"Champion"
The chants echoed in the stadium and Miguel stood there, head thrown back as he took in the praise and the support. He smiled, showing his teeth. He looked like a vampire at that moment which he was not. He is, however, the most popular footballer in the world. He is a legend and even reaching the end of his twenties, his name brought in the best cash. He looked at the crowd, clapped the crowd as he walked back to the dressing room. He is almost done with this team. There is nothing more left to achieve here.
Then he left the dressing room for the last time, even though no one else knew it is that last. He bid his farewell to the team members and staff and walked out.
Miguel met with the Italian team owners and recruiters at his flat. The two men and the woman sat opposite him. The woman reminded him of a shark. The men looked pretty tame compared to her. All were atleast over 60. They introduced themselves as Paulo Magneto, Syril Pilato and Izabel Azenso, quite unnecessarily.
They were the names that every single person who knew the business and game of football knew. They practically run the Italian football. They decide who goes where and when a career begins and end.
He leaned back on his chair. They were also the board of directors from the number one Italian Club, Imperatore FC. The players were called Guardie – the guards of the emperor. They used to win the league non—stop, but now, for the past decade, they were in decline. However, being the richest team pays off and they remain Kingmakers of Italian football. In everyone's mind, the club remained number one.
"The fee your manager is asking for is ridiculous, even for you. No one is indispensable you realise," said Izabel.
"While I was indeed looking for a new challenge, It need not necessarily be you," said Miguel, which was not true. It has to be them. He has to make them champions again in the league and Champions League and prove to those naysayers that he is the best.
They looked at each other.
"You better be worth this or you will be answering to people you wouldn't even want to meet in life," said Izabel.
Miguel rolled his eyes but did not say anything.
The news of his transfer to an entirely different league created enough material for all the gossip magazines and sports magazines for the next one month while he spent a week with his casual girlfriend Amayela in the islands and then broke up with her. He celebrated his last few days in Spain and met few people he actually cared about from his team and then was ready to leave for Italy. Spain was never home. Nowhere was home. He doesn't know about Italy, but well, he is getting handsomely paid which is more than enough.
The club is based in Bergamo, northeast of Milan and one of the upper districts. Atleast, that is what google told him. He landed at the Il Caravaggio International Airport and his own car was already in the parking lot. His Audi A8 was customised edition. The stadium he knew is in the plains below the hills. He will go there later. He was given a destination and google map helps, well— occasionally. It has taken him to ditch many times too. He had asked for a residence in the upper city. He liked seeing things from long range. His villa was an old mansion. It was renovated inside and modernised to his taste.
He will be going to the stadium the next day. He already did his medical in Spain and signed the contract. Now all he has to do is join the team members for practice. He was looking forward to it. If Miguel cared about anyone, it was about his fellow team members. He can feel them and understand them.
Miguel has no one in this world. Having grown up in an orphanage, he was lucky to have a career in football. He never doubted it will happen though. He was sure that he will succeed.
Miguel's routine begins at five in the morning. He will go for an eight—mile run. Then he will exercise in the gym for an hour. Once it is seven he will leave for the ground. His new teammates, he realised, were kind of overwhelmed by him. The stature of a player like himself and it creating awkwardness amongst other players was nothing new to him. He will win them over in the end. However, it was the star—struck kids that Miguel always found adorable. They might have grown up seeing him play and seeing him itself makes them go all red and stuttering. But that was okay too. They will calm down eventually.
His new team mates were good. He doesn't know if he will get along with all of them. But no one can blame him that he did not try. He always does. Alberto Anguli, Dean Cameroon, Salhore Samthy, Janel Rodrigo, Fernando Canmore, Sergio Pavetti, Kristofer Chekhov, Jilian D Cruz— the names went on and on. They all seemed good natured. Well, you never know.
The manager Stefano Lucco was a good man to work with. The past meetings with the man in mid—fifties had left him with a good impression. He had a parental way with the team. The sessions were rigorous and the medical staff of the team was surprised by the diet plan he had. After practice, as a boy, he used to have many hobbies. But now, well, he will sit back and see the opposite team's matches. He watched and took notes and made plans and had a small dinner at 8 pm and slept sharp at 10. He never compromised in his schedule. Not for anyone or anything.
Miguel had no clue that his perfectly structured life will be tilted in its axis in a few days.
