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[12/11/2019, Location: Gdynia, Poland]
Matteo sat at the dimly lit corner table of the restaurant; his face set in a scowl as he stabbed at his pasta. The team was scattered across the upscale dining room, celebrating their last night together before everyone went their separate ways. Yunus Musah and Giovanni Reyna slid into the seats across from him, exchanging looks.
Yunus was the first to break the silence. "You good, Mat?"
Matteo shrugged, his fork slicing through his meal with frustrated precision. "I'm here, ain't I?"
"But your mind isn't," Giovanni replied, eyeing him closely. "You've been since the Germany game."
"We all have," Matteo shot back. "I came here to win Gio. Instead, we lost just like the pundits had predicted; this all was a waste of time if you ask me." His words were sharp, tinged with bitterness as he took a bite of his pasta.
"Rakim's good," Yunus admitted, leaning back in his chair. "But you're good too. Better, even, when you're focused and in the box."
"Yh, you right, and I believe I can do much more, but with a better system around me," he replied with a much more focused gaze as he looked into Gio's questioning eyes. "I never signed up to carry the burdens of a nation that doesn't even truly understand our game."
"What's that supposed to mean? Don't tell me you actually think of switching, too?" Yunus bit back, clearly enraged and hurt by even the notion.
Matteo held his gaze for a second, reading his clearly hurt and rage-filled body language that reminded him of so many desperate people he had encountered in the slums of London. These people still had something to live or fight for but had spiralled so far out of control due to an action or choice that set them on a bad course and now drowned in despair. That same look of despair was visible in Yunus's gaze as he looked for a lifeline that would support his dream of bringing an international trophy to the country he was born in.
"Honestly, I don't know why you aren't trying out for England or Ghana, they are both better prospects than this. At least there your effort will matter to people who genuinely bleed the game in their lives and show up for more than just bragging rights." Matteo responded in a sombre tone, still holding Yunus's gaze. "If I'm being honest, whether I will accept the call-up from the national team will depend on their long-term plans to support the team."
Yunus's face went uncharacteristically stiff. He set his fork down gently beside his plate. "You're really going to pin it on support?" he asked, voice quiet. "Everyone can talk big about wanting better resources, better conditions. But we're out here busting our tails for a dream. Not just for ourselves—some kids look up to us. How do you think they'll feel if the person they idolize jumps ship?"
"The will realises the world is tough, ain't that one of your country's philosophies on life?" Matteo said, still staring at Yunus. "In England, or Spain, or Italy, there's a culture around football that's lived and breathed from day one. The Brazilian samba, the Netherlands' total football and even a small country like Portugal have their own unique football culture that makes the players proud to represent the country on any team."
Giovanni interjected, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, voice hushed yet intense. "Is that your only reason, though? Because let me tell you, any American dreams of representing the country on any stage just to hear that crowd chant USA. Just hearing that makes us feel invincible, so we might not have samba, but we have national pride."
"See that's the problem," Matteo responded, "Football has nothing to do with national pride, it's about the passion of the game, that love for the game, hope that even a backward nation playing the flamenco football can become the strongest in the world."
"Over here, the passion and hope for the win feels manufactured and almost expected of us; otherwise, we are a letdown. PR campaigns, brand deals, and hype based on our intangible potential. One day it's euphoria, the next day it's abandonment. Is that what you want to represent?" He paused for a second, letting his words sink in. "I grew up playing football wherever I could just to grasp a bit of what Pele felt when he brought the world to Brazil when Maradona's hand of god led Argentina to win their second World Cup, do I need to say more?"
Yunus stared at Matteo, absorbing every charged word. There was a gravity behind Matteo's statement that left little room for argument—a raw desire to become a legend, to be remembered like the football icons he'd listed. It also became glaring that he did not believe that representing America would allow him to achieve his goals, no matter what they said. Giovanni shifted uneasily; the usual swagger he carried on the field was missing because, unlike the other two, he had no second option unless he chose to immigrate or take on a second nationality.
"So that's really it for you, huh?" Giovanni asked softly. He leaned forward and laced his fingers on the table. "You're deciding between a place that loves the game like you do and us, where the national team sometimes feels more like marketing hype. You'd walk away from all the kids who bought your jersey, chanting your name in the stands with their faces painted red, white, and blue?"
Matteo set his fork down, rubbing the tension out of his temples before letting out a slow breath. "You know what, Fuck them kids. That same marketing hype you were talking about is the only reason I'm even here. If I didn't owe my agent a favour, I'd be in Valencia getting on with my real life."
"As for the kids you were talking about, if they are my true fans, they will support me wherever I play. I don't play for them and their hopes and dreams; I play for that little kid whose dreams carried him out of Ladbroke Grove; anyone else's expectations can't even match a hundredth of his."
[12/11/2019, Location: Upper East Side, NY]
Outside the restaurant's ornate doors, Oliver Burke paused under the warm glow of a street lamp. He could still hear the subdued hum of the evening crowd behind him, conversations mingling with clinking glasses in that distinctly pretentious Upper East Side ambience. His gut churned. He had dealt with braggarts and bullies before, but Jason Hart, Joe, and Greg were on a different level—men who'd leverage anything for a quick win, men who only saw players as commodities to be traded, hyped, or discarded.
They were even worse than football clubs in the sense that they saw players as walking billboards for their stock prices. The memory of their smug expressions gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't scratch. Usually, he didn't care as he understood that this was how the game worked, but Matteo was the one player he wouldn't let anyone throw under the bus.
The kid had never let him down on the field and didn't make many demands as long as he got to play football and improve his career. From a young age, he let him plan his career, trusting his vision, which only came into question with this whole Rakim fiasco. Still, the kid who had told him, "Bet on me and I will become a star," has become something like a son to him, and he would do anything to further his career.
The fact that they could both earn a lot of money doing so was also a bonus, as he enjoyed watching him dominate on the field. Sighing, he hailed a taxi with a sharp whistle, sliding into the back seat and drumming impatient fingers against the leather. As the car pulled away, he felt a tide of resentment surging within. He didn't mind conflict, but what stung was the fact they refused to finalize Matteo's payment after the U-20 fiasco.
He would have his vengeance, though, when it was time to renegotiate and make them pay what's owed ten times over or his name isn't Oliver Douglas Burke. Oliver hesitated. "JFK, please," he muttered, leaning his head against the seat. He needed to clear his thoughts and come up with a game plan.