Disassociation Football

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely the fancy of the reader, perhaps due to indigestion.

As early as six years old, he knew there was only one way to escape the poverty in which he had been born, association football, or soccer, as the americans call it. While the other children played only for the fun of it, he was invested, he trained alone, he trained at all possible times, and when he couldn’t train, forced into school or a job, he thought of nothing else. At ten a scout saw him play and was impressed, and one year later he had signed a junior contract with one of the major clubs, and moved, alone, to the capital city, on the other side of the country. Even though the family needed his small salary from working after school in the docks, and even though the contract merely guaranteed the survival of the child in the capital city and provided no compensation for his parents, the mother had said yes, she knew it was the only chance her son had of escaping, and maybe, who knows, make something of himself. During the next five years his reputation as a promising youngster grew into the expectation of being the next best thing. At seventeen he was sold to one of the biggest clubs in the world, and when he blew the eighteen candles starting to melt into the icing, he was a millionaire.

Back home, his motivation had been only of rising above squalor. If there were higher dreams than those, and how could there not be for a child, they were never allowed to distract him from the task at hand. This discernment of priorities would prove to be fundamental later on, as his horizons broadened, his gaze deepened and his ambitions grew. Despite having a master plan he always focused all of his energies into each step, no improvisation, no distraction, laser focus, nothing left to chance, until it was achieved, and the next step could be turned to. The first time he went back to his hometown, after a year away, he knew immediately that he had, even if in some small way, outgrown the place and the people. His first goal was assured, if he continued to work hard it would take care of itself. From then on, he started to send a little money home, so that his parents would have even more motivation to let him stay away from them and from there. Now that poverty had been conquered, even if only for a moment, money became of secondary concern, and the next step was to turn promise and expectation into reality, and he would work just as hard or even harder. He trained more than any other player of any age, and on his sixteenth birthday he knew what his next goal was, in as much detail and with as much clarity as anyone can know anything, to be the undisputed best.

But right then a shadow appeared. He first noticed it during an intercontinental competition for players under seventeen. Despite his team losing the final on penalties, it was only because of him that they had gone beyond the group stage at all, and were it not for the blunders of the defence, his many goals would have been sufficient to win the competition. At the awards show, he won best player, but he wasn’t sure he would, and this was a feeling he hadn’t felt yet. At every stage until that moment he had been the undisputed best, and now there was someone disputing it, the award could just as easily been given to the other, his rival, same age as him, from the country to the east, who also carried his team to the semi finals, with a similar story to his own, except perhaps slightly less poor. So he worked harder, pushing himself further, more hours in the field, more hours in the gym, more discipline in his life. The uneasy feeling of not knowing he would win the highest prize kept gnawing at him, the rival just a few steps behind him. And then one day a few steps ahead.

Both their seasons had been stellar, no other player could remotely match their achievements, and they were both just twenty one. The numbers were on his side, more goals, more assists, more opportunities created, more everything. And yet the feeling was still there, that void inside his stomach, that doubt. Their teams had faced each other in the highest continental competition, not once but twice, the first time in the group phase and the second in the final, and both times he had failed to score, and both times his opponent had succeeded, and worse still, his rival’s goal had been the only one to be scored in the final, and it came from a solo run from midfield, a moment of genius conjured up out of thin air, his rival slid past six opponents covering half the pitch, and then lobbed the ball with grace over the helpless goalkeeper, after eighty nine minutes of running, giving his nation the trophy. Would that be enough to rob him of his glory, No, the numbers don’t lie, a final is a final but I’ve broken every record, it’s mine, only I deserve it. Not everyone agreed, and a part of him died when the name of his rival was spoken instead of his, he would never be the undisputed best. Someone had beaten him. Even if it should be only once, and from then on he was to win every award every year until, at least, the age of thirty five, it would still hurt him, it would still be a blemish on his record, a stain on his royal cloth. And still the odds of that were slim, it wasn’t going to be that easy, his shadow will always be there, or worse, he would be the shadow. One could be forgiven for thinking that he owed his feeling of paranoia to the media playing up their rivalry, but that wasn’t it. The only thing he enjoyed more than winning, was seeing his face and his name exalted, his personality and his exploits publicly hailed, and after that, a guilty pleasure, what the critics said of him, whether good or bad he wasn’t bothered by them, only amused, because they were beneath him. What bothered him was that his rival was not beneath, but level, or worse still, above him. Now the doubt was a certainty, it would always be head to head, him against his rival, until that day when they were beaten, not by the other, but by some young player with no stake in their great contest. That intrusion of a foreign body would be the end of their era, but it would always be theirs, not his alone, as was his dream.

It was at this time, and with these insights, that he devised plan b. His first son was born a year and a half after that tragic night at the award show. The boy inherited his father’s name, except everyone took to calling him junior, but that could be fixed later on. No one knew who the mother was, though it was almost certainly a surrogate, the fact that the son had the same birthday as his father proved it was a highly planned affair, one requiring a large sum of money not only to be put into practice but also so that everyone involved kept quiet, probably until the end of their days, a price he had no problem in paying, he was already a billionaire at twenty. Of course there were all kinds of theories, from the violent to the fantastic to the frankly absurd, all of them essentially unprovable.

The first five years of his child’s life took a toll on him. Single fatherhood was difficult and tiresome, even though he was a rich man, with attendants for every need and every duty and at all times, he also had ambitious plans for the boy, and so was invested in his proper rearing. Given the circumstances, those years weren’t great for his career, coming only once on top. Still, it was always very close, every year it could have gone either way, the two rivals playing in a league of their own. Then inspiration struck twice one morning as the season came to a close and yet another award was given to his enemy, the third in a row. First, he would find a wife, the boy needed a mother, God knew how grateful he was to his own. Without her permission, argued alone over and over against husband and family and neighbors, he would have never been allowed to leave, not so early, not without immediate compensation. That’s why his mother was the only family he allowed into his life, everyone else was simply pacified by the slow and steady trickle of money, happy to appear in magazines and do a part of his job for him. He also knew right away who would be the woman. A friend, someone who had come from a similar place and circumstance, a noble nature fighting an ignoble nurture, someone who had liked him even before he could be of profit to her, someone who had proven, time and again, to be loyal. Though there was no romance, there was friendship and kinship, his second child was born nine months after the wedding, a daughter this time. Three others would follow after that, all boys.

The second inspired thought had to do with his career. He had to play in the same country as his rival, to face his opponent head on, as many times as it was possible within the rules and regulations of the game. He was the most desired player in the world, save perhaps for the enemy, and so his transfer was easily secured, another record, this time in price. That first season, and despite coming second to his rival in goals scored by a small margin, it was obvious that it was he who had, almost singlehandedly, won his team the first championship in nine years, nine years for the number nine in his shirt, nine long years of domination by their main rivals, where the enemy played and failed to lead his side to victory, for the first time since making it to the first team.

From then on, and until the autumn of their careers, it would be a coin toss, Him or me, some years me, some years him, until we’re both too old and it’s someone else. That was still a long way away, so he kept working hard, sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, and the loss stung, but it wasn’t deadly, because he had his plan b. When he wasn’t training himself he was training his son, who quickly became a young sensation, in great part because of his father’s success. As one player reached the end of his career, the other started to achieve maturity, and it was eerie and exhilarating, like deja vu, like being transported twenty years before, his stride and his strike were the exact same as his father’s, another proven winner, cut of the same cloth, new star old name, two players one legacy. These newspaper headlines, real or imagined, were confirmation that his plan was working. Every once in a while the issue of the boy’s mother appeared on the news, the same stories were spun only to disappear due to the same lack of any shred of evidence, because not only did he have the resources to cover it all up but the only other person who really knew the secret was the mother herself, and now she was his wife, to whom he made a promise, to reveal the whole truth to the boy upon him turning eighteen years old. That day had finally arrived.

His career was long past its peak. He was by far the best player, even at forty, but in a substandard league, and while he lingered in the national team, and even started most games, it was a sad spectacle, his inclusion was nothing more than a publicity stunt, to sell more shirts and make more headlines and invite promotional opportunities. The same was true for his old rival. That war of so many years was gone and now every time they saw each other at an award show or official function, they smiled, slightly embarrassed but sincerely, In a way he is the only one who really understands, they both thought, reminiscing. His son, on the other hand, was on the verge of stardom, turning eighteen during a continental competition, one of the youngest players of the tournament, and one of the best too, just like his father had been. The rival’s national team had failed to qualify, upon which the old enemy announced his retirement from the sport, not even one last muted battle for old time’s sake, what a shame. But it didn’t matter, the real glory lay up ahead, and the tournament was essential. Father and son helped the national team to finish first in the group stage, despite some setbacks, inexcusable against such mediocre teams as the ones they faced. The son had scored the winning goal in the second game, a great solo effort after receiving the ball from his father, but injured himself in the process, and was expected to return only in time for the quarter final, which by fate or chance, happened to be both his and his father’s birthday. The round of sixteen was a lifeless game for both sides, a total bore as their strengths were matched, and everyone played it safe. It was won on penalties, the father did not miss his kick, the son watched, they celebrated.

The next game was against an average team, which, under normal conditions and in normal circumstances, they could easily beat. But it would be his fortieth birthday, and his son’s eighteen. This was their chance to shine together, one for the first time, one for the last time, the same name, the same face, the same brand. And then his name would live on, almost as if he was extending his own career, and this time, there would be no shadow, that rivalry had been a fluke, a sarcastic twist of fate, the gods having fun at his expense, he was not the first hero to be in such a predicament, but he lacked the instruction to know it. The coincidence of the date was already an added pressure for the boy, who always seemed disturbed by his own birthday. The competition was stressful enough, to add a birthday and then the revelation, it could be dangerous. If he waited until the end of the tournament, or even just after this one game, after their birthdays, the boy could benefit from a mind unclouded by anything other than winning. On the other hand, if the boy was like him, and he was, he had some hope that the truth would only inflame his pride and ambition, and motivate him to even greater heights, higher even than his father’s, and the only price was to never be himself, and instead be a better version of someone else. Deciding in the end that the truth would motivate more than distract, he and his son went for a walk, and he told him everything. Who had given birth to him, first and foremost, and his plan, all he had done, his grandiose vision. He told the boy how small genetic defects were engineered out of him, no crooked teeth, no arched feet, perfect, or rather, perfected. The boy would go on to achieve undisputed status, and more importantly, it would be with his name, and his face. Save for the small inconveniences that chance and nature had placed in his way, now removed by wealth, science and technique, and especially by his father, who had the genius and foresight to think and execute the plan, the boy was his replica. The expression on the youngster’s face would have been hard to read for any other person, but the father knew his own face. The boy seemed to have drifted off for a minute, and then started to laugh, soon uncontrollably. When the laughter finally simmered down, the father asked, Are you ok to play, and the clone replied, More than ok, a decisive brow and mischievous smile on his face. The older man knew that face, it had been his many times before, and it was not good news.

The game began badly, a miscommunication between father and son lead to a counter attack, which led to a corner, which lead to a goal. The older told the younger, Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault, even though it was and the father knew it, but the son said only, Ok, in his mind the ball had been lost because of his father. They spent the first half failing to play together, each resenting the other, even though it was neither one alone who was at fault, but both together. Half time. They walked to the dressing room angry and frustrated, but the short break gave both of them the answer, to play well they needed to avoid the other, only fake and empty words of encouragement were exchanged. The father felt bad for his son, he understood it was too much to take in, and the boy wanted the same as his father, although for opposite reasons, so that perhaps we could say his father wanted him to be the best, and the son only wanted to best him. The second half was a humiliating spectacle for the father, who having decided to play alone, and keep the ball from his son, could do nothing with it, his tired legs and heavy feet could not be conquered, and he was taken off due to injury at the sixty sixth minute. And it was the sealing of fate and fame for the son, who scored a hat trick, winning alone the game for his team. When the final whistle was blown, his father was no longer on the bench, but crying in the dressing room, away from the cameras. The comparison was unavoidable, and humiliating for the older man. The boy went on to lead the team to victory in the tournament, scoring ten goals, a record.

There was an element of hurt, the taste of ashes in his mouth, because it wouldn’t be his success alone, he had needed to intervene where fate had dropped the ball and settle for second best, but still, he came first, he thought of the plan, it was his name and his face, and the history books, many years from then, would confuse the two, until they were one and the same, and the story would be mythical, ending happily ever after, undisputed champion. He fought his own feelings every time the boy won an award, and soon after every time he scored a goal, and they only became more intense when he announced his retirement, at forty two, injury preventing another humiliating performance at an international competition. And then one day he saw it, the first instance of complete erasure, what he wanted, the boy won best player for the third consecutive year, the father had only done it twice in a row, but more importantly, they didn’t say junior after his name when they announced the prize. This, which should be his final victory, or at least the first signs of it, was a cut too deep, it made him sick to his stomach, and there and then, amidst the noise of the crowd at the awards show, he decided to put an end to all of it.

He stole a big knife from the hotel kitchen and was about to knock on his son’s hotel room door when the boy appeared from behind, and with the strength of a fully grown man at the height of his vitality, subdued him and pushed him into the room. The father was now on his knees, the boy had thrown the knife away, How did you know I was coming, Don’t you get it, I know how you think and I’m smarter than you, I know how you fight and I’m stronger and faster than you, and on and on, in football as in everything else, I am better than you, but this is what you created me for, why do you hate it, why do you hate me. The father had no answer, he simply left, feeling and looking defeated. Things continued as planned from then on, and after a few years it was undeniable, he was the player of his generation, in a league of his own alone, the undisputed champion, at last, best player every year, going on ten, and by then the father had overcome the hurt, and started to appreciate the fruits, he enjoyed watching himself succeed, seeing his name in the papers, and his face on the news, receiving awards, winning tournaments, becoming a legend, all over again. And the only price was to never be with his son again.

But there was one more twist of fate. The season that would give him his tenth best player of the year award began with a serious injury, he would be out until Christmas, at least. When the year turned the doctors were saying two more months were still needed to fully recover, any early appearance would surely ruin him, and they kept saying this all season, until at last he played four games, poorly, the title was already lost anyway, and they had been knocked out of all other competitions. He had failed. The father was still crying when he opened the door to find his son, also crying. If the scene was happening in a film it would have been raining, but it wasn’t. The father turned his face in horror and shame, and the son saw the empty bottles and the half full glass of whisky. They hadn’t spoken in years, and they would never speak again.

The son knew right away what he had to do. He spent the summer drinking and partying, the press had a feast with his name and his face, and when the season began he was a mess, on purpose. He was late for every training session, many times drunk or on drugs, or else would not show up at all. He started fights with teammates and coaches. He destroyed exercise equipment. Sometimes in important games he missed sure goals in comical ways that soon everyone knew to be on purpose, and later became stale jokes, annoying for most, and a source of anger for many. He also became violent, breaking a record for red cards, fined and disciplined constantly. He won nothing for his team, and only infamy for himself, adding the terrible performances and horrible work ethic to his ongoing involvement in multiple scandals, from the debauched to the criminal, and sometimes both, it took only three years to completely destroy the name and the face. Whatever noble and heroic feelings that name and face had once evoked were first smeared, and then erased. He retired, and soon his antics were of no interest, and then the name and the face disappeared for good. Perhaps now that he was nobody his father would know, for the first time, what it was like to be him.