moviemusician
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Nachricht senden |  Erstellt am 13.02.2007 - 20:20 |      |
Nein, kein neues Kapitel (ist aber in Arbeit). Dafür ein kleiner One-Shot, der nach der Niederlage gegen Newcastle am Samstag spielt. Ist auf Englisch und ich bin für alle Anmerkungen wegen meiner Grammatik oder blöder Konstruktionen riesig dankbar! (Natürlich auch für Lob...)
Two weeks
After the penalty, they switch. Neither the channel nor the match, there’s still hope for their team, but the drinks. Some cans of beer appear on the table and soon Luis is telling Xabi that he’d have scored. Certainly.
The smaller one always gets very talkative whenever there’s alcohol involved, but Xabi doesn’t mind. At least Luis is much too occupied with the ongoing game, their strikers and himself to notice that his mind is elsewhere. He stares at the TV but doesn’t really realize what’s going on on the screen, only twitching when Stevie receives his yellow. His midfield partner has had another not-so-good day and he’s glad that he doesn’t have to be on the team bus with him later.
“It’s a shame you haven’t played.” Luis turns the sound down, apparently not really interested in the commentary and interviews. “We’d have won, with the two of us.”
“Sure.” Xabi empties his can with one gulp. He doesn’t really feel like talking now, with the sinking feeling of losing and other not-so-nice things.
But the older one either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore it, as he continues. “Stevie didn’t have a great game today, did he?”
“Yeah, he could’ve done better. Rafa’ll be furious about the yellow,” Xabi answers, opening a second can. There’ll be no training tomorrow anyway.
“He hasn’t played really well during the last few weeks. Do you know what’s the problem with him?”
The midfielder chokes and nearly splatters his beer on Luis’ white couch.
“Xabi? You know something?” Curiously, the other one looks at him, interpreting his reaction completely right.
***
To speak to Steven Gerrard after a lost game, you must be either completely daft or incredibly brave. Jamie Carragher is the latter, which is why he’s been singled out by the team to talk to their captain during their journey back. Normally, that would’ve been a captain’s job, but since Stevie is the captain himself, this option was just impossible.
“Hi.” Shoving Stevie’s bag aside, Jamie let’s himself fall into the seat next to the midfielder.
“Why can’t you sit somewhere else?” Apparently Stevie’s mood is even worse than average, and for a moment Jamie actually considers getting up again and letting his captain be moody and bad-tempered. There’re other people who can sort him out: Alex, Rafa, maybe Xabi. Although these two haven’t been too close during the last two weeks.
“See, Stevie, I thought you maybe wanted to – talk?” He sounds like some stupid psychologist from an American film.
“I already know that I played like crap, thank you very much,” Stevie mutters darkly, his arms crossed in front of his breast.
“And everyone on here knows as well,” Carra remarks dryly. “But I’d like to know why.”
“That’s none of your business.” The captain turns away, looking out of the window and staring into the darkness as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.
***
“He probably doesn’t want me to tell anyone,” Xabi tries to find a way out of that tight situation Luis has brought him into. Inwardly, he’s swearing at himself for slipping so easily – what has happened to his normal collected, reserved self? One can of beer can’t have these effects, they’ve had more than that without giving themselves away.
“Oh, it’s a shame that I can’t train with you yet.” Luis winks mischievously. “All that gossip I miss… Does he have any problems with Alex?”
“Dunno.” That’s actually true, for once, but as they want to marry in the summer, Xabi reckons that their relationship is as good as it’s possible when one part of it keeps fucking his team mate.
“Is it that England match?” The other man creases his forehead, gnawing on his lips. “But it wasn’t his fault, I wouldn’t have substituted him. And he’s already played rubbish the week before.”
Relieved, Xabi leans back, sipping on his beer again. Luis won’t find out, there’s no way he could know about them, and when he’s searching for the reason within the English national team, then it’s the completely wrong route.
“By the way, I didn’t see the two of you talking on Wednesday. You talked to Carra, it was on the TV.”
As Luis looks at him curiously, Xabi feels a flutter in his stomach. That’s a bit too close to the truth for his taste. His hand cramps around his can while he tries to look as calm as possible. Don’t give it away, don’t give it away, don’t give it away…
“Have you had a row?”
And Xabi’s flushing brighter than the Liverpool red.
***
“Listen, Stevie, I’m a footballer, but I’m not daft. Or blind, for that matter.” Slowly, Carra’s losing his patience with his friend. He simply knows that something isn’t right – it’s like the time when Steven’s parents split up all over again. “There’s something going on.”
“It isn’t.” Stevie doesn’t sound very convincing.
The older one sighs – but when the subtle way doesn’t help, there’s always the hammer method left. He knows his captain and, more importantly, he has watched him quite closely during the last week. “What did you and Xabi row about?” Stevie and the Spaniard have been avoiding each other like Evertonians and Kopites, so it’s worth a guess.
Stevie turns around as if someone’s pinched him with a needle, which is, apart from an urgently whispered “How do you know?” everything the defender needs for an answer. Which isn’t surprising, seeing that Steven has the talent to explode like a little bomb and has probably had a row with everyone he knows. The problem is that normally it doesn’t last two weeks – he’s nearly as fast with an excuse as with an explosion.
“As I told yeh before, I’m not dumb.” Carra shrugs. “So yeh had a fight, so what? Can’t have been that bad, can it?”
“Probably was.”
“What was it about, then?” The defender has Stevie where he wants him and he won’t let him go until he’s spilled all his problems – and if they won’t be at home before sunrise, he doesn’t give a damn.
His captain looks around carefully, watching the sleeping Daniel Agger behind them for a few seconds, making sure that everyone else is seemingly occupied, before turning to Carra again. “Listen – yeh don’t tell anyone, ok?”
“Yeah, alright,” Carra replies nonchalantly, although he’s nearly burning with curiousness.
“It’s” – Stevie gestures at him to get a bit closer and then continues in a voice so small Carra would never have thought their captain had – “it’s been about Alex.”
“Alex?” There’s an Alex on the reserves and two in the Academy, but Carra can’t work out why their dream duo wouldn’t speak because of one of them. Sure, Stevie’s always looking out for younger players, but in the end it’s Rafa’s job to decide who’s worth the step into the first team. The only other two Alexes he knows are Alex Frei, some Swiss player, and Aliaksandr Hleb from Arsenal, though he’s at a loss to figure out what they’ve to do with Liverpool, let alone with Stevie and Xabi. “What do you mean…”
“Shh!” Steven interrupts him, looking slightly panicky, even though their team mates haven’t even moved at the sound of Carra’s voice booming through the bus. “It’s – you know, Alex. I mean, yeh know, me Alex.” The last words are mumbled into a non-existent beard so the defender needs a few seconds to figure everything out.
But then it hits him like a bomb, thousands of questions are invading his brain and he’s unable to choose one of them to ask, so he decides on a simple “Really?”, still hoping that he’s somehow imagined it, being tired and everything.
Destroying his hopes, Steven nods, looking completely miserable.
And Carra sits there, dumbstruck, while all the pieces in his head click together, the touches on and off the pitch finally making sense, the special bond the midfielders seem to share, Istanbul… Suddenly he’s thinking about that chapter in Steven’s book, Xabi got a smacker on the lips, sure – it must have been more, even then.
***
“Xabi, you have to tell me!” Luis has been pestering the midfielder for half an hour already, unnerved by his steady silence. He’s tried everything from pouting to his famous puppy-look, and has finally settled on talking non-stop.
“I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up,” the other one answers calmly, trying to follow the summary of the Chelsea match. “You know Stevie, everyone’s already clashed with him. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Yeah?” Luis is grinning broadly and cheekily. “If it’s so ordinary, why can’t you tell me?”
Somehow, Xabi muses, God must have decided that everything today was supposed to go wrong. It’s been ages since he has last walked in one of the curious striker’s traps. And it’s just the icing on an entirely miserable week – the draw against Everton, of all teams, being benched during the friendly, the loss just now, Stevie still being a stubborn fool and now Luis Garcia, probably the biggest gossip girl on this planet, having found something new to get involved in. Maybe he wouldn’t be half as nosy if he were able to train and play, but he’s bored and his eyes tell Xabi that he finds this topic much more exciting than any of the Spanish soap operas he’s constantly watching.
“Luis – I really can’t tell you. Please, just leave it.” He grabs the remote, turning the tune up.
“Is it that bad?” Suddenly, Luis’ voice sounds warmer, not as curious as before. It sounds like, for once, he’s caring for Xabi, not for the gossip itself. “I’ve seen you play, against Everton. You didn’t work well together. And you don’t look very happy.”
It’s these simple words that make something inside Xabi melt, make him want to spill it all out to Luis. Maybe it would help to talk to anyone except himself, late at night. Luis is right, he is far from happy at the moment. But there’s that risk, that horrible risk of Luis not accepting it – them -, or of just slipping somewhere in the dressing rooms or, worse, in front of the press, and so he shakes his head silently.
“Oh gosh, Xabi, you’re complicated.” The older man rests his head against his arms, as they sit in silence, listening to the commentator freaking out about a Drogba goal.
***
“Why don’t you just say it’s disgusting and wrong and leave already?” Stevie’s voice sounds bitter.
Carra, however, has no clue what he has done to make the captain turn against him now. OK, maybe he’s been gaping at him as if he’d announced that he’d go to Everton, but he hasn’t said anything offensive or annoying. In fact, he hasn’t said anything. And if he was a bit less obsessed with Liverpool and their results, he’d probably have some moral concerns – Steven’s engaged, he has two adorable girls and has, at the same time, a relationship with a team mate? – but at the moment he wants to get rid of the helpless Steven during the last weeks, the one that looked almost lost on the pitch today. And as he knows what their team needs in order to win against Barcelona, with fucking Xavi and Ronaldinho and everything, there’s only one answer left for him.
“Listen, mate, I don’t give a damn what you’re doing in your free time. Go and dance naked on the beach if that’s what you enjoy. But keep your and Alonso’s fucking problems off the pitch. We need you for Barcelona, Stevie.” His eyes are shining with ambition, the same ambition that has brought them the Champions League and the FA-cup, the one that just wants them to do as well as possible, no matter what else. “Just get your cell out and call him, can’t be too dangerous, can it?”
Squeezing Stevie’s shoulders reassuringly, Carra gets up, gesturing at Riise that he’ll come over to him. “He won’t bite you.” And with these words, he’s off, leaving Steavie sitting there with the cell phone in his hands.
Which suddenly announces to the tune of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” that Luis Garcia is calling.
***
It rings at the other end, once, twice, three times – why doesn’t Stevie pick up? The captain always has his cell close by, Luis simply knows that, and unless he’s developed a sixth sense, he can’t know what Luis wants to talk about and therefore simply refuse to answer.
“Hi Luis, what’s the problem?” He doesn’t sound too unfriendly, and Luis is a bit relieved. You really don’t want to mess with an angry Steven Gerrard’s private life.
“I’ve Xabi over, to watch the match, and he said you have a row, and…”
“Luis, if he doesn’t want to tell you, then I won’t either!” Now Steven Gerrard is angry, his voice considerably louder, and Luis already regrets wanting to help Xabi. But the captain doesn’t hang up, which means that he’s probably not as resistant as he sounds.
“He’s not feeling well.”
“Is he ill?” Suddenly, Stevie sounds concerned, like a mother who’s worried about her child. A trait that Luis never realized his captain possessed until now. There must be something special about the two midfielders’ friendship to make Steven Gerrard behave like a mother hen.
“No, not really, but he’s sulking, is that the right word, si?” Luis has just looked it up in his dictionary but he has made the experience that his dictionary likes to lead him the wrong way. “I mean, he’s sitting on my couch and staring at the TV and he behaves like Nagore left him, you know?”
It’s silent at the other end of the line, except for Stevie’s breath and the noise from the bus.
“Stevie? Are you still there?”
“Yeah… yeah, I’m all right,” the captain answers hoarsely.
“You know how to fix him?” Normally, Steven isn’t the one to fix personal things. He fixes matches, Luis knows that, has experienced it himself in Istanbul, during the FA-cup-final, but as bloody great as he may be on the pitch, as inexperienced he’s when confronted with some simple problems of normal life. But right now Stevie’s the only one who Luis knows who knows what exactly he and Xabi rowed about, and therefore might be the best person to fix it. How fix something when you don’t know how it broke?
“I could try and talk to him.” The answer comes slowly, hesitatingly
“Oh yes, you would? That’s great.” This sounds probably more enthusiastic than Luis wanted it to, but he’s walking down his hall while speaking and has just had a glimpse of Xabi slumping on his couch and downing some of his finest wine. And he would really like to swap that moody, brooding Xabi against the old one whose smile could even charm his grumpy neighbour. “By the way, could you come here? I don’t think he can drive anymore.”
Why Stevie doesn’t just advise him to get a taxi or to let Xabi bunk on his couch – the house is big enough to accommodate half the team – will maybe remain a riddle to Luis forever. However, he doesn’t complain, and hurries to get back into his living room to save at least some of his wine.
***
It’s already past midnight when the familiar car parks in front of Luis’ bungalow, and a tired-looking Stevie stomps to the door. Xabi doesn’t look too excited about the prospect of being brought home, though Luis isn’t sure if it’s because of Stevie or because he is just thoroughly pissed.
They exchange a few nicenesses, Stevie asking how the knee’s doing and how the recovery is coming along while Xabi’s struggling with his coat. Since the Spanish midfielder seems to be completely incompetent to perform the easiest of tasks, Luis follows them to the car, helping Stevie to get him in and fasten the belt.
“Look out for him, si?” he pleads just before the driver door clicks shut and the car speeds away as if Stevie’s putting all his frustration on the gas pedal.
Which he probably is doing because, yes, Steven Gerrard’s really pissed off. “Yeh know, I really don’t know why I’m doing this,” he tells his passenger, who’s leaning sleepily against the window. “What was that stuff about not needing me anymore? Bollocks, right. I can’t even let you alone for one bloody afternoon without you getting into trouble.”
Normally, Xabi would have protested energetically, but the drunken lump on the seat next to Stevie doesn’t even give a sign that he’s listened, which is even more frustrating than the opposition the captain expected.
“Yeh know, alcohol doesn’t really help. Just admit it, yeh’re feeling like shite.” Stevie’s driving way too fast, but there aren’t any cars on the streets anyway.
“Yes, I am.” Suddenly, Xabi looks quite awake for someone so groggy only moments before. “But you’re, too.”
Brown eyes meet grey ones. Whatever Steven wanted to say next is just coming out as an unrecognizable “glrmpf”. They’re really lucky that there’s no traffic, because he also forgets which side to drive on for a moment.
But then the silence starts reigning again, as if the one who says something along the lines of “I’ve missed you” first will be the ultimate loser. Stevie’s hand cramp around the wheel, Xabi’s fingers play with the belt, twirling it.
Though, when they’re stopping at a red traffic light, Xabi reaches over, gently caressing Stevie’s neck for a moment before he places a wet kiss somewhere between his cheek and his ear. And they don’t need any words anymore, because they just know.
Know that they’ve missed each other, when their lips find together for the first time in two weeks.
Know that, despite the loss and the alcohol and everything, they’re feeling instantly better.
Know that they just need each other, somehow. That, even without Luis asking, Stevie will look out for Xabi tonight and get him into bed (and maybe a bit more), that he’ll do so probably every time Xabi needs him, and vice versa.
And there they sit, while the traffic light changes from red to yellow to green to yellow to red again, kissing in a car like some teenage couple; holding to each other as if they’ve been separated for two years, not weeks.
Signatur
"He's a terrific player, a great guy... We're really close." - Wieso nicht gleich eine öffentliche Liebeserklärung, Stevie?
"Steven Gerrard is a brilliant midfield player with a lot of force and Xabi Alonso complements him perfectly." - even Ronaldinho noticed
J.F.T. 96 - YNWA
http://mira-miracle.livejournal.com/ |
(Ist bei den Spaniern ein bissel verwirrend, die haben in ihrer Nation einen Xabi [aus Liverpool] und einen Xavi [aus Barcelona] im Mittelfeld, die man auch beide noch gleich ausspricht.)
Und viele Textteile, wie das "Don’t give it away, don’t give it away, don’t give it away…" Kennt man ja selber, wenn man von irgendwas denkt, oh Gott, hoffentlich sieht man Dir das jetzt nicht an...