(please watch the video)
He gazes up at the floodlights and catching his breath. Even He must have been awed for a few moments during each game he played in Madrid's Estadio Santiago Bernabeu. He touches his nose, and returns to reality, the reality of a crucial game against a stubborn Villareal side.
He trots off to a more apt position, glancing meanwhile at his accomplice on his side of the pitch. He may utter a word to Roberto Carlos, he might not. He knows that, at this point in their careers, what needs to be said has already been said countless times over. It's simply understood in the present tense.
He taps his feet as he walks, a nervous habit developed as a child for sure. Maybe it came from his first pair of boots being too big, or perhaps it's simply done subconsciously. But it happens with such a regularity, such a subtle violence that it cannot be ignored. It is part of his demeanor. It is crucial to his walk...
He misses a chance to make a tackle when presented with an opportunity to double-down on an opponent dribbler. He's 32, and will turn 33 in two months' time. He hasn't the energy to make the tackle, the energy that he may once have produced. He trails the play longingly. He watches more time pass by his beautiful career.
He walks impatiently. He always walks impatiently. He knows not how much longer he will be under these lights. He breaks into a run and demands the ball. A demand which falls on deaf ears. He walks again.
His face could be chiseled out of stone. His eyes are set far into a skull that suggests massive intellect, such is its volume. His eyes remain on the ball more than one might expect from a midfielder. Yet he knows where the other 21 performers are. He always does.
He rarely gestures, but when he does it demands an immediate response. He gestures. He fades out to the left. He takes a touch that suggests the ball had been longing for him. He back heels the ball to Ronaldo. From one genius to another. The crowd roars.
He is felled.
He gets up.
He carries on. He catches up with a game that seems determined to pass him by. He won't allow it.
He loses out on a header where his legs can't seem to elevate him off the ground. Ronaldo escapes with the ball and lays it back to him. He finds an open man and immediately moves the ball along. The crowd cheers. Virtuosity deserves to be cheered even when used in the most basic of tasks.
The ball now flies furiously across the field. It enters his path of influence, but narrowly escapes him. He chases. He chases for naught. He skips to a walk. He taps his feet. He realizes chasing a game played by younger men, faster men, is a lost cause. He realizes, as he has done his whole career, that he need never chase the game.
The ball comes to him. He takes the firmest and most delicate touch human eyes have ever seen. The paradox of it all. He plays it out to the right. The Madridistas cheer. They know who they have had the pleasure of watching for the past five seasons. They know to cheer.
The world sometimes passes you by on a pitch. You are present, but you aren't there. Seconds pass. Minutes pass. Teammates pass by. Opponents pass by. There is time to think. Too much time. What does He think about during these moments?
A jog, a skip, a walk. A shout, a pointing of the finger. Decisions from indecision. The ball flies by again. He is the world's most talented spectator. An artist without a paintbrush, waiting for a friend to have the decency to grant him one.
There is a sadness, a forlorned feeling about his play. Perhaps it is because time is running out. He will retire in just over a years time. He knows this, even now.
He struts with an aire of immensity that does not portray arrogance. He runs with an impetus that does not require speed to make its point. He plays for the lights upon him, for the sound of 80,000 human beings stacked around a field of green grass bespeckled with white paint.
He plays because it is this game that has given him everything, even as at this very moment, the game passes him by.
He plays because he must.
He simply plays.
No one has ever played better.
The game plays on.
- This piece was inspired by the documentary, 'Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait', by Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno.
No comments:
Post a Comment