Chapter Text
29, November 2009
I breathe heavily, running after the football like I usually do. As my arms swing aggressively, I turn my head around quickly, making sure no opponent of the other team steals the ball from me. This is my first Ćlasico.
I run past the players in my way, sprinting, passing the ball to my teammates for support, and them passing it back to me. The rain is making my body shudder. God… water droplets rolling down my hair and onto my face. Running towards the opposite team, and just as I was about to shoot the ball in, thinking I was safe… he came, like he always does. Lionel Andrés Messi Cuccittini, my rival.
He stands in front of me, ready to take the ball from me. My eyes widen seeing the shorter boy in front of me, his eyes not only dedicated toward the ball at my feet… but this time also onto my face. No, my eyes? What the hell? Why is he looking into my eyes? Idiot, the ball is at my feet, not in my eyes… is this a new trick? Have I missed something—
I come back to reality when I realize not only has the shorter boy run past me, but he also took the ball with him. I furiously run after him, my cleats digging into the ground, leaving trails behind me as I speed towards him.
FUCK. I think to myself, sprinting after the guy that stole my ball, as I watch him dribble past my teammates as if it were pure instinct for him. God, just watching him play makes me furious. I watch many of my comrades fail in tackling him… Messi is different… but not against me. I run with power, my foot digging into the ground as I slide tackle him with full force, sliding against the wet grass, quickly standing up to get the ball—but there he is… how the hell did he stand up before me? I just tackled the guy???
Focus. I run after the ball that his teammate just took as I then run to the left side, hoping my teammates choose to pass the ball to me. But since I’m kind of new to Madrid, I haven’t seemed to gain their respect that much.
I furiously run along, making sure to stay in my position as I watch Messi's messy attempts at scoring but not finding the net. Throughout the game I try to score, not catching the perfect timing, but every time I come across Messi, it is thrilling. A new start. A new rivalry, which I must crush to make my way to the top… it was back and forth stealing the ball. I watch Messi play into the box, and as my eyes keep analyzing the shocking moment, the ball flew onto the feet of Gerard Piqué, Messi’s teammate, and I watched him finish the play as he shot the football into the net.
Typical Barcelona style, I saw on the TV. How did I fall for it after seeing it so many times? I sigh in utter exhaustion and defeat. 1-0 for Barcelona… damnit. Messi, a player that has been playing in Barcelona for years, and now we’re going to be playing against each other more often now that I’m in Madrid.
I breathe heavily in defeat, hearing the loud cheers in the stadium around us as I stare at the wet grass, my head overplaying the goal and the many options I could’ve taken to prevent it… damnit. I watch my teammates almost shatter to the ground… my first Clasico wasn’t a success.
I have to get better. I straighten myself, looking up into the sky and then at the guy that people call my new "rival." Tch. I watch him celebrate the goal he assisted in with anger in my eyes.
Messi. I turn around and walk out of the pitch into the locker room, drenched in rain and sweat. The locker room is quiet; only the sound of everyone changing is to be heard. I dissociate, and after the wash, I go back home to my mansion, alone, as I walk into the garden to train and make sure I learn from my mistakes. I keep reenacting the same idiotic scene from the match in my head while I kick the ball onto the wooden garden wall and pass it back, deep in my thoughts about how he looked into my eyes. Was he pitying me?!
DAMN.
I shoot the ball so hard it bounces back and makes a loud noise echo around the rich neighborhood as I stand there, fists clenched, shoulders burdened, and high as I stare at the grass. I could’ve done something to prevent it. If this goes on, I’ll have to survive to live again. I have to get better… how will I prove to my father that I’m talented, that I alone can get them out of this hell? Sigh again as I walk into the mansion, up the stairs, and into my large bedroom, throwing myself onto my bed and closing my eyes.
(Months pass until 10 April 2010)
I’ve been waiting for this and for him. To show him all these matches before weren’t as exciting as the matches against him. How can a man so small be so good at football?
I put on my cleats, which are numbers too small for me. I don’t care, though—it helps me control the ball better. Walking out of the locker room with my teammates and onto the pitch, my eyes analyze every corner… where the hell is he? I know he's small, but he can’t be this unnoticeable… my eyes fly around the area and… there.
I smirk. From excitement, today I’ll show him how much I’ve grown from a couple of months. People are already talking about us… new rivals this, new generation that. Just shut up. That guy isn’t even on my level. First Clasico in Santiago Bernabéu.
This time is different.
10 minutes in, and Barcelona is dominating us… I can’t get to the ball because of their defenders. I jog, breathing in exhaustion as I hope to get another chance at the ball. I throw a sharp glance at Messi… what’s with him today? Even if he’s influencing the match, he’s a lot quieter than usual. Where are his unexpected dribbles??? God, everything is so overstimulating right now. Wait, focus—the ball is coming your way. I try to pass the ball back, but the defenders are on me again. I grit my teeth in sheer annoyance.
That Xavi and Iniesta seem to be dominating this match right now. Messi, what the hell is your problem? Get your head into the game and do something. Wait, why am I so angry about this? Ugh, every single detail is getting to my head. Now I’m even frustrated that Messi isn’t participating much.
One goal. David Villa.
Okay—okay, calm down—just try to get these dumb defenders off you. I have to trick them somehow, I think to myself, overstimulated as the match goes on. We lose by another goal. Great… 2-0, even worse than the last encounter. I crumble to the ground in exhaustion from the bunch of tackles and defenders exhausting me.
/
I watch him crumble to the ground—Ronaldo, my rival. As I watch him across the pitch while my team is screaming in happiness, I wipe the sweat on my forehead with my shirt, just looking at him. He’s a good player, very aggressive and determined, I think to myself as I walk to the locker room. He could’ve played better if our defenders weren’t on him the whole time… maybe I should chat with him once in a while. Are rivals supposed to chat with each other? Well, I’ll just try to come across him. His play style is amazing. Just a forceful push, forcing you into a corner until you give in, truly fascinating. His right foot is absolutely crazy. The pure strength he puts into his kicks. I daydream, busy in thought, just wiping my face with my T-shirt while I lean against the lockers of the room, staring into the ceiling.