Champions of my soul

I feasted off the television’s glow as it fed my living room images of the joy from inside Wembley Stadium. Grown men and women jumped up and down in the tiered stands as they celebrated with the Real Madrid players, who danced below them on the dead calm sea of the green grass football pitch.

Pumping my fist, it felt right that a fifteenth Champions League trophy was ours after a hard fought victory over the dangerous and disciplined eleven of Borussia Dortmund. After a scare or two, the result was never in doubt once Vini Jr scored the first goal. Dortmund had been lucky in the end to have even been in the final. For Madrid it was destiny. Always. No other team had won Europe’s most important trophy even half the number of times Madrid had. We had been in more than a quarter of the competition’s finals. This was our cup. The one that counted more than any other. It didn’t matter how many times we won it, each victory was sweeter than the last. The world was exactly how it was supposed to be when Madrid were champions of Europe. Champions of my heart. 

The pictures on TV showed one fan in particular who was openly weeping, the tears flowing down his cheeks and disappearing into his beard. I banged my chest in solidarity with him. I hadn’t cried for a decade. Not since that night but I knew the fan and I felt the same way. 

I wondered if my older brother was seated anywhere near this bearded stranger who seemed to love Madrid as much as I did. I promised myself once more that when I was old enough I would be at every match the team played wherever they were in the world. I yawned, knowing it was well past my normal bedtime. There was no one awake in the house to tell me to go to sleep. My aunt had made it to the second half before she started dozing off where she sat on the sofa. Then she made her excuses, seemingly guilty to leave me alone to finish watching the game. She worried she might disappoint me and I well knew the gaze of pity she gave me. My aunt was lovely and did her best. 

Still, no one person could be as reliable as Real Madrid were. They were my constant. I shivered when I remembered how they had won the Champions League the first time I had watched a final on TV. That had been La Decima. The tenth time we took the trophy back to the Santiago Bernabeu Stadium. Then it had been Cristiano and Bale. My brother and I had hugged, silent tears dripping down my face all night.  

Now, alone, I watched as Jude Bellingham held his arms up as the fans at Wembley sang the words to the Beatles classic Hey Jude following what had been the 15th win. 

“Hey Jude, don’t be afraid.”

A fifteenth win. How had it come round so quickly? I never expected one team to dominate a competition like this. Especially when there were so many other great clubs. Manchester City and Pep Guardiola. Liverpool and Jurgen Klopp and Mohamed Salah. Paris St. Germain and Kilian Mbappé. Yet despite all of them being so strong, Madrid had a gift for winning matches even when they seemed dead and buried. How many times over the years had I watched them come back from the brink of disaster? Never letting me down. Always finding a way. Like they knew souls were at stake if they lost. Madrid had never ever let me down. 

Watching on TV the other Madrid players joined in with the fans as they serenaded Bellingham, the door bell sounded. It was odd. No one ever rung the bell. Even in the day time people either called my mobile or knocked. I went to the door and pulling it open, found the humid night air waiting for me. Peering to the left and right along the empty driveway, only the sound of the grasshoppers speaking their secret language broke the silence. 

The neighbourhood kids might have been playing a prank but I hadn’t heard them in the street at all that evening. Weird. I closed the door and went back to the TV, sitting down on the sofa. 

Bellingham was still the centre of attention at Wembley as the fans kept singing.

“Take a sad song and make it better.”

The thought I had been pushing down all evening returned to haunt me. It nagged at me as I sipped at a bottle of water. Its cool liquid wasn’t refreshing me. I realized I was sweating so much my Madrid top was damp. I fought against what was in my mind. Then the doorbell rang again. 

I muted the TV. The house felt so quiet. There was no other sound from outside. Even the grasshoppers had stopped chattering. Who could it be? I didn’t really want an answer even as I went to the door and peered through the peephole. There was a figure. All of my breath was sucked into my belly.

I couldn’t make out the features of the face as I searched for my voice. Softly, I called out.

“Who is it?”

There was no answer.

“Who are you?”

Then a voice that I hadn’t heard in a decade thundered in my ears.

“It is time.”

“No. I can’t. I’m not ready.”

I stared through the peephole, now slick and wet, my hair and shirt soaking with perspiration.

The figure hadn’t moved. It was standing there in the driveway. Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t leave until I opened the front door. Swallowing, I slowly turned the handle and pulled it ajar. Blinking into the night I took in what was waiting for me. Then it stepped forward into the light that was spilling from the house and pooling into the drive. Instinctively I moved back to keep my distance and slipped. 

For a moment I thought I might fall forever. Then I felt the cold, hard floor slam into my back. Lying on the floor, I looked up and saw it was the bearded fan from earlier. The one I saw crying on the television. He had a Real Madrid scarf knotted around his neck like a noose. The fan looked down at me with wet eyes and let out a devilish laugh. 

Somehow, I could hear the fans singing Hey Jude, although I had muted the TV earlier.

“Better, better, better … .”

My hands were shaking as I called out for my aunt. The crying fan shook his head.

“She cannot hear you. No one can. Not anymore. Not after the 15th win. That is what was agreed. You belong to me now and there is nothing you can do about it.”

I felt like I might vomit but instead too many feelings all came up at once. The grief. The anger. The fear. Every single emotion I had been desperate to give away that night ten years earlier hit me in that moment. It felt like I was being pulled down, through the ground by dozens of pairs of hands, as the TV blared at full volume. 

“Na na na nannana … .”

I struggled to rise, making it up on to my knees, but still down on the floor.

“No, I was just a child, I had just lost my parents earlier that day. I didn’t know what I was doing. It should have taken 50 years. You tricked me. That’s not allowed.”

The bearded fan gave me another crying smile and then spoke in the same powerful voice that made my limbs quake.

“We had a deal. Five more Champions League wins. It is done now. Let’s go.”

With the figure looming over me, its shadow filling the house, the last thing I ever heard in this world was the TV blasting out the song’s refrain. 

“Hey Jude … .”

Thanks for reading. Until next time …