27 March 2016
"Hey Ombreta"
"Hello Estel"
"What happened? Did you not have a game today?"
"I did, but… I don't know. Coach decided to rest me. I told him I was perfectly okay. In fact, I will be better if he lets me play."
"Ombreta, is Señor Tito outside?"
"Yes, he was there when I came back."
"Ok, good. I'll convince him to let me come in. Wait for me. Bye!"
The line cut off on Jordi's phone. He stared at Estel's contact picture and gave a wry smile.
…
10 minutes after the call ended, Estel was sitting on Jordi's bed. Next to her legs, Jordi sat on the floor, back leaning against the bedframe, face steered towards the front. Estel did not interrupt Jordi's contemplation.
…
Jordi had joined the Cadete B side (U15) at the beginning of the 2015-16 season. He had yet another standout season, playing as the pivot and, sometimes, as a defender. He was not wearing the captain's armband this season, but had naturally become the leader of the team's defense and midfield.
Today, however, for the first time in Jordi's La Masia career, he had been rested for a reason other than fitness. Coach Cristian had taken him aside and explained to Jordi the reason. He believed Jordi was emotionally exhausted and had not grieved properly. It had only been 3 days since the great Johan Cruyff passed away, and the La Masia staff could clearly tell that Jordi was quite affected.
Jordi Lloret, just 12 years of age, did not understand grief, let alone how to deal with it. In his opinion, resting him despite his pleas was making everything worse. Football was Jordi's escape. It was how he expressed himself. Now, he had too much time to think and feel.
…
Jordi took out a vanilla-coloured envelope from the inside of his jacket. Señor Tito had handed it to him when he returned from the training ground today. On the envelope, with a black fountain pen, was written, "To Jordi Lloret". The writing was very familiar.
With delicate movements, Jordi opened the envelope. Inside was a square piece of paper, grainy in texture. He took the paper out and took a deep breath. The black writing on the paper was powerful, neat, and in Catalan.
'Hello Jordi,
I hope you are well.
I tell you, I wish I could see you play for many more years, but this is life, Jordi. I write to you because I feel like I should tell you some things.
Trust yourself. Always trust yourself. Barcelona is lucky to have you. And if the people in the offices don't understand that, don't hold it against the club. This is not their club. This is and will always be our club.
Enjoy yourself, in life and in football. Both can be very difficult. In fact, more often than not, they are difficult. But I promise you, there is a lot of joy to be felt in both, only if you seek it out.
I will leave you with a few requests, Jordi –
Take care of Barcelona.
Take care of Football.
And most importantly, take good care of your family.
Best wishes,
Hendrik Johan Cruyff '
__________________________
Jordi sniffled and dried his cheeks. His blue eyes, highlighted in red, felt weak and tired. He carefully slipped the note back in the envelope and placed it back in his jacket.
Jordi did not understand what he should do. He felt like he was in a predicament he had no knowledge of. The sheer size of the world outside his window intimidated him. Even the dorm room felt alien in its stillness and novelty. The only comfort was the hand on his shoulder. His head tilted towards her as his tears stained her lap. The hand left his shoulder and moved through his hair.
Estel, sobbing, could only mindlessly run her fingers through Jordi's hair to comfort him. Even that was a great help to the grieving boy.
...
Señor Tito looked up from his station as Jordi walked up to him. Just a moment ago, that little girl had run out of the room. It was scary to think, he was one of the few to know that the two prodigies of La Masia were a cute little couple.
Señor Tito noticed Jordi's eyes were red and tired. He sighed, "Jordi, you are a lucky boy. That great man personally wrote to you before he—before he went away."
A polite nod was all Señor Tito could elicit.
"Señor Tito, could you call me a taxi, please? I want to go home."
"Of course. That is a great idea. Take a few days off, I suggest."
Señor Tito picked up the landline and called the company affiliated to La Masia.
"The taxi will be here in 5, Jordi."
"Thank you, Señor."
Jordi turned to walk towards the lounge to wait, but Señor Tito addressed him again.
"Jordi?"
"Yes, Señor Tito."
"Your team won the game, but, uhm… Sergi got injured. He's at the hospital now. It might be his ACL."
Jordi stared at Señor Tito, whose expression was graver than the news he had delivered.
"Oh. I'll call him when I get home. He tore his ACL earlier this season as well, but he came back perfectly fine, Señor. This will just take him some time, and he'll be back to scoring goals."
Señor Tito hesitated, then came to a decision. He smiled at Jordi, "Let us hope so, Jordi."
He followed Jordi's silhouette towards the exit. Those small shoulders were meant to carry burdens too heavy for a child.
'What is the price of greatness?' Señor Tito asked himself.
…
Layla and Ferran Lloret went out every Sunday morning to stock up on produce. So, Aunt Ona was the only one looking after the bakery when Jordi entered.
"Jordi, what a surprise! Didn't you have a match today?"
Ona rounded the counter to hug her nephew. She felt a pang in her heart when she could not make out the usual light in Jordi's eyes.
"I was rested today, Aunty. I'll be in my room. Have homework to do."
Jordi hurried upstairs. Once in his room, he hung his bag behind the closed door and sat at the foot of his bed. His gaze rested on the frame hung in front of him. Inside it was the back of a decades-old Barcelona shirt with a 14 in white.
In a gold marker, the area below the 14 was signed,
' To Jordi, The Future of Barca.
Always remember, true football comes from the heart.
Johan Cruyff '
The message was ingrained in Jordi's memory, so many times had he read it. Now, along with Cruyff's letter, this was a memory for him to cherish. Señor Tito was right. He was very lucky to have been cared for by a man of that stature. A man whose legend was much larger than the footballer he was or the manager he became.
…
Jordi woke up to his phone ringing. He grabbed around under the pillow and saw it was Eric calling.
"Hello?" Jordi's croak sounded in the phone.
"Jordi? Have you talked to Sergi?"
Jord noticed the deep worry permeating through Eric's voice and sat up in his bed.
"No. I tried calling him, but he didn't pick up. What's wrong?"
"…"
"Eric? Eric, what's wrong?"
"Jordi, Coach just told me that… that Sergi is leaving. He is leaving the academy."
"Eric, what are you talking about? This isn't a joke—"
"Jordi, shut up and listen!"
"… Sorry"
"Jordi. He tore his ACL in the match today. It's already his second time within 6 months. Apparently, the doctors said that his joints are unstable or something. I didn't fully understand… God's sake, why are you so quiet? You can speak now."
"So, so what now?"
"It— it means that he cannot play anymore."
"Oh"
"Señor Tito told me that his parents came to take his stuff from the room. We have all tried to call him, message him, but he isn't responding. Maybe he'll talk to you."
"Hmm, I'll—I'll try, Eric."
"Jordi"
"Yes?"
"Just, just take care, ok"
"… ok."
…
13 missed calls. 4 unread messages.
Jordi squeezed the phone. He had never felt so helpless before. In an abrupt movement, Jordi threw the phone at the wall and screamed. Not satisfied, he screamed again and dropped to the floor. Heavy steps sounded, and Aunt Ona barged in to see little Jordi on the floor.
Amidst his scream, Jordi felt himself enveloped in a tight hug. His scream became a croak, which then became a sob. Jordi leaned into Aunt Ona's warm embrace and broke down crying.