Cheese puffs: filo pastry stuffed to the tits with cheese. Delectable, but deadly.
The following day, Ronaldo skipped breakfast and left early to beat the morning traffic.
The roads were mostly clear, save one or two lorries bringing raw materials into Rio De Janeiro.
Doctor Santos’ clinic was a stone’s throw away from the municipal theatre and next door to a well-known bakery. The driver parked along the curb behind an abandoned scooter with its headlight still on and Ronaldo got out. A couple of early birds digging into their cheese puffs outside the bakery recognised him and raised a hand in salutation.
As he approached the clinic’s front door, he could have sworn one turned to the other and whispered something in his ear.
Shameless fatty.
Doctor Santos had practised sports medicine for nearly four decades. He’d been the go-to clinician for the majority of the Seleccion, but had never upgraded to a bigger office. He was still using a desktop from the yesteryear; the fans whirring loudly as it struggled to keep up and the visitor’s leather couch had a classic patina shine to lend it some character.
Patina: a bit of sheen that appears on leather, metal or wood over time. Vintage.
Lucile, his personal assistant, was still an attractive lady–even in her mid fifties. The only sign of age on her was a single crease on her otherwise smooth forehead. “Give him a moment, he’s just setting up,” Lucile said once they’d greeted each other with a kiss on either cheek.
The door at the far end of the hallway opened and a small man with wiry grey hair stuck his head out. “Ronnie?” he called out affectionately.
“You said it was urgent, is everything ok?” Doctor Santos had his clipboard at the ready, staring over the top of a pince-nez at his patient.
“Fine. All fine.”
“Are you managing your ten thousand steps daily?”
“Yes.”
“Ronnie…”
Ronaldo sighed. “Not lately. I’ve been… distracted.”
“Saw the game yesterday?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m surprised you weren’t at the Stadium, you never miss an opportunity to grace the big stage with your presence.”
“I couldn’t make it.”
“Just as well. It was a massacre. A blood bath. The supporters will never forget it…” Doctor Santos looked away into the distance for a second and then shook his head clear. Back to the clipboard. “I’ll take your vitals in a moment, but what is it that brought you here first thing in the morning?”
Ronaldo cleared his throat. “I want…” Shameless Fatty. He stood up suddenly, the chair legs scraping the floor. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”
He crossed over to the door, but Doctor Santos intercepted him. “Please.” He made a sweeping gesture for Ronaldo to take his seat. The Fenomeno obliged. “Now. Indulge me.”
“I want. I wonder. What chance do I have of…” his head was pounding. Fatty. Fatty. Fatty. He cleared his throat and, leaning forward, whispered “Is it possible for me to…”
“Go on,” Doctor Santos said, kindly.
“Do you think… What will it take for me to… To play for the Seleccion again?”
“The Seleccion? You mean the National Team?”
“I told you it’s ridiculous, I’m just wasting your time,” Ronaldo got up again, but Doctor Santos leaned across his desk, taking his patient’s hand.
“It’s not ridiculous. Please, sit.” Ronaldo sighed heavily again and dropped back into the seat. Doctor Santos continued. “Don Ronaldo, I’ve known you a long time. I’ve helped you through your injuries. I kept you fit.”
“You did.”
“Then you know that I’ve always been honest with you. Just as I’m going to be right now.”
“Here we go…”
“You’re thirty-seven going on thirty-eight. The last time you trained was, what, three, three-and-a-half years ago? With Corinthians?”
“Don’t remind me. That was embarrassing.”
“Either way, that’s the last time you trained. Now, had you done your ten thousand steps religiously, watched your diet, taken better care of yourself… I’d have given you, maybe, a three per cent chance of being called up.”
“So I have no chance. Zero.”
“Clinically? I won’t say zero. But it’s less than one per cent. It would take a mammoth effort and even then, there’s no certainty.”
“I should have just stayed at home.”
“No, I’m glad you came. Look,” he clasped his hands on his desk and looked Ronaldo directly in the eye, “you’ve won two World Cups. You’ve cemented your place as a legend of the game. Maybe it’s time to let this go. Focus on getting better for yourself, hmm? What, what is it?”
Ronaldo had looked away, jaw clenched. “Legend. What legend. When they talk about Ronaldo, there is only one. That Portuguese Merda who stole my name.”
“Bah, what does it matter? The fact is, you had your time and there are those who will remember it. For now, my recommendation would be to keep to your ten thousand steps, lay off the beer and make sure you’re swapping rice for salad once in a while. You’re due a visit next month, so I’ll do your checkups then, too.”
After the visit, Ronaldo decided to make a pit stop at the bakery. What’s the point, I’ve got less than one percent chance. A bubbly waitress brought him a menu and stood sentry at his side. “Two cheese puffs, a slice of cake, scrambled eggs with two buttered toasts and a pot of coffee.”
“Is someone joining you?” the waitress asked in earnest.
“Sure,” Ronaldo said.
“Thank you, may I take the menu, shameless fatty?”
“S-sorry?”
“May I take the menu, sir?”
“Oh, uh, sure. Yes, of course.”
Ronaldo stared at the cheese puffs on his plate, but didn’t pick one up. He felt his mouth watering and his stomach grumbled with longing. Less than one per cent chance. What a fool he had been to think he’d ever make it into that squad. And even if he did, why would they select him over that new guy, Gabriel Jesus? Or Bobby Firmino? He’d be the laughing stock of the footballing community. Again.
He picked up a cheese puff, but just as he made to sink his teeth into it, he saw a pair of eyes. And then a fold in the breading opened like a mouth and the cheese puff spoke in a surprisingly deep voice.
“Yes, that’s right. Eat me. Gobble me up, you fat fuck. Hypothyroidism my ass. Look at you, breakfast for four all to yourself. No wonder it’s a less than one per cent chance. You have a less than one per cent chance of ever seeing your own dick again the way you’re going. Fenomeno. What Fenomeno. It’s Fatty. Fatty with a half decent right foot. Fatty, carried by ‘Dinho and Rivaldo. Fatty. Fatty. FATTY!”
“ARGHHHHHH!” He was on his feet, the eggs joining the cheese puffs, cake and toast on the floor amid broken china. He was breathing heavily, struggling for air as–for the second time in two days–the tears burned in his eyes. The three or four people dining in the bakery stared at him.
“Sir…?” the waitress clutched her silver tray like her life depended on it.
Ronaldo pulled out a wad of cash from an inside pocket and slapped it on the table. “Keep the change.”
“Sir, you actually owe twenty-five Real-”
“Don’t have it, I’ll stop by later.”
“But sir-” Too late. Ronaldo had left.
“Let it go, menina,” the head baker had just stepped out from the kitchen.
“But-”
“It’s not his day. He hasn’t been the same since he bowed out of the game.”
“Game? What game?”
“That man,” the baker said, pointing out of the window, “is a legend. Now clean up this mess and get back to work.” The baker took a moment to watch Ronaldo climb back into his car, struggling to get his heaving belly through the door. He shook his head, murmured an apology to the other guests and returned to his ovens.
Just Me Lakhani 
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