Christmas morning in the Barcelona apartment was quiet with the mother’s clanks in the kitchen and the occasional turn of the father’s newspaper. Soon, the stove timer rung to signal 7:00 a.m.

“Everything is ready?”, asked the mother.

The father nodded, “I’ll get him.” He set the paper on the counter and kissed his wife on the cheek, but before he could turn to wake the boy he heard stampeding feet coming along the hall.

“Let’s go! Go! Go!”, the boy yelled, as he in his jersey darted past the kitchen en route to the family room.

“Don’t open anything!”, warned the mother. She turned down the stove and removed her apron in haste as the two of them made after the boy.

“The ticket?”, she whispered to him in the hall.

“I have it here.” He tapped his trouser pockets.

Beside the ornamented tree the boy unwrapped the few presents marked for: Raúl from: Santa. He was thrilled to find that Santa had heeded his wish-list: F.C. Barcelona trading cards, F.C. Barcelona scarf, a soccer ball inscribed with up-to-date F.C. Barcelona achievements. His joy grew with each package’s reveal, until after the last present he was literally yelling for Antonio in 3B down the hall. He collected the lot of gifts in his arms — the ball, the cards, the scarf, and a few small figurines — and set off for Antonio’s front door.

“Wait a minute, Raúl. We have one more gift.”, said the Mother.

“Santa left one more gift.”, her husband corrected.

“What is it?”, asked the boy, frozen with the mass of gifts in his arms.

“Open it.”, the Father reached out an envelope marked for: Raúl from: Santa.

The boy dropped the lot of gifts carelessly. They landed and spilled across the floor.

“Raúl!”, the mother yelled, and didn’t need to say anymore before Raúl apologized, stood the gifts neatly in a pile, and leapt at the envelope in the grinning father’s hands. “What is it!”, he wondered.

The father corralled his arms around his wife’s waist as they watched their son open the white envelope and realize what it was and what it meant. But Raúl couldn’t believe it, so his countenance was not that of what his parents had expected. He was stupefied.

“What is this?”, he asked.

“It’s a ticket. To a match at Camp Nou this May. Andrés’ final match.”, responded the father.

“I will watch the game outside of the stadium?”, the boy asked, stubborn to believe but giddy to even consider access to a screening of the match near the stadium.

“In the stadium. In a seat. That is a ticket to the real game. Not on this screen or any other, you will watch Andrés in person for the first time.”, explained the father. He peered at his wife. Her eyes were welling up. He looked back at his son and tears filled his eyes, too. In a flash, the boy was an inconsolable believer.

The mother rushed out of her husband’s hold and wrapped herself around Raúl. Neither spoke. The boy wept. The mother wept. The father, understanding the implications of paying the price he had, knew at once it was worth it. He joined them, and he cried too.

There they sat collapsed for some time — the mother consoling the son, the father consoling the mother, the son weeping Gracias! Gracias!

After some crying had subsided the father let up, “Go. Tell Antonio.” The boy flew to Antonio.

The mother and father did not exchange gifts. The sound of the apartment returned to the quiet of clanks, sniffles, and grins.

May

Camp Nou was a heavy heart for the final match of their captain and 21-year midfielder, Andrés Iniesta. He had been described as magisterial, tactical, but the boy had fallen in love with him for other reasons, reasons peculiar for most young fans.

When his schoolmates would rave about Messi or Ronaldhino, Raúl would standby building a silent conviction that Iniesta was the greatest to ever don a Barcelona kit. He loved him for the way he carried himself, for the way he played with others, for his respect for enemies of the club — Ronaldo and the rest. He liked him for the way he loved and respected the game, which reminded him, when he allowed it to, of his mother. He knew a small group of other players had achieved more, but believed with all of his might that none were so great.

On the day of the game, the boy watched from high in stadium. The father was careful to choose a first row seat so that the boy’s view wouldn’t be blocked by taller fans. The club had prepared a proper sendoff: a pre-game ceremony, in-game celebrations by the crowd, and confetti after the game. Raúl cheered relentlessly amidst others who did the same wearing different versions of the Iniesta kit. Iniesta played well and Barcelona had no trouble with the enemy that day.

After the confetti and last goodbye, the boy remained entranced on the pitch where his only hero had just played his final match. The boy sat until the last two fans from a distant bottom section stood for the exits and left the boy as the last in Camp Nou. He didn’t notice.

Raúl felt an impulse, go to the pitch. It was The Game speaking to him but he did not know. He at first ignored it. His mother had taught him better than to sneak into places uninvited. He heard her voice, don’t you dare. But the suggestive voice spoke over her, go to the pitch. For a fleeting moment, all that it takes for a boy to decide to disobey his mother, a bout of courage boiled up from deep inside and dared, Go now! Go now! He stood from his seat before he could consider the consequences and left for the promenade where he was determined to find a way to the lower level. No, he dared think, the first row!

The security and staff were busy with their post-game rituals. The Game delivered Raúl downstairs with little trouble.

Raúl descended the steps hotfooted and crouched. When he arrived in the first row he sat on his knees to peak out over the pitch that had hosted his best memories. He drew deep breaths and fought off blinks to impress the scene hard on his memory. He promised himself never to forget it. He promised Antonio he would never forget it. He went unnoticed until the last of the maintenance crew left and he was truly the last person in Camp Nou.

Then, from the center tunnel where Barcelona’s icons enter before each game and retire into after, timed as if he’d been waiting for that last maintenance man to clear out, Iniesta emerged alone. He was barefoot and solemn. He walked slowly, not with the determination or focus he had on every other occasion while entering for or returning to a match. He was aimless. In awe. He was like the boy.

The boy knew it was Andrés while he was still only a shadow on the opposite side of the field. He knew his walk, even if was in an unprecedented pace and manner. Raúl was frozen. And then he was trembling. Except for the occasional Antonio, his mind was empty and still, using all of its brainpower to process only what stood before him.

Iniesta’s Last Match | Photo by David Ramos, Getty images

Andrés walked onto the pitch for one last time as a player. For 16 years he’d coordinated and conducted world-class football. He’d accomplished all for and with his club, F.C. Barcelona. He thought about his beginnings, how he’d arrived only yesterday. He thought about the fans, he tried to imagine the sound of them to see if it could be done justice in memory. It could not. He sat and considered his teammates — Messi, Xavi, so many more — who supported and enabled him as kids, brothers, and men, and would surely remain into the next stages of life. But most of all he thought of The Game. He thought of what it meant to sacrifice for football and how success manifested, not financially, but in execution on the pitch. He considered the joy and felt it, too. It was not at all diminished. He felt what The Game gives all: calm, grace, appreciation, heartache, more. He realized that these are things he will not leave behind. He sat at the mid-field of Camp Nou as The Game spoke to him, and he to The Game.

Iniesta’s Last Match | Photo by David Ramos, Getty images

Andre’s conversation with football was interrupted by a movement. To his right, at the wall that read Infinit Iniesta, a boy barreled over the edge and fell awkwardly to the pitch. He watched the boy stand to gather himself and start in his direction. Andrés stood and heard The Game again, go to him.

Iniesta’s Last Match | Photo by David Ramos, Getty images

The two met along the centerfield line, closer to the wall than center circle. Andrés could see that the boy would not be the one to speak first.

“Hi. I’m Andrés.”, he said.

The boy’s head fluttered and all that came was, “-ahhhh”.

Andrés smiled and crouched. “How did you get out here?”

“I just walked down and stayed low.”, the boy responded, looking at Iniesta’s bare feet.

“No cleats, yes. I wanted to feel the field again. This was my last game here.”

“I know. That’s why I came.”

“Do you come often?”, Andrés asked.

“I have never come.”, the boy said with a sigh. “But I have watched every game you’ve played! Well, the ones I was alive for.” Raul wanted to be sure that Andrés didn’t confuse his absence for disinterest or only partial fandom.

“Oh. I’m sorry this was your first game. Not as exciting as some we’ve had.” Andrés looked around the field remembering the great battles.

“I didn’t come for the game. We had La Liga won, anyway. I came for you.”, the boy said. Feeling awash in a bout of courage once more, no doubt a gift of The Game, he uttered his truth, “You are the greatest. My favorite ever.”

When Andrés was a young star he had had trouble understanding his fame and what it meant to the boys and girls of Barcelona. But he was older now, and after 16 years he understood and appreciated the boy’s words.

“Thank you. Would you like to have a pass? Where are your parents?”, he wondered. He heard the voice, play.

“Working. I came alone. Tickets are expensive here, even for Santa.”

“They are. Too expensive, I think..”, Andrés laughed. “Should we have a pass?”

“No.”, said the boy.

“Oh, ok. Well maybe you –“

The boy interrupted. “Can I watch you juggle a little while?”

“Of course.”, Andrés said, welcoming the thought of another performance. He walked to the sideline where he knew some balls were kept. He turned back to find the boy sitting at center circle. He dropped the ball at his feet, controlled it, and rolled it out onto the pitch at Camp Nou for his last performance.

Andrés stood juggling with Raúl seated in awe for some time. He told stories of growing up and falling in love with the game. “I always preferred a good pass to a good goal.”, he said.

“Messi doesn’t.”, quipped the boy.

Andrés laughed, holding his juggle, which was barely on his mind but still held the ball fixed in the air by his knees, feet, and head. “No, he might not. He is a great player, though, maybe the greatest.”

“Not the greatest. Maybe the best.”, the boy said, and Andrés knew what he was implying. He felt the same way about other players when he was a boy and had worked to mold himself after them. He wondered if the boy might grow up to play like him. He hoped that he might live on in that way, that a part of him would always remain.

“I like crosses most.”, confessed the boy. “They’re important.”

“Crosses are important and beautiful, yes. A key to them is — “

“To be sure the person you’re crossing to is Messi.”, interrupted the boy.

Andrés laughed and lost his juggle. “That’s a problem on most teams. It is nice to cross to Messi, that’s true.”

Andrés and the boy analyzed The Game as classmates. One didn’t speak down or up to the other. In a La Liga match Iniesta was to be revered, but in this conversation he was only to be respected as much as any other student of The Game. The two talked about the role of speed in football, about the difference height can make, or how playing hard can make one players more valuable than another with far more skill or natural talent. They agreed that the game gives respect when it gets respect, that competition is beautiful, and that F.C. Barcelona is the greatest club in the world. They disagreed on other points.

“I should go. If my Mamá gets home and I’m not there she will panic.”, the boy said.

Andrés finally picked up his dribble and held out his arm to help the boy stand. “Don’t let Mamá panic. How will you get home?”

“Walk. I’ll be fine. I will tell Antonio all about this. He won’t believe me.”, the boy shrugged.

“Here.” Andrés removed his jersey. “Take my jersey, he will believe you then.”

“I won’t take that. It’s your last game’s shirt and you should keep it forever. Don’t make me bear the burden of keeping it, knowing you miss it. I will take the ball.” The boy was stern.

“Take the ball, of course. Can I get your address to send you something? You and Antonio?”

He gave him Antonio’s address at 3B, which Iniesta recorded in his phone. “He likes Messi, just in case you were wondering. Likes to score.”

Andrés smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. Thank you, Raúl.”

“Thank you, Santa.”

“Ok”, Andrés conceded. “And The Game.”

“The Game thanks you, Don Andrés.”, said the boy, before hugging his hero and, with his voice muffled by the gut of Iniesta, admitting “I don’t know how to get out of here..”

“I will show you out, at least. This way.”

Iniesta put the arm around the boy’s shoulders and led him off the pitch. Both of them looked around in awe and appreciation. Neither spoke until they were into the tunnel as shadows and The Game was silent there but roiled and raged as ever in every corner of the world.