Prologue

Here I am. Ricardo Sanchez, a man of twenty-eight years old. A man who has been playing football for twenty years — in Brazil, where I was born; in Argentina, where I lived until five months ago; and now in Spain, where my life is at present devoted to the game.

And now our team is currently at Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán, waiting for the match against Sevilla, which is extreamly important.

Our team is currently four point behind Madrid, which is ranked first in the Liga. And there are only four games left before the end of the season. If we lose this one, it will be all up with us: there won't be another chance for us to win the Liga this season.

Besides, Sevilla is a team where my old rival Roberto Marcos plays. He has been my rival since I was in Argentina, when he played for River Plate. He always makes me suffer on the pitch.

Our last encounter was the quarterfinals of the Copa del Ray this season. It ended in a draw, and then both teams were obliged to play extra time. We lost that one by two goals to nil. But I'm not going to think about that now. There's nothing more useless than dwelling on past defeats.

While I was lost in thought, it was almost time to start the game. I stepped out of the dressing room and went into the hallway. My teammates were already assembled around the entrance. Captain of our team, Rodrygo Fernandez, was unable to play due to his injury, so the captaincy fell upon me.

"All right," I said to them. "Let's get ready."

And now, here we are, waiting for the referee to blow his whistle so that we can start the game. The crowd is cheering loudly as usual, and we're trying hard to ignore them. You see, the Spanish people love their football.

The referee blows his whistle. The players take their positions. Kickoff!