Chapter 4: Demons

Fire! Whole body’s on fire! Can’t move. Every single cell aches. Pain. Pain. PAIN!

It had been three hours since Ronaldo made it home and collapsed in his favourite armchair. The spots in front of his eyes had finally disappeared and he’d fought the nausea all the way back down to his stomach.

Outside a siren screamed as a police car gave chase, with two more following in close pursuit. A dog barked from across the street, some nippy little Chihuahua type. And the mentally unstable Don Jose ambled up and down the main street yelling about the end times.

Ronaldo opened his eyes. His breathing had steadied and his head had stopped swimming, even though it was positively throbbing.

The next time I want to run like that, I should definitely stretch first.

He summoned every last bit of strength he had left to stand back up, limped over to the refrigerator and got a beer can out. He sank back into the armchair and was about to lift the pin on the can when his forefinger froze.

“You’re thirty-seven going on thirty-eight…”

Fact: the average male footballer retires between the ages of 34 and 36.

Not that Portuguese Merda. Idiota will go on playing until he’s sixty.

Have you seen him recently? He’s got abs

So what, I’ve got abs too. Beneath all this fat.

Forefinger still rests on pin.

Clinically? I won’t say zero.

What’s the non-clinical answer then, doc? Negative ten billion? I couldn’t even make it up the hill, let alone play a full ninety at the Maracana.

“Plenty of height on it… it’s gone through… Germany scooooore!

Stop. Stop now.

“The defence here could let Kroos in, chance here for a second for Germany, Brazil in real trouble.

I just want to enjoy my beer. Let me.

“Germany are looking good for the final on Sunday, they might get another one here… It’s 3 – 0, it’s a romp for the Germans.

Yes, yes, I get it, I get it. Leaky defence. Shitty defence. What were they thinking?

Finger tenses. Must lift this pin.

“Kroooos… This is four… this is quite astonishing… this is all over now, it really is all over now for Brazil

Why didn’t the players just walk off there and then? Why stand and suffer this humiliation?

“And they’re here again, there’s three forward, Khedira, Ozil… they’re queuing up, they’re all going to score at this rate!

Finger relaxes on pin. Pain. Not in the body. In the heart.

“It is Khedira, back into Lahm. Square, six-nil it is

Eyes closed. Six. When was the last time someone put six past the Samba boys?

Of course. Les Bleues put three past us. I was there. Oh yes, I was there.

“Petit. Zidaneeeeeee. Lift off for France

Zidane. Zizou. I shan’t say much about him. He deserves everyone’s respect.

Everything was fine until midday when we ate. Taken from that interview with Linekar.

Fatty. Shameless fatty. Always eating. Always drinking.

Forefinger tenses again, quivering. Just open, already, what’s the matter with you, goddammit!

“And if Ronaldo wasn’t in great shape before the game as we’re led to believe, he’s even worse now.“

Barthez. Idiota.

How could he wipe me out like that!

“Djorkaeff… Zidaneeeeee! Lightning has struck twice. Two corners. Two Zidane headers. Double trouble for Brazil.”

Why was nobody marking him?

Forefinger lifts. Then drops. Lifts. Then drops.

“Ronaldoo… No way past Barthez.”

Barthez. Idiota.

Wait. Didn’t they have a red card? They were down to ten men?

Dugarry puts it wide. Imagine if they had a competent striker. They would also have put seven past us.

“Vieira… Emannuel Petiiiiiit…!“

Bah it’s in the past. The present is now. With this beer. But why can’t I get it open?

What a night they are having. But… they might have number seven here now. They have got seven. It’s hammered in.

Why? Why remind me? Wait… I see something.

Something did appear on the pitch. A phantom. Cloaked and hooded.

“But wait. Who is the mystery substitute Scolari is preparing to bring on? Wait… it can’t be… It CANNOT be! The Fenomeno!”

Silence. Waiting. Listening.

Ronaldo. Space for him to shoooooot! One shot. One goal. Surely not?

Seconds left. The goal clones itself. Not once. Six times.

“Oh my word, what on Earth is happening now? Seconds to go and now, this. Surely too late, even for the Fenomeno?“

Eyes closed. Beer can getting warm in hands. Breathe…

The ball clones itself. Not once. Six times.

“Look at this! An opportunity! A lifeline!”

Take aim. Lift. Aaaand…

Gasp.

“I don’t believe this! He has slipped! And that’s the final whistle. Certainly not the Fenomeno. Just an imposter wearing his shirt. And look, it’s a fat imposter too!”

Clinically… not zero percent.

Fatty. Shameless fatty. Fatty. Fatty. FAT

Eyes open. Finger off the pin. Down goes the can. Shan’t drink. No, sir. I’ll keep my word to the doc. Who knows. Who knows. A vote in the right direction, yes, a vote for my best self. The self that will return. That must return.

The Seleccion needs you.

Does it? What about Bobby Firmino? What about Gabby Jesus? What about Ney?

None. Oscar gets a consolation goal. Consolation. That’s what it has come to.

At least Brazil had a consolation goal. In your time, there was nothing.

I’d rather take nothing than a goddamn consolation goal after the opposition has scored seven.

Seven.

It could have been 7 then, too. Back in ’98. If only they had a more competent striker. And they were down to 10 too.

Pain. The old injuries resurface. Especially the knees. Up. Get up. Yes, that’s it. Get up. Stand. Stand and face the demons. Face them once and for all.

Late. Where did the hours go? How long was I in that chair for?

It’s dark outside. That damn dog has stopped barking. Most of the lights are off. One of those leggy blondes in fishnet stockings is standing on the corner. How I’d like to bury my tongue in her…

No.

Focus.

Clinically? Not zero.

Not zero. Yes, not zero. As long as it’s not zero, it’s something. Less than 1? That’s up to me. Less than 5? That’s up to me. How about more than 5? Also up to me. But how… when?

Now.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week or next month.

Now.

Bed. Eyes closed. Let us rest. Tomorrow, dawn will be brighter. And when the dawn comes, I will be ready.

I will be ready.

I am ready.