Thankfully, I pulled my head out of my ass and stepped up when I needed to. The entire team was counting on me and, as their captain, I had no choice but to lead them to victory. We ended up getting a penalty kick that I knew I’d have to take.
It was probably the most important kick of my life up to this point. It felt like the six years I’d been with Real Madrid, and the three years I’d put in as their captain, didn’t matter. All that mattered was the here and the now. This game. This cup.
So I kicked the ball with a special “Panenka” twist.
It went in the goal.
The world erupted.
We were back in the running.
We fought hard, fought back.
Alejo ended up scoring the winning goal, and that was it.
Real Madrid were the cup champions again.
Fuck, it’s nice to be a winner.
Anyway, the celebrations pretty much lasted through the night on the streets of Istanbul, and then all through the next day. Suffice to say, we’re all a little hungover from the non-stop partying, even though we know today is going to be a doozy.
Once we’re off the plane, posing for photos, my arms getting a workout from hoisting the cup into the air over and over again, smiling until my face gets sore, we get on our bus and head into the city. We have a whole schedule today, every hour packed, and we have to pace ourselves, even though Mateo has opened a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon and is passing it around the bus. I know I should keep my head on straight, but if Mateo is the one starting it, then I guess I can loosen up just a little.
Our first stop is Catedral de la Almudena, then we have to meet with governmental officials at the Community of Madrid headquarters and City Hall. It’s boring shit, lots of hand shaking and whatnot, lots of fawning over the cup. Even though Real Madrid has done this thirteen times in their years as a club, it doesn’t get old to any Madridista, the fans, and wherever our bus goes, thousands of them line the streets, cheering for Los Blancos and losing their minds as we go past.
There’s a moment as the bus moves past that I think I see someone in the crowd that makes my heart momentarily stop.
But then I shake my head, and the person is gone.
It was just a ghost.
It always is.
Next, we head to Plaza de Cibeles, which is usually our first stop, and a tradition whether we win the Champions League or La Liga. There’s a fountain in the middle flanked by a giant statue of a goddess in a chariot pulled by two lions. The space around the statue has been roped off for our bus to get through, keeping back the rabid Madridistas, hundreds of thousands of them all in white, moving and frothing around like a damn about to burst. Their enthusiasm knows no bounds, their chants and hollers and cries giving me goosebumps.
Fuck, man. We won.
We won!
We pile out of the bus, I’m holding the cup up high, we parade it around. Everyone goes wild.
“Hala Madrid! Hala Madrid!” they chant, over and over again.
Music to my fucking ears.
Then someone hands me the Real Madrid flag, and I go around the statue and up the ramp they’ve affixed to her. I climb over the edge and get on the goddess’s shoulders and tie the flag around her neck like a scarf.
With shaky legs I stand up on the statue and hoist that silver cup far above my head.
“Hala Madrid!” I yell, as cannons explode in the air around me, showering me in a sea of white confetti. “Gracias Madridistas!”
This is the closest I’ll ever get to Robert Plant saying “I am a golden god!”
This is my moment.
A culmination of all the moments I’ve worked for.
But then as the confetti continues to rain down on me, I put my ego in my back pocket, because even though I’m the captain of this team, I wouldn’t be a captain without my team.
I wave for Alejo to come join me.
Then Benzema.
Kroos.
Rene.
One by one everyone comes and poses with the statue and the cup, until finally the real man of the hour, Mateo Casalles, comes out.
I step back, giving him his glory.
There’s no us without him.
Mateo holds up the cup, yelling, hollering, then pulls me into an embrace as we smile for the crowd.
“This doesn’t get old, does it?” Mateo yells in my ear.
“No, it doesn’t.”
I feel a pang in my chest though, realizing that Mateo’s career as Real’s coach could keep going on, as long as he pulls in the wins.
For me, however, I’m not sure how much time I have left before I start going downhill and need to either be traded or go into retirement. I’m hoping for the latter. Even though I have no idea what I’ll do with myself, I could never be traded, not after being with this team, a team that feels like home to me. I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory than suffer on someone else’s pitch.
“Come on,” Mateo says, giving my back a hard slap and handing me the cup back. “The night is just getting started.”
We walk back down the ramp to the bus, and I pass the cup off to our assistant coach, my shoulder starting to give me trouble from holding it up so much.
“How’s your shoulder?” Alejo asks as we reach the top deck, noticing that I keep stretching it.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell him, but even though I smile, I know he picks up on
