A red bus gradually made its way amidst the afternoon traffic. A few energetic tourists and a group of teenagers populated the bus moving uphill towards Sarrià. In the back of the bus, sat a lonesome boy with striking blue eyes and messy black hair. The window he leaned against gave a view of the shopfronts on Carrer de Balmes. The solitary child, earphones plugged in and lost in thought, made for a melancholic but memorable sight.
Jordi Lloret was caught up in the emotions and thoughts he had experienced in his dream. He was trying to recollect himself on the bus ride. Jordi's hand reached into his pocket and pressed shuffle on his iPod. He kept pressing until he heard the strings marking the beginning of Tchaikovsky's 'Nutcracker'. His mother had instilled in him her love for classical music. Much to her dismay, however, her son preferred Tchaikovsky over the Chopin that she adored so much.
As hopeful strings gave way to the elusive piano, Jordi went back to his dream. Carles Puyol was Uncle Ferran's favourite player. Jordi, on the other hand, had always preferred the technical players, the subtle ones. Maybe it was the years of La Masia in him. Or it was his solitary personality.
Puyol was always the Barca player Jordi respected most, as did most culés. Yet, he was never near the top of Jordi's list of favourite players. However, in Carles Puyol, Jordi Lloret found a companion. Someone who was as adamant about football as Jordi was. In Puyol, he found a man who encapsulated Jordi's unconditional love for Barcelona. That seemingly ordinary day, in the back of Bus 34, Jordi Lloret found a standard for himself, not only in his loyalty to Barca, but in Puyol's leadership and perseverance.
At La Masia, if it was Jordi's talent that set him apart from the rest, then his hard work made him memorable. This had been especially true since he dreamt through Paulo Maldini's career. Yet, today, Jordi realized that he had worked hard as a boy who was always certain of his talent in football.
The determination and effort of Carle Puyol were something else. It was the work ethic of the working class. The laborious toil of Puyol's father, who exerted himself at the farm for a daily wage. It was the resolve of his mother who woke up at 4 AM and went to rest at 11 PM every single day for a decade. No, Puyol's hard work was marked by an uncertainty, a desperation. To think Jordi took pride in being the hardest worker in the academy. What a joke!
…
A pleasant wind ran through Jordi's hair as he walked uphill towards their pitch. The clouds above the city were densely knit together, the sun hidden behind them. Every time he came, Jordi would try to walk a different route.
Travelling through the affluent streets of Sarrià was still a novel experience for him. It felt like a different city altogether. The people here walked faster, stood taller, and when they spoke, Jordi felt like they were speaking a different Catalan. Every trip, Jordi wished he could return to El Raval. Yet, he always returned. There was a familiar girl he liked in this strange land.
…
"What took you so long, Ombreta?" Estel leaned against the fence, carefree as only she could be.
The nickname 'Ombreta' had spread after the El Clasico final. The staff and kids at La Masia, everyone knew of the prodigal midfielder who was elusive as a shadow. Jordi, ever the detached being, was indifferent to this. However, Jordi owned up to it when Estel started addressing him as Ombreta.
"You can be Ombreta. The little shadow. I am Estel Soler. The warm star. When they write about us, they will write about the warm star and her little shadow." Estel declared one day. How could Jordi ever refuse?
...
Estel and Jordi's game played out as it did the first week and every time since. They would try to dribble past each other and score. Of course, with the experience of Paulo Maldini and, now, Carles Puyol, Estel hardly ever got past Jordi. It was the same the other way around. Jordi hardly ever got past Estel, mostly because she would foul him whenever he dribbled her.
Soon after, the two would shift to passing drills and shooting drills they knew from La Masia. Today, however, Estel caught Jordi letting her dribble past him. The training immediately came to a halt. Jordi followed behind the sulking Estel to the bench under the Alzina tree. Layla Lloret and every native of El Raval would be shocked and alarmed watching their stoic boy apologizing so animatedly.
The boy and girl made for a picturesque sight as they sat quietly under the Alzina tree. Jordi Lloret sat on the right, watching a pigeon land on the goal post. To his left sat Estel Soler, her head turned away. Between them rested a football and a half-eaten slice of Layla's cinnamon cake Jordi had brought for Estel.
"You know, you're different when you're playing football."
Jordi whipped his head towards Estel, surprised that she was talking to him. Estel Sorel was already turned towards him, scrutinizing him.
"You are normally so quiet. I mean, you speak with your friends and me, but only when you have something to say. It's just… you're so comfortable in silence."
"I don't have a lot of things to say."
"Yes, you do. You think more than my mother does. And she is always thinking! You just don't feel the need to express everything, right?"
Jordi nodded along. Estel said it, so it must be right.
"But you change when you play, or you're watching a game. Even if we're just talking about football. As if you are finally comfortable. Your eyes, they- they speak so much. Once or twice, I have seen the same look in my mother when she is painting."
Jordi pondered for a bit but still ended up nodding along. Maybe that is why he liked reading so much. When there is no football, he feels uneasy and escapes into a book. As Jordi was lost in thought, Estel's scrutinous gaze had shifted into a look of fondness.
"Are you moving into La Masia next week?" Estel asked.
Jordi nodded, still in thought.
"Dad is finishing up a big case today. He'll help me move tomorrow. If you're there, you'll meet Mom and Dad."
"Your father?"
"Yes!" Estel quipped with finality, unaware of what was going on in Jordi's head.
"Oh… ok."
…
Under the dense clouds, evening had reached the city of Barcelona earlier than usual. Jordi changed his boots and got up to leave. As they separated at the exit, Jordi turned around and gazed at Estel's departing figure.
"I feel comfortable with you as well."
Estel turned back and laughed. That laugh, when reflected in the azure of Jordi's eyes, extinguished any hesitation in him.
"I know, Ombreta."
…
The bus sped through the streets of Barcelona, tinted in the evening blue. Jordi sat in the back, leaning against the window. Today, he realized how uncertain the future was. He had so much to achieve and so much to protect. Where would he go if he failed?
The bus entered the quarters of El Raval. The feeling of estrangement from walking through Sarrià vanished. This was his place. The tired people returning home were his people. He was from the working class, and he needed to work as such. For his dreams. For his people.