footsteps away from Marsch as if his enthusiasm was contagious. "But yeah, I get it."
"Oh yeah, you get it. Which is the exact opposite of what happened with you and any head managerial job!"
Klopp, meanwhile, couldn't help but laugh at seeing Buvac and Marsch avoid each other like the plague. "Come on, I think Jesse will be a good coach! Nobody thought you'd be a good sporting director, Zel, but look at your team now. I think you two have more in common than you think."
Buvac and Marsch stopped arguing and glanced at each other for three seconds before speaking.
"No way! I'm never going to get along with this relic!"
"Never in my life! Keep me away from your millennial buddies!"
"Oh, but you have to get along. Jesse will be in contact with Pep to give him coaching tips, and Zel will be giving Vitor tips on being an assistant manager."
"WHAT?!" both yelled at the same time.
*
On Friday morning, Alisson went missing. Adrian, who'd been the first to notice that Alisson wasn't in his room, didn't want to worry anyone, so he searched for Alisson by himself. After a few minutes, he found him on the sidewalk near the front lawn, a grey cloud all but hanging directly over his head.
“A little early for thinking so hard, isn’t it?” Adrian tried to lighten the mood as he approached Alisson. Any talk of delaying breakfast could wait until later. “I’m surprised your eyes haven’t become completely blue from all that staring into space.”
Alisson took his gaze off the milky blue skies above, but his own eyes were nowhere near as clear and sunny. “I don’t want him to leave. N-not again.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow. Alisson could be ambiguous with his words sometimes, but he’d never been this unclear. “The boss never left us before.”
“You know what I mean.”
Oh. Oh. “He’s left for summer break before. Remember the Covid lockdown?”
“Yeah, only then we knew he was going to come back. But we’ve only got one more game together, then he’s out the door for good. That office won’t be his again, this team is never going to be his again. We won’t have his jokes, or his hugs, or his old stories and advice.”
“I remember when we used to get annoyed by those old stories. It was like he never stopped telling them.”
“I wish I’d let him tell more of them. I wish I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That, without him, I wouldn’t have healed the way I did. If anyone else but the boss was here in 2021, I probably would’ve gone crazy with grief. I love him, I…I need him.”
“I do, too. They would’ve thrown me out if the boss hadn’t brought me here.. Those mistakes I made, he should’ve given up on me. He didn’t, and…I found another family here. One that loves me not just for my saves, but for myself.”
“Family should always love you for yourself. You’re great, Adri, you’re always so cheery and supportive of everyone here.”
“So are you. You listen to everyone and always want to help us feel better, even if you’re not okay.”
“The boss is the same way. It’s like he left a bit of him in all of us.” A wry, yet amused chuckle escaped Alisson, and Adrian felt more at ease knowing that the younger keeper hadn’t fallen too deep into a mental hole.
“Virgil would rather eat a frog than let others know he’s suffering.”
“Thiago can fall over a shoelace and walk a balance beam in the same day.”
“Joel’s always trying to cheer us up no matter how he feels.”
“Milly would take twenty bruises to his ribs if it meant protecting anyone in here.”
“Waru defies expectations in his very existence and position.”
“Robbo’s jokes are so corny that you can’t help but laugh.”
“Kostas couldn’t dance in public to save his life.”
“What do you mean in public—oh, never mind, I probably don’t even want to know.”
“Trust me, you do not.”
“Ibou loves everyone here.”
“So do I.”
“We all do. I just hope the new manager does too.”
Adrian nodded, sitting next to Alisson on the sidewalk. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the air from Thiago opening the window. “Even if he doesn’t, which I doubt will happen because the boss wouldn’t be so comfortable about it, we’ll still love each other.”
“Love can’t do anything.” Alisson smiled at Adrian, some of the brightness of the day rubbing off on him. “But it breathes life into so many things.”
*
On Saturday, every movement was an anomaly, a stark contrast to the norm around Kirkby. Normally Saturdays were busy and full of life, whether it was a match day or the day before a match, but this particular Saturday felt more like a funeral than a weekend. Even the children were still and solemn, despite the adults’ efforts to cheer them up; perhaps their own solemnity rubbed off onto the youngsters, or it was the other way around. Nonetheless, the whole place felt still, like a coastal fog in the spring.
Van Dijk, who couldn’t stand the stillness, tried to move around the building to prevent his mind from slipping into the fog. Walking felt too quick-paced and intrusive upon the atmosphere, so, slowly and deliberately, he danced.
Tendu. A stretch. A deceptively calm day, a clear sky. A bird, small and innocent, singing on a frail branch.
He looked out the window, then through the one-way frosted glass of the office doors. There was practically nobody around to see him. Good. Nobody, not even his most trusted teammates, could see him like this, in an adagio, self-composed ballet through the foggy training ground.
First position. A pose. Unnatural to the human body, elegant from an outsider’s view.
The Double Dutch walked by, subdued. Normally they’d be laughing at one of Robertson’s stupid memes. He hurriedly tried to shuffle his feet around the hall pretending to be busy. If anybody asked, he was outside Klopp’s office solely on captain’s duties.
Plie. A push, smoothly yet uncomfortably into a forced situation.
Van Dijk stopped to think about how ridiculous this was. The whole training ground was in a sort of anticipatory mourning, and here he was dancing around like some random member of the chorus line from Lord of the Dance. Yet he had to; slow, rigidly controlled physical movement was the only way to keep what he truly felt at bay.
Tour de Reins. A shock to any performance, the death metal guitarist randomly got teleported into the same opera house as the Beethoven pianist.
“IT’S GONE!”
“What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.”
“You’re pacing around and your eyes are red. That’s not being ‘okay’ and you know it!”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t know.”
Van Dijk looked through the slightly open office door. Klopp paced back and forth across the room so quickly that he could’ve been running, and Taffarel followed Klopp, seemingly in an attempt to get through to him.
He knew he should’ve left. But he’d heard enough to stay.
“I’ll help you know if you tell me what happened.”
“They’re all gone, Taffa, I can’t believe it!”
“What’s gone? I’m sorry, but you’ve got to be more specific.”
“Virgil? What’s going on?” Alexander-Arnold appeared out of nowhere, joining Van Dijk next to the door. His eyes were red and puffy, he wore Robertson’s old Dull City hoodie, and he had the red and white throw blanket that Taki Minamino had given him over two years ago wrapped around his shoulders. “If it’s a meeting, I’m really sorry I’m late. Ali, Ibou, and some of the others organised a group ‘eat ice cream and vent your depression' party and we’re having a break.”
Van Dijk put a finger to his lips, nodding towards the ajar office door. “I think the boss misplaced something important.”
“The…the scrapbook. The one with all our staff pictures, they’re gone!”
“Okay, calm down. Take this kerchief and tell me, did you check the rest of the office?”
“I checked everywhere from the corporate meeting room to the gyms to the pitches! It’s not there, I used metal detectors and drones and a search-and-rescue falcon!”
“You hired a trained falcon?!”
“It was Erik’s! I was desperate!”
Alexander-Arnold, despite himself, couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image of Klopp trying to control a tamed falcon, or Erik Ten Hag of all people having one.
Taffarel sighed, no doubt realising that he had to be the calm, level-headed one in this situation. Van Dijk couldn’t deny that Klopp not being able to find the scrapbooks he so jealously guarded worried him, but him being panicked and upset about it was a whole other level of seriousness.
“You know…maybe the book isn’t in Kirkby,” Taffarel suggested. “Did you lend it to someone, Jesse perhaps?”
“I never lend those books to anybody!” Klopp ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. He was calmer than before, Van Dijk noticed with a wry shake of his head, but he was still pacing and hyperventilating a bit. Taffarel seemed concerned too, and Van Dijk didn’t blame him; he’d probably never seen Klopp so worried over something that wasn’t a human. “It must be somewhere in here, but I don’t know where it is or how it got there or—”
“I saw your scrapbook, boss!” Alexander-Arnold opened the door, causing Van Dijk to fall through the doorway after him.
Klopp and Taffarel froze in their tracks. “You did?”
Alexander-Arnold nodded sheepishly, pointing towards a box in the corner. “You packed it away along with the others yesterday. I think you forgot them since you’re so used to having everything up on the bookshelf.”
Klopp’s gaze travelled from Alexander-Arnold to Taffarel, then to the box where the scrapbook sat, then to Van Dijk, who was still brushing dust off from his shirt. After what felt like a couple minutes of processing the whole situation, Klopp ignored the scrapbook and pulled Van Dijk, along with Alexander-Arnold and Taffarel, into a hug.
“I couldn’t have lasted through this week without you. All of you.”
Van Dijk tried to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he opted to press himself into Klopp like a small child.
“Come on gaffer, did you have to do that now?” Alexander-Arnold groaned, trying to fight back the tears himself. “I just came from a group ‘eat ice cream and vent your depression’ party.”
Klopp broke away from the hug, incredulously shouting, “Why wasn’t I invited to that?!”
*
On Sunday, Man City won the Premier League title and absolutely nobody cared. Liverpool beat Wolves, and the only reason everybody cared was that anything less would’ve been embarrassing.
But now the match was over, and the real order of the day was in order. The stage was set up, the pictures were ready, and those who were staying were lined up for the guard of honour.
Klopp watched everything from the back of the hall like the proud manager he was. By now he had to admit that the bond he shared with everyone was far more than even the friendliest and warmest of workplace relationships, but he had not expected to grow this close to everyone. Now, almost nine years later, saying goodbye felt impossibly painful, even though he knew it was the right thing to do.
Of the things he’d done for and with the club, this was by far one of the fundamentally easiest ones. But how could something so simple in theory be so hard now, when the final day was here?
He’d always thought football was a simple thing. Every player made their debut, then the first goal. If said player was a keeper, then it was their first big save. Then came the first win, the first club trophy, and then the first individual trophy. If the player was lucky, they’d get their first international call-up, then an international trophy. Then the lasts started pouring in: last international trophy, last international call-up. The last personal award, the last club trophy, then the last win. The last goal or save, then the final whistle blew on the last game, closing the curtains.
But football wasn’t a simple thing. He’d seen so many players, some with all the above and some with none. Some had won a trophy before even making a debut, or had won the most valuable international trophy of all time before winning a single personal award. Some hadn’t scored a single goal yet but had won nearly every trophy available to their blub. Some should’ve logically remained goalless all their careers, yet they weren’t; likewise, some should’ve logically remained saveless all their careers, yet they weren’t. Sometimes short people scored headers, or tall people carried the ball from one end of the pitch to another and slotted it in. Sometimes the “new” team members were already in their thirties, and the “old” members were still below twenty-four.
There were so many stories, and each was different, yet tied together in a spindling banyan tree of fate. The best part? They never ended.
They were all just beginning. Despite how long it felt, nine years paled in comparison to the sixteen years the youngest of his boys had been alive, much less the amount of time they would know each other.
Maybe they would meet some other time in this life, and maybe they’d work together again. Maybe they’d even meet each other in another life, or on another planet. Their futures, both as individuals and as a whole, were as unknown as they were bright.
His work here was done, Klopp realised as Van Dijk sent him back for another guard of honour. He’d helped another team be happy again and changed the peoples’ outlook on things without changing the fundamental fabric of their history. And he’d not-so-accidentally adopted a whole family on the way.
Well, there was still one thing left to do.
“AAARNE SLOT! ARNE SLOT!”