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It had been one hundred minutes since Alisson had dared to hope things would get better in Liverpool.
Klopp had just had a talk with the defenders about listening to everybody on the team, including the goalkeeper. Gakpo was going to make his debut, the midfield seemed better than it had been, and for once Alisson was just feeling confident. All of the good things that Klopp had told him on Monday were circling in his mind.
You are skilled. You are in wonderful form. You have great ideas, and the others need to listen to your ideas. You are loved and needed and appreciated here.
Alisson's shoulders had automatically straightened, and he took the liberty to respond with confidence when Thiago had commented on his hair. Five minutes before the start, the day was going to be totally fine.
One hundred minutes later, Alisson cursed himself for allowing some confidence into his brain.
Why did you ever think this was going to be a good day? One stroke of optimism was all it took to undo all that work you did.
Alisson tried to shake the thought from his mind. He searched for the affirmative words that had practically been driven into his brain by his teammates and managers, something to counter the negativity. Somehow, those positive words always escaped Alisson when he needed them the most.
You should have never had Thiago pass the ball back to you. You should’ve never had the defenders listen to you. Hendo should’ve done the talking, not you.
He tried looking in the mirror, and a disheveled, exhausted and broken face stared back at him. He winced, trying to brush back his hair, but that only got grass stains there.
Look at that. You even managed to mess up the one thing that’s good about you.
“The team loves me,” Alisson whispered, pointing at the mirror. But it was half-hearted, and his reflection only served to affirm it.
Quit lying to yourself, Becker. They only love your saves and interventions, not you. They never loved you.
“Virg loves me.”
He loves the fact he can push you around so easily. Look at your pathetic puppy eyes.
Alisson did, and the tears in them only grew. “The boss loves me.”
He’s as ashamed of you as everybody else is.
Alisson couldn’t think straight, or even correctly. He slammed his still-gloved fist into the mirror, shattering it into pieces. He ripped off his gloves and kneaded the shards of glass between his hands, hissing under his breath. Each piece pierced his hands as badly as his mind pierced his soul.
Eventually his hands were raw, even bloodstained. Drops of deep crimson stained his lilac jersey. It had grown to be one of his favorite colors, but now Alisson didn’t even want to look at himself.
The boss always said violence wasn’t the answer, Becker. If you can do this to yourself, what can others do to you? You can’t fight them. You could be mere remains by the time help arrives.
By now, panic had made its way straight into Alisson's heart. He tried to run away, but he slipped on the glass and fell. Only the bathroom stall was able to save him, and he slumped against it with a loud, hard thunk.
Even if he couldn’t move, he wouldn’t know. His whole body felt numb, except for his pounding heart.
What have you done?
*
Van Dijk hobbled into the locker room on crutches. He didn’t exactly need them—it was only a hamstring injury after all—but he would rather have some difficulty moving than injure his leg further.
Coming into the locker room, Van Dijk got the strange sense that something was missing. His gaze traveled around the benches twice, but he couldn’t see what could be wrong.
Then it hit him. He didn’t see anybody in lilac.
“Has anybody seen Ali?” Van Dijk asked loud and clear. “Anybody at all?”
Silence slowly took over the room as the Liverpudlians realized that they hadn’t seen Alisson since the game ended.
“I saw him run straight for the showers,” Henderson finally said. “He hasn’t come out yet.”
Van Dijk mentally cursed himself for not noticing earlier. “I’m going to find him.”
“I’ll come with you,” Henderson volunteered, standing from the bench. “I saw him last, after all.”
Fabinho stood up as well, wrestling a shirt onto his naked top half. “And you might need some help with Portuguese translation.”
Van Dijk declined the offer. “Sorry guys, but if the situation’s how I think it is, we don’t need three people. I’ve picked up enough Portuguese to manage.”
Van Dijk left the locker room, making the quick journey to the washrooms. He knocked on the door and waited for an answer, but one never came. Sighing, he opened the door—and was immediately faced with a shattered mirror.
“Ali?” Van Dijk called out for the third time, trying to hide the panic in his voice. “It’s me, Virg. Can you answer me, please?”
He heard nothing, and immediately dropped the crutches. He was prepared to step through the glass when a particular shard caught his eye. It was broken, but spotted with blood.
Fresh blood, by the looks of it.
“ALI!” Van Dijk shouted. “Alisson Becker, are you in here?”
Van Dijk opened each of the bathroom stalls without hesitation, checking them. It was a risky move, but right now all of his social skills had flown out the window. He pulled open every stall in the room, until he opened the one straight in front of the broken mirror. There, jammed between the stall wall and the toilet, was Alisson. The goalkeeper seemed absolutely lifeless.
“Ali!” Van Dijk shouted into his ear, shaking him and slapping his thighs. “Wake up! Please wake up!”
Alisson didn’t wake up.
Van Dijk shuddered, his usual calmness quickly forgotten. Oh my god, he’s not waking up. What should I do? Check his pulse, check his breathing, check his airway. How long has he been knocked out? Did he faint? Virgil, calm down. You have emergency medical training, it’s going to be okay. But what if I’m wrong?
Van Dijk choked back a sob. Cradling Alisson's head in his arms, he took a deep breath and screamed for Klopp.
“Virgil! What’s wrong?” Klopp made it to the stall door, gasping at the sight inside. “What happened?”
“Ali’s passed out. Boss, I don’t know what’s wrong!”
“Alright, let’s get him into a safe position. Did you check his airways for obstructions?” Van Dijk didn’t know how Klopp managed to stay so calm in a situation like this.
“Yes, I did. Will he be alright, boss?” Van Dijk checked Alisson's pulse—slightly weaker than usual, but not very far away from normal. “I don’t want to lose him.”
“Get the essential oils and smelling salts. We’ll revive him that way,” Klopp decided, taking Alisson into his arms. “Wach auf, Kleiner, komm schon.”
Van Dijk didn’t bother to interpret the German phrase, bounding out the door for the requested items.
*
Klopp ran his hands through Alisson's hair over and over again, as if that alone would wake him up. It was safe to say that he was now desperate, as each second seemed to grow infinite.
What do you remember the medics telling you? Eight minutes is the most people can survive without air. How long has he been without air? Is his pulse getting weaker?
“Please wake up,” Klopp pleaded, this time in English. “We need you to wake up, Ali. Who’s hair am I going to ruffle if you don’t?”
He’d meant it as a joke. But the gentle stirring of Alisson's limbs was no joke. Soon his eyes fluttered open, hazy and confused.
“Ali! Oh, thank goodness you’re awake.” Even though Alisson was conscious again, Klopp didn’t release him from his arms. “You gave me and Virg quite a scare.”
“Virg is here?” Alisson didn’t bother to move from Klopp’s arms, either. “How long has it been?”
“I don’t know,” Klopp confessed. “Ali, I need you to be honest with me. I’m going to ask you some questions.”
Alisson nodded, signaling his agreement. “Okay.”
Klopp gestured towards the broken glass that was still on the floor. “Did you break this mirror?”
The keeper hesitated before nodding. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Klopp asked, although he was pretty sure what about.
Alisson's words only seemed to confirm what Klopp had suspected. “For letting you down. On a day where the defense was nearly perfect, I conceded two goals and they were both my mistakes.”
For once, Klopp couldn’t find words for Alisson. Maybe because most of what the goalkeeper was saying was true.
“The second goal was bad, but the first one was worse,” Alisson went on. “A five year old would have prevented it from ending up with the defender. If only I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ask Thiago to pass me the ball, maybe I could’ve been better for you.”
“Ali.” Klopp’s voice was calm, even though he wasn't. “Listen to me very well, liebling.”
Alisson stopped rambling, focusing his gaze on his manager. Klopp only spoke to them in German when he was serious about something. Even though most of the Liverpudlians didn’t understand much, it seemed to be Klopp’s preferred way of communicating. “Okay.”
“Du wirst so sehr geliebt. Du wirst gebraucht, du wirst geschätzt, du gehörst hierher. Bitte, Ali, ignoriere diese Stimme in deinem Kopf, die dir diese Lügen erzählt.”
Alisson didn’t understand most of what Klopp had said, but he’d picked out geliebt and ignoriere. “I can’t ignore it, boss. I made a huge mistake and if you tell me it’s not my fault, you’re lying to me.”
“I won't lie to you, Ali. Those mistakes were your fault, and it was a bad choice,” said Klopp, switching to English. “But I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at your choice to do what you did and make that mistake. Your choice was stupid, but you are not stupid. Not at all.”
Alisson tried to find words to say, but he came up with nothing. He settled for a hug, which Klopp gladly reciprocated.
“Thank you, boss. I’m sorry for making that decision.”
“You can always work on your decision making, Alisson,” Klopp assured him. “One bad decision doesn’t make you a bad person. The fans need to understand that.”
“I’m scared they’re going to do all kinds of things to me,” Alisson admitted, holding onto Klopp even tighter. “And they’ll get me when I’m alone.”
“Then we won’t leave you alone,” Klopp decided. “If those idiots try to lay as much as a finger on you, I’ll give them a big whack with my baseball bat.”
“Damn right.”
Klopp and Alisson suddenly realized Van Dijk was there, holding the smelling salts. He’d been there the whole time.
“Damnit,” Klopp swore under his breath.
Van Dijk rolled his eyes, hugging Alisson. “Don’t do that again. Not only did you break a mirror, you cut up your hands.”
“Oh goodness, let me see.” Klopp took Alisson's hands in his own, inspecting them. “Scheisse, you really cut them badly. Was this…on purpose?”
“It started accidentally,” Alisson confessed, staring down at his red and raw hands. “Then I took off my gloves and cut them deliberately.”
Van Dijk shook his head. “There are better ways to call for help, Ali. Like talking to somebody.”
“I know.”
“Also gut.” Klopp ruffled Alisson's hair, giving him and Van Dijk one final squeeze. “Let’s clean up your hands Ali, and then go to the other boys. We can clean up the glass later.”
They left the washroom hand in hand, only stopping when the doorway was too narrow. But they joined hands again as soon as possible.