Don't Forget to Write

Underdogs

The next day, Sunday, when I walked into the kitchen Bruno was awake as usual, but he wasn't in the kitchen. He was sitting on the futon watching the pregame announcers talk about an upcoming soccer match, which would have been normal if it was Liga de Quito or Barcelona playing, but it was a game between Huddersfield and Crystal Palace, low-end teams that nobody cared about. Maybe he wasn't actually watching the screen, but instead using it to project his own memories and highlights of his glory days, longing for that last competitive game. Everybody else on the team felt terrible yesterday when they lost, but at least the 4th year players knew it could be their last game going into it. They had a sense of closure. Bruno didn't know his last game would be his last until days after it happened. It is a sad thing to have your career come to a definitive end, any college or high school athlete can tell you that. But it is even harder to have it stripped away from you unexpectedly.

He didn't notice me when I walked in. I turned back, put on shoes, got my wallet, and went down to Abe's deli. Abe's little cousin, Mo, was there. Mo was 19 and born in the states, so he didn't have the same accent Abe and most of his family had. He was tall and lean and had the bright smile of a man who enjoyed the simple things every day.

"Hey man," he said, "you're not usually here in the morning."

"Yeah, it's a special occasion." He had the Huddersfield versus Crystal Palace pregame on the tv too, they were getting ready to start the match. "You big into soccer like Abe?"

"I love it. This should be a good game."

"These two? They aren't anything special. They might get relegated at the end of the season."

"Exactly why it should be good. Neither team has anything to lose. When you watch the better teams oftentimes they play so conservatively and defensively because they are in all those tournaments, playing two or three games a week. They're always moving players around and resting some while using others, and they care more about not letting any goals in than they do about scoring them. But with teams like these, who aren't in the big tournaments, who only play for the league, even more, are playing just for a chance to stay in the league. They are desperate. They put one-hundred-percent effort with all of their players because if they don't succeed, they go down to the second division. They an enormous chunk of pride and glory. Salaries get cut. Staff members get fired. Everything gets worse. Imagine playing in a game knowing that if you don't win it, if you don't perform to the best of your ability and make something of the game, Tons of people - janitors, cooks, equipment managers, minor coaching staff, and more all might lose their jobs. That's way more pressure than most of the big teams has to deal with. That's much more stress than playing for a simple trophy."

"Geez, I never thought of it that way. They're fighting for their lives, for their club."

"Exactly. Sometimes you get lucky and a middle of the table team will win something. Who knows, maybe we will see a repeat of that legendary Leicester City season." In the 2015-2016 season, Leicester City, which had just been promoted to the top division the previous year, and had almost been relegated back down in their first division debut. They started their second season with a surprising winning streak, beating teams they had no business beating, and everyone thought it was just luck or good form, and that they would crumble sooner or later. But the winning never ended, and they stayed at the top of the table for the whole season and ended up winning the whole thing. Their odds of winning were 5000-1. To put that into perspective, that is (supposedly) ten times less likely than Simon Cowell from American Idol becoming the next Prime Minister of England (500-1), or Kanye West winning the Nobel Peace Prize (also 500-1), five times less likely than the "Miracle on Ice" in 1980 (1,000-1), about half as likely as getting struck by lightning (3000-1) and a million other bizarre statistics. The closest feat to this in sports history was a 2000-1 odds (which, really, isn't even close as far as odds are concerned) victory of Rulon Gardner over Alexander Karelin in Greco-Roman wrestling in the 2000 Summer Olympics. Ever heard of either of those wrestlers? Me neither. The point is, this Leicester City season was the greatest feat in athletic history. It was absolutely incredible to watch a team who was one loss away from relegation claw their way back to stay in the top division, then, the very next season, win the whole thing. All with a squad whose combined salaries were worth was less than any single player on many of the top teams. A miracle season.

I ordered two big breakfast subs and got two extra-large coffees with hazelnut cream and brought them back up to the apartment. I put the sandwiches, coffees, and a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and sat with Bruno. "Thanks," he said. I just nodded. We sat quietly watching the game, which, as Mo had predicted, turned out to be a great match to watch. Both teams took risky chances, doing anything to score a goal and even more to defend them. They played as if their lives depended on it, and in some ways, their lives did depend on it.

That night I bought Bruno dinner at the pub. We both ordered Bob's recommendation of big sirloin steaks with Brussel sprouts and mashed sweet potatoes, all layered some home-made maple gravy. Further down the bar, people were talking about the upcoming presidential election, calling Trump an orangutan and a conman while calling Hilary an American killing oligarch. Other than that discussion, it was quiet at the bar, even for a Sunday.

We had both finished our meals, and Bruno was staring down at his plate, clearly lost in a faraway place. "Hey, Bruno,"

He looked up. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I feel guilty. I feel like if it weren't for me you would have been able to finish out your last season. Maybe things would have been different if you were playing with them. Maybe you could have finally lifted that trophy. And I just feel like it's my fault you didn't get the chance."

"Pete," he said, very sternly, "I don't blame you, and I never would. It was my choice to do what I did. You were unconscious when it happened, you can't take any responsibility for it. And I still don't regret the decision I made. I never will. You got that?"

I nodded. I wanted to talk, but I didn't have anything else to say.