May 17,2012
Danyil was at the airport when the call came. He and Ruud had found seats in a small alcove to the side of their gate, and it was a good thing: the rest of the area was a chaotic blur of noise and color. A flight had been cancelled and a large group of people in brightly colored cloths and sequin infested tracksuits were clamoring around a single airline agent, voicing their displeasure. Their small area was calm, however. There was a window and beyond it a young man slumped against the side of a large crate, a faded baseball cap pulled over his eyes with the silhouette of a spread-eagled Michael Jordan hovering in mid-air above its brim.
He looked at his screen and glanced at Ruud. It’s her, he said, before standing and moving as far into the alcove as he could. Hello?
The voice on the other end was nervous and halting. Coach? Hey, it’s Leigh.
Hello, Leigh.
Hi. So, um, I’m sorry to, like, I don’t know, call on your vacation and all.
Danyil smiled: he and Ruud had spent most of the morning pretending they weren’t anxiously waiting for his phone to ring. That’s alright.
OK, thanks. So. Um. I’ve talked to, I don’t know, like, everybody. She laughed quickly and nervously. Yeah.
How’d that go?
What?
The talking to everybody.
Oh. Yeah, well. You know. Jessica was great, but she always is. Ross wants me to stay. Leigh paused, her talk with Halo flashing through her mind. She had no idea if her roommate cared if she stayed or went: the icy indifference with which the tall blonde carried herself seemed impassable, and the distance between them had reduced their interactions to grunts over freshly-brewed coffee and half-ignored waves as Halo, yet again, headed out into the London night. Leigh wondered where she went, pretty sure that wherever it was, being there as a seventeen year old was either illegal or an example of poor judgment. I don’t know. My family, you know, they want me to go.
Danyil tried to infuse his voice with enough warmth to overwhelm his sudden concern. I’m sure they do. And you?
He heard her exhale a long breath. I. Well, wait, first. You know I want to play, right?
Danyil answered cautiously. I do.
And, like, we both know that I’m not going to be first choice for league games. I mean, you know, not for a while, right?
Not for a while, no.
OK. So, I’ve been looking at the schedules and all. There’s the Imposters Cup, the Immigrant thing, the, um, the King George Cup? Her voice lilted up, turning the last into a question.
Danyil smiled. I think that’s what it is, yes.
OK, so there’s all that. And, I don’t know, like, there’s the Olympics and the games for the World Cup.
Have you heard?
No, not really. I mean John, um, Coach Hackworth, he seemed to, like, think I’d be there. I mean, you know, I’m just looking at things. So that’s a lot. And that takes us through, I don’t know, through the fall. And through when I’d be away on loan. So … yeah.
There was a pause until Danyil realized she was waiting for him to say something. Not knowing what, he just asked, And?
So, all that stuff, I mean, not the USA stuff, I know you don’t do have anything to do with that, but the rest, the Cups and whatever. If I stay, can I. She paused, and her voice was calmer when she began again. If I stay, I want to play in all of those. Every game I can.
Are you asking me?
Leigh laughed again. I guess. I guess I am.
Danyil’s mind had been scrambling since she began to list the competitions, trying to remember their schedules, trying to sort out which players he knew would be unavailable and what the travel routine would be. He knew there were games in America for the Imposter’s Cup, that the King George Cup was just Portsmouth and two of the Welsh teams. Cardiff, maybe Swansea? The Immigrant’s Cup was a crapshoot: they could get some third level side from a former Soviet, they could get Barcelona. So, all in all that was maybe a dozen games against teams that were nowhere near Chelsea’s level.
OK, he said. I can do that. Long as you’re healthy, as long as you’re not at the Olympics, you can have those games.
OK. OK, Really? Great, um. OK. So, I’m here then. I’m staying. I’ll stay.
Danyil smiled. You sure, Leigh?
Yes, yes I am. I am. That’s great.
Alright, then. I’ll let Mr. Gourlay know and I’m sure he, or Jessica, or someone will get back with you, OK? Danyil looked up to see Ruud sliding a magazine into his shoulder bag while glancing meaningfully at him—a queue was forming up at their gate.
Yeah, I’ll be here all day.
OK. Leigh, I’ve got to go, our flight to Germany is about to board. But one more thing.
Yes, coach?
Call your parents. Make sure they hear this from you.
Leigh’s voice was weary when she answered, OK, yeah. I need to do that.
Alright, good. You watching the game on Saturday? Ruud was standing, gesturing impatiently. Danyil held up a finger and nodded.
Yes. We’re going to Cobham for it.
Good. Who you think takes it?
Leigh’s voice was clean, free of the weight it had just carried. Barcelona. Easy.
Danyil wasn’t so sure, but he knew there wasn’t time to argue. OK. I’ll see you back in London next week, OK?
OK, great. And, Coach?
Yes? Ruud had already begun to walk away towards the line of people.
Thank you. Really. I … just thanks.
That’s OK, Leigh. We’ll talk more next week, OK?
May 19, 2012
Allianz-Arena was full, and Danyil was convinced forty of the fifty-five thousand were rooting for Bayern, Ruud among them. Danyil glanced over to where, a row below and four seats over, Ruud sat, dressed proudly in a red shirt with the name Augenthaler above the number 5. Occasionally, their eyes would meet and linger a moment longer than usual.
Bayern’s coach, Louis van Gaal, had surprised some people with his selection, leaving Mario Gomez out of the side entirely while preferring to start the young Israeli Mohammed Gadir at forward in front of an attacking trio of Florent Malouda, Toni Kroos, and Arjen Robben.
The press had a field day with it of course: a Jew starting for Bayern in the biggest game in European soccer. Gadir’s role at the Munich club had been hailed as proof that the country had shed the baggage of anti-semitism with many claiming that alone was enough to secure their victory. Still, there were voices that insisted the championship was more important than symbolism, voices who would have preferred the imposing figure of Gomez troubling the Barcelona defense. For the most part, though, those people were more concerned with Malouda, who had joined the team from Chelsea two years ago. He was only starting due to Franck Ribéry’s broken ribs, and while the French international had been an adequate replacement, Bayern was clearly at their best with Ribéry marauding down one flank while Robben patrolled the other.
On the other side of the ball, the story was simply Lionel Messi, who produced twenty-three goals and, even more impressively, twenty-seven assists on the season. David Villa, the recipient of many of those assists, led Barcelona’s attack up front, along with Chilean sensation Alexis Sánchez. Andrés Iniesta found himself on Pep Guardiola’s bench, recovering from a pulled hamstring, but this was Barcelona and Javier Mascherano was a quality player to slide in alongside Xavi and Cesc Fàbregas. If the team had a weakness, it was in goal where Brazilian Muriel was filling in for the injured Victor Valdés, but the twenty-five year old who had joined Barcelona from Brazilian side Goiás the year before had kept a clean sheet in roughly a third of his thirty-odd appearances.
The pundits were all stumping for the Spaniards, and there was little argument: they were the better side on paper. But as they say, games aren’t played on paper, and when Andres Marriner blew his whistle, the roar from the home crowd was enough to convince the world that this could be an uphill climb for the visiting team.
Just seconds into the match, Gadir had a shot at history when a good tackle from Bastian Schweinsteiger had set free Robben who slalomed through midfield before finding the young Israeli in stride, but his shot swerved well off target. Minutes later, Barcelona had an opportunity of their own with a quick break sending the ball from Messi to Villa square to Sánchez, but his shot trickled just outside Mickaël Landreau’s post. The veteran French goalkeeper was forced to make the first significant save of the game as well, turning away a well-placed header from Messi from just inside the six yard box.
Xavi was forced to leave the field under twenty minutes after the contest began, clutching the back of his leg after pulling up on a run down the left channel. He was replaced not by Iniesta, but by the Brazilian veteran Naldo.
The first half settled into a regular rhythm: Bayern would control the ball, but struggle to break down the Barcelona defense while the Spanish side would force a series of fantastic saves from Landreau, most from rockets off Villa’s powerful right foot or from silky smooth runs from their Argentinian talisman.
Muriel’s first test of the evening came with only a few minutes until the interval, when Toni Kroos lined up a free kick from thirty-two yards away. The ball swerved around the wall and was dipping towards the inside of the post before the Brazilian was able to tip it away with an acrobatic leap.
Coming out of halftime, the Germans seemed to attack more ferociously, with Kroos, Robben, and Schweinsteiger all forcing saves from Muriel from well outside the box, but once the onslaught faded around the hour mark, the game looked destined for extra time and the inevitable penalties. With Gadir clearly tiring, van Gaal turned to his teenage prodigy, Romelu Lukaku. The Belgian man-child had begun to show his value during the season, finishing with a half-dozen goals in the campaign while being eased into the rotation, but here he was unable to make an impact.
At the same time, in a final effort to find the back of the net, Guardiola replaced Danny Alves with Iniesta, leaving Barcelona weaker on the wings, but with yet another playmaker in the attacking third.
Neither move was particularly successful, and the sideline referee had just raised his sign declaring three minutes of extra time when Muriel lined up a free kick a dozen yards inside his half. Villa, who had been brilliant on the day and unlucky not to be working on a hat-trick, snuck behind Brazilian veteran Breno to take the ball out of the air in front of Landreau. His first touch sent the ball wide to the right, but Villa beat everyone else to it and slotted it home, the ball touching the back of the net just as the game clocked flipped to a full ninety minutes.
The crowd was stunned, and the three minutes of extra time passed without note: Barcelona were European champions!
As the stadium slowly emptied, the gloom punctuated by the chants of Campeones! and the noisy fans clad in red and blue that had surged into the stands around midfield. Ruud slumped in his seat, his head cradled in his hands. Danyil stared at him, unable to move, unable to give comfort. He turned and shuffled out of the stadium, making his way back to the hotel, anger sitting in the back of his stomach like a gargoyle carved into the high ledge of a building, ever vigilant.
European Champions League Final
FC Bayern v Barcelona, Allianz-Arena
Bayern 0 – Barcelona 1 (David Villa 90)
MoM: Villa (8.4) Bayern’s Best: Philipp Lahm (7.1)
Attendance: 56,132. Referee: Andre Marriner.
MKNN 