"Jordi," Layla shouted from the bottom of the stairs. Still getting no response, she walked up the stairs to wake him up. It was already noon, way past the time Jordi usually woke up.
Entering his room, Layla first pulled apart the curtains to let the sunlight in. She quickened her pace as she neared the bed because she could see the sweat gathered on Jordi's forehead. His forehead was burning when she touched it with the back of her hand. To be sure, she grabbed his wrist, which was of regular temperature. Of course, she was still not satisfied.
"Jordi, darling?" Layla tugged the blue and red blanket off. She sat down next to Jordi when she saw her son's eyes flutter. His eyelids gave way to bewildered blue eyes.
"Jord, darling. What is wrong- Wait, stay down. Let me get you some water." Without waiting for a reply, Layla strode out of the room. Less than 10 counts later, she brought in a bottle of chilled water, pushed it towards Jordi, and walked out towards the landline.
"Ferran, where are you?… Jordi has a burning fever… No, no, just bring fresh juice from Madam Sofia's… Wait, is Ona there—"
…
I squinted from the sunlight falling straight at my face. The water tasted like metal, but I kept taking small sips because it was cold. I don't quite know what to make of this dream. The dream alone is beyond my realm of imagination; however, it unsettles me that I remember it all.
I was Johan Cruyff. For every match that he played and managed, I was him. I, Jordi Lloret, who had only 4 years of memories last night, now remember every move and every thought of mine— I mean Johan, over the past 45 years. Through the enormous highs and the great lows, from the foreign Ajax to his Barcelona, and from a boy who loves football to a legend forever loved by football, I had made this journey.
As I came to terms with the dream, the realization struck me. Not only did I remember the thought process of Johan Cruyff, but my body also remembered the technique and the movement that he employed. The way I understood the game had drastically developed. However, this change was not external. Somehow, I felt at home with his footballing philosophy.
However, at the forefront of my mind was one question: could I now play with the finesse and technique of Cruyff? Could my skillset finally catch up to my thought process?
…
Layla was running around the bakery's kitchen to prepare soup for her little Jordi when Ferran and Ona walked in. While Ona looked towards him, Ferran just shook his head. The flustered Layla was a familiar scene for Ferran. This was just how his sister got whenever little Jordi was sick. A short cough was all that was needed for Layla to jump up and start worrying. As he was about to crack a joke that he knew would get some utensil thrown at him, he heard the stairs creaking.
Little Jordi came running down the stairs, fully decked out in his Barca kit and Messi's Adidas boots. He crouched down to grab the two footballs in the corner and then bolted towards the entrance of the bakery.
"Mom, I'm going out to practice. I'll be back soon."
Before, Layla could reject him, Jordi was out of the door and sprinting through the streets of El Raval.
I reached the football pitch in 3 minutes. Everyone comes to play by 4 PM, so I had the whole ground to myself. I jogged to the shaded side of the pitch and set the balls down at the edge of the penalty area.
I ran up and kicked the bottom of the bowl with the instincts and skills developed over decades. The ball went speeding towards the top of the goal, curving down to fly just above the post. I couldn't score, but was ecstatic. This was the best shot of my life, and it was only my first try. It was only a matter of practice before I could completely assimilate with the legacy I had dreamt of.
16 free kicks later, I was laughing out loud as I went to collect the balls from the goal. I had scored with every shot after my fifth one. Yes, the goal was empty, but I understood that not only my technique, but my physical traits were improving rapidly now. My body remained the same, but I could now focus on the fine details to sprint better. I could only test it with another player, but I was sure I could also protect myself and the ball better now.
Soon, I began testing out my passing and my dribbling. I had no objects or people to dribble around, so I used some bricks stacked next to the entrance.
…
"Ferran, run after him and bring that stupid child back right now!" Layla ordered. Looking into her eyes, Ferran shrank back, but still chose to protest.
"Sister, he looked perfectly all alright. Just calm down, please. You know you can overreact when it comes to— Ouch!" Ferran could not finish his sentence because he was hit by a flying wooden spoon. He did not need to look towards his sister to picture the glare directed towards him.
Ferran gave a sheepish smile to Ona and ran out after his nephew, who somehow always got him in trouble.
…
10 minutes later, Ferran spotted Jordi dribbling the ball around the pitch. He had a penchant for swearing at his nephew for outsmarting his uncle. Jordi did not go to the field he usually practised at, instead coming here. Ferran had to walk around in this murderous heat to find the little brat.
Ferran stopped in his steps when little Jordi shot at the goal. He watched as Jordi dribbled from the half to the edge of the box before shooting. The shot was both powerful and accurate, equal to the elite kids of Jordi's age.
"Reietó, where have you been learning to shoot like this?"
Jordi, who was engrossed in his practice, looked out in surprise at his uncle. All Ferran got as an answer was a sly smile. What was he even expecting from this peculiar child? The smile brought back the memories of the past 10 minutes, so Ferran responded with his own evil smile.
"Come Reietó, let's go. I hope you're ready to face your mother"
...
It took everything in Ferran to hold back his laughter. Little Jordi stared daggers at him while cupping his beet-red ear. Just a moment ago, only upon Ona's insistence, did Layla release her pinch on Jordi's ear.
They are correct about that karma thing. The wide grin on Ferran's face was wiped out when Layla advanced and pinched his ear. This time, there was no Ona to help him.
"Is there something funny, my dear brother?"