My Footballing Legend

The Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López stood quietly in the mid-June sun. It was a dry and empty stadium, seats soaked in daylight. The pitch freshly mowed, but it hadn't been played on for weeks. Laurence felt some comfort in those empty seats. A stadium in pause state was reminiscent of a mind in the 'in between': All possibilities, all ideas and none explored, waiting for the first thought.

Laurence waited by the home dugout, holding a water bottle. His eyes followed the movements of a groundskeeper, who was watering a corner of the pitch. Today was not an office meeting and that's how he wanted it.

A couple of moments later, he detected the slow, rhythmic footsteps behind him. There was no mistaking it, it was Nino's familiar steps—the man who had put in the goals to move Tenerife into the promised land, just a matter of weeks ago.

"Coach," Nino said upon his arrival, approaching Laurence with a respectful nod. He was dressed in training shorts and an old club, team t-shirt, browned by the sun, legs wiry, but still powerful. "Víctor said you wanted to talk."

Laurence stood up, lean and shook his hand. "Yes. I thought it would make more sense to do this out here. Away from agents. Away from whispering people."

Nino looked around the dugout quickly and sat beside him on the bench. "You heard," he said.

"That you want out? Yeah."

Nino let out a long breath. "It's not about the money or the respect. You've given me all that. I'm thirty-six. My body is changing. I still want to move, but my legs don't always cooperate. I've seen it happen to other guys—where they played one season too long and turned into burdens instead of heroes. I don't want to be that."

Laurence waited before responding. He admired the forthrightness. Honestly, if Nino was careful, he could likely get ten goals in a season. But this was La Liga not Segunda. The press lines were too quick. The defenders were too smart. One misread and momentum shifted.

"I understand," Laurence finally replied. "You've given the club everything. You don't owe us anything further. But I also need to be honest with you."

Nino turned the slightest bit with his eyebrows raised now.

"I'm going to sell you."

The old hand didn't appear shocked. A brief flicker of emotion passed across his countenance, but not incredulity; merely a faint sadness.

"Okay," said Nino after a lengthy pause. "Can I ask where to?"

"Wherever you're comfortable," Laurence said, planting it down. "We'll land a good deal. You will leave with dignity. There might even be a possibility to join their coaching staff. We'll work to make it all on your terms."

Nino nodded. "Thank you."

They both looked out onto the pitch again. The silence was companionable for a time. Then, Laurence added, almost without thinking, "I will need the money."

"To reinforce?" Nino asked.

"No," said Laurence. "To sign a kid."

That made Nino turn again, but this time with a small chuckle. "What, some Brazilian wonder kid?"

Laurence gave him a half smile. "Exactly that."

Nino tilted his head. "You're serious?"

"I am."

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket—a scout's early notes from the Copa São Paulo. He handed the paper to Nino, who read the name.

"Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior," he read aloud. "Santos FC. Seventeen years old. Speed. Flair. Tough to knock off the ball. Poor decision making under pressure, but… 'one to watch.'"

"Well, that's one way of putting it," Laurence said. "In a year or two, the entire world will know his name. Madrid, Barcelona, Chelsea, there will be people lining up with briefcases. But right now? He's just another South American kid with a heavy touch and a dream."

Nino passed the paper back, furrowing his brow. 

"You're saying you're going to build the squad around him?" 

"I'm saying I'm going to throw everything at him," Laurence said bluntly. "We won't exist by being conservative. We don't have the money. We don't have the depth. But if I can create a spine and let this kid develop—support him, protect him—he could give us more than existence. He could give us identity."

They both sat in silence for a while longer. Then Nino patted Laurence on the back and stood up.

____

Back in the office, Víctor Ortega slammed a folder shut and looked across the desk at Laurence with obvious aggression..

"You are crazy."

"Probably," Laurence said as he shifted back in his chair.

"You sold the leading scorer, the spirit of this club, so you could chase a 17 year-old from Brazil that hasn't even played for the senior national team. You have 2 million euros plus, and want to spend most of it on a kid who might not even adjust to Spain, let alone La Liga."

Laurence did not flinch. "I have watched him play. You have not. You are still operating in a relegation survival mode."

Víctor scoffed. "That's it."

"No," Laurence said, the tenor of his voice now sharper. "It is what comes after that matters. We can lay low and hope we do not get blown to bits, or we can take a shot. I am betting on a future that the rest of Europe has not woken up to yet."

Víctor was standing with arms crossed. "You are betting with a club that has not played in La Liga for nearly a decade."

"I know."

"You really are risking everything."

"I know."

"And what if you're wrong?"

Laurence looked him straight in the eyes.

"Then we go down swinging. But if I'm right... we'll be the club that raised a boy who should have been king."

And for the first time that day, Víctor had nothing to say.

He just stared, quietly unsettled by the calm level of assurance in Laurence's voice.