So this will be my PCM14 team story with a bit of a twist. I won’t be updating it as regularly as my other story ‘Il Bimbo d’Bronzo’, but expect (multiple) weekly updates.
The soft tones of Antonio Molina his ‘Adios mi Espana’ slowly made their way through the thick clouds of cigar smoke, clinking glasses and loud laughs. All produced by the largely in business attire dressed crowd of men in the café. The various blonde trophy models on their arms trying to contribute best they could with their thin feminine cigarettes, efforts which paled in comparison to that which they put into their fit physiques.
Everywhere you walked in Spain the economic crisis was obvious for all to see, but inside this bar which was kept afloat by many glasses of Chardonnays and Courvoisiers, which were lavishly consumed by the high-end clientele the crisis seemed far away. (I myself was having an excellent glass of Bollinger ’99.)
“It’s regrettable that I’m asking for this favor hijo, but you’re the best damned manager I know.” The fat man with his greasy greying hair which was combed backwards repeated once more. As he chewed on his last piece of steak, some of its juice dropping down his chin.
“Like I’ve been trying to say Señor Banderas.”
“Please call me Angel mi hijo.” The man interrupted as he lit up what was his sixth cigar of the night, (I kept count. His mannerism that of an elder teaching his son how to sweet talk a lady.)
“Listen Angel. I know absolutely nothing about cycling. Cero punto cero. I don’t see how I could be of any help.”
Angel smiled, his deep yellow stained teeth betraying a lifetime of liquor and cigarette abuse. “Don’t worry about it mi hijo, you will learn quickly.” His smile turned into a grin. “And it’s not like you can say no after all the things I’ve done for you.”
The darned man struck a good point, I really had no decision to make. No matter how pretty Angel wrapped it up for me, I had signed a deal with the devil- for a life time.
“Fine Angel, I give up. Elena will not like this though.”
A rumbling laugh came out of the depths of Angel his stomach. A hint of his dinner which had been heavily spiced with garlic filling the air. “Don’t you worry I’ll take care of her.” He said as he took another puff of his cigar.
“You know Angel. You should really stop that unhealthy habit of yours.” I pointed at the big fat Cuban in between his fingers.
He gazed at me as if I had just explained a certified mathematician what one plus one was. “You know what an unhealthy habit is mi hijo? Riding 200 kilometers in the 40 degree sun and then climbing up El Angliru. That’s an unhealthy habit.” He countered as he pointed the cigar at me, blowing another cloud of smoke into my green eyes.
“El what?” I coughed.
He laughed again. “Don’t worry about it mi hijo. You’ll learn soon enough!”
Hmm, this looks very interesting. If the quality of reports is going to be any close to Il Bimbo d'Bronzo ones, this is going to be another great story. Curious to see what's coming next!
Within five seconds of placing myself on the soft matrass of our king sized bed Elena Banderas Velásquez awakened, her senses as alert as those of a half asleep bird. If Elena were to be a bird, she would be a peacock I thought to myself.
“I expected you to spend the night at the club office again.” She said in that soft childlike voice which came natural to her.
“How are the kids?”
“They’re asleep. How did your meeting with papi go?”
My silenced probably lasted a second too long as by the time I answered Elena her face was already forecasting a thunderous storm. “We agreed that I will resign from the club at the end of the season and start working at this new team during autumn.”
Without any lightning flashes it started to thunder in our large bedroom as Elena threw various shoes of her large wardrobe towards my head, all while calling me anything in between a common charlatan and a man with no cojones. Her yelling obviously waking the kids, who joined Elena her little orchestra with cries of their own.
Seeking a way out of the storm I quickly found myself within the enclosed interior of my white BMW. (6-Series, naturally.) The humming of the starting engine a welcome ally in drowning out the human screams. Driving by the luxurious villas and equally luxurious apartments of which you had many in Pozuelo (a suburb 10 km west from Madrid), I soon found myself driving on the dark Carretera Castilla towards the brightly lit centrum of Madrid. My destination el barrio Malasaña the meeting ground of all the liberals, emotional unstable and hipsters of Madrid.
*
Where my wife Elena was tall, long legged, bronze tanned, blue eyed and blonde. Carmen Valencia Nevarez was petite, brown eyed, pale and a brunette, and at the prime age of 23 almost a decade younger. And unlike my dear wife her personality had continued on growing after high school. Carmen her Malasaña apartment was mostly decorated with dark oaken bookshelves (filled with books I had never heard of and vinly records), and framed posters of classic cinema on the walls. If a group of archaeologists were to dig up Carmen her apartment, they would find very little evidence of the 21st century ever existing.
“Are you here to run your latest tactic by me, coach?” Carmen said with a childlike voice as she twirled her dark hair between her slender fingers. Performing the act of innocent schoolgirl pretty well. (Maybe Carmen was a mockingbird?)
“I wish I was more like you.”
“You don't want to be like me.” Carmen chuckled as she grabbed one of her with cannabis filled jars. Along with the help of a piece of rolling paper creating her very own remedy against the noise which fills our lives.
“Make sure the smoke doesn’t get in your eyes, precioso.” She said as she passed over the handmade cigarette. Undoing herself of her flowery sun dress, quickly to be followed by the rest of her clothing.
Spoiler
I do not support the use of drugs of any kind. Don't sue me.
Raul had cheated on Leslie with Sasha and now Leslie had crashed into him and his car to place the playboy in a coma.
The latest episode of ‘A Maid in Miami’ was rolling along on the 46-inch in my living room, the mostly adolescent dialogue drowning out the spinning noise of my rear wheel. The rerunning telenovela was the only thing on television during most afternoons as I sat pedaling away on this tacx the club had given me. The comfort of my air-conditioned and media filled living room a huge improvement from the endless pedaling I did at the clinic. I was never a fan of cycling and my predicament hadn't done anything to change that.
After suffering a foot injury at the start of the season my recovery had been a long and hard one. Thanks to countless hours in the swimming pool and on the bicycle I had finally been able to run painlessly again. Making it only a matter of time before I could wear the blue and white of Aravaca CF again!
*
Due to the many universitarian degrees and certificates on Jesus Lopez Garcia his wall one couldn’t help, but question the man a little. Did he actually earn all of them or was there some forgery in play? Whenever someone appeared to be exceptionally skilled at something, there always seemed to be some skeletons in a closet somewhere.
“Unfortunately I have bad news for you Mathías.” Dr. Lopez Garcia mumbled as he looked over the round frame of his glasses while wiggling my ankle with his thick fingers. “The flexibility you had before just won’t return.”
“What do you mean it won’t return?”
“It means that it’s unlikely that you’ll even return to even half of where you were before. At this point Pepe would make a better centrocampista than you would.” The two round eyes flanking his big round nose showing his seriousness.
“I have been improving right? I can still improve.”
“You have regained the ability to move around again, but the sensitivity and feeling you had before won’t return. I don’t know what else to tell you Mathías, life isn’t like a telenovela these things happen.”
Speechless and unable to help myself I couldn’t keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. This was supposed to have been my year, the year in which I would have signed my first big contract, the year I was about to be selected for the Spain Under-23 side. And it was all gone. All those years of hard work left meaningless.
“I’m sorry Mathías.” Jesus said as he patted my leg, temporarily taking up the role of caring grandfather.
No, he was wrong. Life was exactly like a telenovela.
I met Angel Banderas in the summer of 2008. It had been four years since my graduation from la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, and I had just been laid off at one of the major banks in Spain after four years of loyal service. The economic crisis was coming down on Spain like a hammer and I was one of many to contribute to the skyrocketing unemployment rate.
With job opportunities laying somewhere between ordinary accountant and garbage man my future prospects weren’t looking very bright. Until someday by coincidence I saw a job ad in the regional newspaper. (Coincidence because I never read the regional newspaper.) The football club Aravaca CF were looking for a new manager and their requirements were; young, ambitious, knowledgeable on the game of football and familiar with finance. Starting salary: €3,500 a month. A fortune at the time for someone in my position.
Not terribly talented I still had managed to get through almost the entire youth ranks of Rayo Vallecano so I was somewhat familiar with the procedures at a professional football club. Making me head off to the job interview with confidence.
During the interview the skinny and unimpressive chairman was flanked by the big intimidating Banderas who was sitting in. I would quickly learn that Señor Banderas had just bought the club and was planning on making huge financial investments and wanted to personally decide who would be allowed to spend his money. Something he took very seriously as few questions were about football, most of them about financial scenarios and behavioral matters.
Later on that same day before I even had the change to enjoy my afternoon siesta I was called with the news that I got the job. Excited to proof myself I immediately started to read up on the tactical sides of the game and even joined the staff at Rayo Vallecano for a few days.
Success at Aravaca CF came quickly. The team I had managed to strengthen with three singings right away clicking and working their way to a second place in the regional division allowing us to promote to the Tercera División. (For the first time in six years.) We were a local fairy tale in particular Banderas who was being named the ‘Abramovich of Madrid’ became a regional star.
Life was looking good again. And that’s when I met her; Elena Banderas Velásquez.
