Soul Harbour

0.30 | when attending a match |

0.30 | from Sabah's recorder: when attending a match |

Auburn and I found ourselves disliking the Kroffs more and more throughout the entire ninety minutes (plus extras) we spent sitting with them in the VIP box. There were, of course, a number of players' families—"Look, Carlotta! That woman in grey is Sergio's girlfriend"—but it was very difficult to ignore the excessively proud Kroffs cheering madly for Mikhail.

Looking at them, I decided that in a way it was better I had never contracted the disease of parenthood--or to put it more precisely, had not been allowed to, quarantined off effectively by David's efforts. 

Mrs. Kroff had spotted Auburn's "ANTHONY NO. 14" jersey and had forced her husband to sit by us. They were both chemical scientists and while Mr. Kroff had played for state level football, we were told, he had not known that his family had sporting talent until his son had shown his prowess.

"Yes, Anthony is very talented. Madrid's lucky they have him because the way he's playing these days plus the general skill of the team, Barcelona had no chance today," Auburn had, a little too cheerfully, informed them.

Both of us were happy to see Mr. Kroff turn a lovely shade of purple as Mrs. Kroff hastened to ask us whether we knew Mikhail had won Germany their World Cup.

Yes, we knew. Big deal. It was old news anyway.

"The match is getting really interesting," I had cut in. "We should pay attention or we'll lose some really remarkable clashes."

For some time, Auburn and I had really enjoyed the match. Every time there was a pass, a foul or a goal attempt, the crowded stadium with jump up in excitement or indignation. There was an electric energy in the air, a constant roar and shouts and screams mingling in one battle song. Our bodies thrummed with adrenaline as the footballers continued to play the tough game.

It was half-time when conversation resumed because Mikhail fucking Kroff had just scored a goal. Auburn and I had shamelessly boo-ed that goal along with the rest of the stadium, much to the chagrin of the other members of our VIP box.

As the Kroffs began to congratulate themselves for bearing this miracle of a son, we began to state Anthony's flawless stats from the season a little too loudly, drowning their lovefest. We rattled off facts and figures that we proudly knew off the top of our heads from having followed every match, every newscast, every newspaper article about him and somewhere along our breathless tirade, the Kroffs had gone silent.

We smiled at each other over our no small victory and took a breath as the players began to file out again.

"Yes, but Mikhail is a striker. Bundesliga's best."

I had to restrain myself from breaking patronising Mr. Kroff's stupid nose when Auburn informed them very politely, "I'm sorry, Mr. Kroff, but this isn't the Bundesliga."

I nodded appreciatively, "This is the la liga and this is Anthony's arena so I'd advise you to place your bets carefully."

All excellent rebuffs come in threes so it wasn't a great surprise that Cristiano Ronaldo decided to even the score just then by heading in a fantastic goal.

1-1.

The scoreboard read now.

I was worried for Anthony the second his crook of an elder brother had scored a goal in the first half but he kept a level head. In fact, this match would prove to be another instance in which we would notice that the field was were Anthony loved to be. He was confident, precise and totally in control. I was very proud of him and I think, Auburn fell in love with him all over again...twice, at least; could be more.

So, when the match ended and the stadium reached a crescendo of Hala Madrids, cheers and drunken dancing, and Anthony looked in the direction of the VIP box and sent two flying kisses, we shouldn't have been surprised.

But we were. Touched and surprised.

It was a small gesture amongst the fifteen or so other celebrating footballers who were all doing various actions of victory and signature celebrations but it meant something to us.

Of course, his parents thought it was for them but we who could see him actually laughing out there after days of looking degrees from dead, we who knew how much this meant to him, we who knew that everything would change or that it should in some huge way or another—you cannot attend a match like an el Clasico where your favourite team wins without feeling something of this—we knew.

And so we laughed.

These were happy times.

And then were some very turbulent times.

But first I should tell you about Fernando. 

***

Dedicated to sausagekayuchiha for being so lovely.

***

Also, I'm pretty much fed up with Soul Harbour getting plagiarized every now and then, from characters to setting to writing style (its been four cases in the last two months) and since I put in a lot of effort into this story, I am both saddened and angered. I implore people to write their own stories and find the difference between 'inspiration' and 'plagiarism' in a dictionary.