90 Minutes.
Ninety minutes of focus, ninety minutes of battle, ninety minutes of running towards dreams on a carpet of green.
The bleachers above and around held seas of support, and waves of pessimism, as crowds gathered in the stadium to watch this momentous game play out. The 22nd official FIFA World Cup was taking place and the stakes were high. Anxiety contaminated the air in between bursts of excitement as Spanish football legend, now coach, Luis Enrique roared out commands, reprimanding the team for their fruitless playing.
90 minutes have passed and a goal is yet to be scored. This doesn't mean that they've lost, it just doesn't mean that they've won. And thats no good either.
"Pedri, tienes que ser mas rapido! You are too soft, por que? We are here to win not to play"
Number 26.
20 year old Pedro Gonzalez Lopez, known in the footballing world as Pedri, sits on the bench, head hung low. His knee wrap comes undone as he struggles to focus on the scolding directed at him. At the mention of his name, in a tone that stung far worse than the gashes on his cheek or the bruising on his ribs, he looks up. Coach stares expectantly, waiting for verification that his words did not fall upon deaf ears.
"Si. Lo siento"
Coach scoffs at the apology and goes off on a tangent about how important this is. Of course it's important. The cameras, the flashing lights, the ruthless chants, the expectant fans, the awaiting crowds back home in Spain that have entrusted their pride, hopes and dreams with their national team, all in anticipation of a goal. A score to carry the team through to the next round of the tournament.
The stress from it all snapped Pedri's attention back to the locker room. The medical scents of a first aid kit raided his senses as his eyes flit around the room to take in his exhausted teammates.
90 minutes.
The umpires ruling sent tonights game into penalties, a shootout between the two competing nations to determine the winner. This was it. All or nothing and they all had to push through despite their injuries, despite their fatigue, despite not having enough strength, mentally and physically, to continue playing for god knows how long.
To his right, Pedri spots fellow midfielder Gavi begin to slump in his seat, not so subtly visibly giving up. He nudges him with his knuckles and gives him a nod, a look that says 'I know', a look thats says 'it's okay'. Gavi straightens up and rolls his shoulder, a move that causes a wince to take over his features, shaking it off he nods back a response.
"Push through" . "Push Through".
As they all stand up, making their way back out to the field, ready to end the game, ready to give it their all, voices float down to them from the rows and rows of red and yellow that have flown in from around the world to encourage them.
"LA ROJA FURIA, OLE OLE OLE, LA ROJA FURIA, VAMOS OLE OLE"
A fire of elation and excitement filled Pedro's chest, a spark of enthusiasm ran through his veins pumping his soul with adrenaline. The blaring lights of the stadium flashlights blind his view for a while as his eyes adjust to their intensity. He looks around, searching the masses of people for a familiar face, for the set of chestnut eyes that make the skies seem bluer, for that radiant smile peeking through soft lips that made the sun shine brighter, for those rosy cheeks that perked up at his sight, growing a darker shade of blush.
He spots her.
Decked out in his jersey, brown hair tousled perfectly by the wind lapping at it. Standing behind the fences that kept the fans off the pitch, with her hand grasping at her heart; Michelle Ortiz Verano watched as her love ran out across the field kissing his closed fist then raising a pointing finger in her direction. Reassurance. Everything is and will be okay.
