9 September 2006
"Ting"
The bell sounded as a customer entered the Lloret Bakery, faintly tucked into the residential neighborhood of El Raval.
"How are you, Raul?" The woman behind the counter had a rosy face with elegant brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her eyes were blue and kind, comforting you as you kept looking.
"Same old, Lady Layla. I'll take the usual, please. In fact, add a couple croissants as well. The boss might be visiting my post office today," replied Raul, a pale-faced but stout man.
The morning commotion and conversation in the bakery did not reach the far corner. There, a heavy, silver television set was mounted on the top of the wall, surrounded by FC Barcelona scarves, frames, and shirts. Directly below, a boy sat on a red cushion staring at the blaugrana figures on the television.
The boy had the kind eyes and rosy cheeks of the woman behind the counter. His baby fat only exacerbated his cute features. His jet black hair covered his eyes and reached the bridge of his sculpted nose; both features without a doubt inherited from his other parent. His eyes shone bright through the hair, and if you lean in close enough, you could hear him consistently muttering.
He was predicting the plays, his eyes not trained on the player with the ball, but on the green patches and the figures veering into them. For each moment, he could come up with multiple trajectories for the ball to progress. The boy, just three years of age, would click his tongue when a player would not follow the trajectory he considered the best. He would hum along when they did.
"Xavi, Marquez, Ronaldinho…"
The boy understood. He understood the space, the shape, and the pace. Yet there was one player he could not understand. One boy whose next play he could not predict. The ordinary-looking boy wearing the number 19.
Jordi Lloret was born to Layla Lloret. His mother was a renowned baker in El Raval and beyond, and his uncle was the creator and president of the local FC Barcelona fanclub, Penya Culers del Raval. And so, little Jordi grew amongst the smell of bread and the sight of blaugrana.
...
At 6 months old, Jordi received his first Barca jersey with a 10 and Ronaldinho on the back.
At 1 year old, he was running around the tight streets of El Raval with a football at his feet and the children around him.
On Jordi's second birthday, the Penya Culers del Raval took him to the Camp Nou for the first time. The atmosphere, the football, the clarity from that visit solidified his love for Barca and ignited his love for football. His uncle and the other members were full of pride witnessing this rite of passage. However, they failed to see the comprehension in little Jordi's eyes. An understanding that he himself did not recognize as yet.
A year after his first visit to the Camp Nou, Jordi was fully immersed. His passion for football was only outmatched by his understanding of it.
...
For the 4th time in under a minute, Layla Garcia glanced through the kitchen door as she kneaded dough for the next batch of pies. Her clumsy brother was laughing along to an unfunny joke Old Miss Anna just told him at the counter. However, her focus was on their child, her gift and her warmth. She had noticed him recently going quiet and staring into space after watching Barca matches.
Layla knew her child well, of course. Somehow, her baby loved football even more than her brother did. She knew very well his oddities when it came to football; the muttering throughout a game and the lack of any reaction to the goals his team would score. Being a great mother, she also knew her Jordi's favorite player was the new kid from Argentina. His goals and dribbles were the only time she would see a look of surprise and elation on Jordi's face.
What worried Layla was his lost look after every game. Her child always had a smile on his face in anything to remotely do with football. This was a new development. Her brother had just attributed it to growth and went on with life in the carefree manner so characteristic of him. But she was a mother. She constantly worried about her little Jordi.
...
"That little Jordi sure likes his football, hunh, Ferran?"
"Haha, yes, yes. He loves football. He loves Barcelona. Just like his uncle," Ferran Lloret chuckled. He wondered when Old Miss Anna would decide to leave. Just when the conversation ended, she would bring up a new topic.
"Oh, stop. I remember you could not pay attention to a game for more than 5 minutes. Your poor mother would have to slap some sense into you. Bless her soul."
"Yes, but-"
"Look at little Jordi, though. He spends so much time watching those games. I wonder what he even thinks about.
...
Yesterday, Uncle Ferran finally took me to buy the new jersey I had begged my mother for. I will be wearing it on my first day of school (apparently, all four-year-olds have to go). So, even though I don't want to go to this school my mother has mentioned, I have not complained because of the loosely fitting shirt on me.
Lionel Messi - #19
I hope everyone asks me about him when they look at my back. I cannot wait to tell them all how he is better than Ronaldinho and Thierry Henry. He is so wonderful that I cannot describe it. I have already had one big argument with Old Garcia when I went to the bookstore last month. He thinks this Maradona guy is the best player ever. I refuse to believe him, and I refuse to watch the videotape he gave me.
Messi is the best. I cannot predict what he will do. So many passes and dribbles I could never have seen, even if I had minutes to search. I don't know what to do now that watching football is not as easy. It is frustrating, but it is also so exciting.
I love Lionel Messi, and one day I will play with him.