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live-laugh-loverpool · 1 year

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Lockdown: Part 2

The continuation of this fic. Angst, angst and more angst (although it gets better at the end).

Tags: @millythegoat, @alissonbecksfan234, @moomin279, @lfc-fanfiction

Warnings: angst, dark mental space (but it gets better), Covid-related issues

Pep Lijnders’ car cruised down the streets of Liverpool, which were unusually empty. Lijnders’ trunk was nowhere near empty, though—it was full of groceries, not just for himself, but for some of the others, too.

The Liverpool players had made some progress since the lockdown had started five weeks ago. They’d formed a “therapy text chat” among themselves, and had started meeting on the sidewalks to converse—two meters apart and masked, of course. They’d even taken turns doing favors or household chores for each other, such as shopping or doing laundry, to cut the risk of catching COVID by multiple trips to the shops. Today, Lijnders was on shopping duty for the Englishmen.

He swerved into Milner’s driveway, smiling at what he saw on the vice-skipper’s front lawn. Robertson, Alexander-Arnold, Henderson, Firmino, Fabinho and Alisson were all participating in what seemed like a socially-distanced and masked yoga session, led by no other than James Milner.

“I didn’t know you did yoga, Milly!” said Lijnders, rolling down the window. He only fully came out of the car once he’d put on his own mask, making a beeline for the trunk. “When did you learn?”

“It’s not yoga,” Milner protested halfway though a downwards-dog pose. “It’s pilates.”

“Ignore him. We all know it’s yoga.” Robertson exhaled, taking a seat on his yoga mat. “What have you got there, Lijnders?”

“Oh, this?” Lijnders nodded towards the three reusable shopping bags in his hand. Milner insisted upon not using plastic bags when shopping, and Lijnders wanted to respect his wishes. “Some stuff for James. Eggs, canned beans, Swiss chard, Ribena…”

“Hey, I thought the Swiss chard would be for Xherdan.” Milner motioned towards the garden table. “Put the bags there and join us.”

“I can’t, I’m not dressed for this.” Lijnders leaned against the table, watching the group try to assemble in lotus position. “But if Jurgen’s here, I’d love to talk with him!”

“The boss isn’t here,” said Firmino, brushing the hair out of his face. “Just like for the first three yoga classes.”

“In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen him at any of the meetings.” Henderson frowned behind his mask, unfolding his hands. “I’ve sent him enough invites to fill his email and texts, but nothing’s happened.”

“Have you tried calling him directly?” said Lijnders. It seemed obvious, but then again Liverpudlians were never known for noticing the obvious. “By his phone?”

Lijnders hoped Alisson, of all people, would have the answer. He was especially close with Klopp, and surely Klopp would call him.

“He’s had his phone on silence since forever.” Alisson sighed, taking his phone from the grass and scrolling through it. “Yeah, except for emergencies everything’s blocked.”

Lijnders set the rest of the groceries on the table, heading for the car. “Take everybody’s groceries back home,” he called to the yoga group behind him. “I’m going to check on the boss.”

When Lijnders pulled over in Klopp’s driveway, he noticed two things that concerned him. One, the blinds were all closed, and two, Klopp’s car was in the exact same position that it had been in when he’d drove by weeks ago.

Pulling out his negative COVID test, Lijnders slipped on his mask, grabbed a plastic bag and stepped out of the car. There was no way Klopp could have picked up the virus—all signs showed that he’d barely been out of the house.

He rung the doorbell, and nobody answered. He rang it again, knocking this time, and still the door remained locked.

“Jurgen!” Lijnders yelled through the mailslot. “Come on, let me in! It’s Pep!” But still, Klopp did not answer the door.

Lijnders sighed, deciding to try one more tactic. He removed his mask, opened the mailslot, and got as close as he could.

“Look, Jurgen. I know you probably want me to leave you alone, but at least open the door for a minute? This can’t be good for you,” he begged. “Please, I know you’re in there. People are wondering where you’ve been. They say have courage, and I’m trying to, I’m right out here for you. Just let me in.”

Finally, the knob turned. The door didn’t open, but Lijnders could tell that it had been unlocked, which was all he needed. He put on his mask and went in.

The first thing he noticed was that the hallway was clean, too clean. It was as if nobody had been in it…just like the dining room and pool table. The kitchen, on the other hand, had many containers littered around the counters, and the floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in at least two weeks. All signs pointed to his next-to-worst fear.

“Jurgen Klopp!” Lijnders burst into the living room, flinching when he saw the state of it. The rubbish bin was overflowing with trash, bottles and cans of all sorts laid crushed and spent on the table, and Klopp himself laid on the couch, covered by a quilt Lijnders had never seen before. The German looked pale all over, except for the dark circles around his eyes, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“...Pep?” Klopp seemed almost as surprised as Lijnders. He rapidly sat up, wincing as he did. “Is this another weird dream, or are the walls talking again?”

“Walls…talking?” Lijnders cleared off a section of the coffee table and took a seat. “Jurgen, you look exhausted.”

“Feel the same way.” Klopp wrapped the quilt around his shoulders, leaning against the sofa arm. “The walls have been talking for so long. Is it really you?”

“Um…yes.” Lijnders hesitated, his concern growing by the minute. Klopp had never acted like this before. “Why are you so pale?”

Klopp ignored the question, his gaze set on Lijnders’ hand. “Can I…touch you?”

Lijnders wordlessly extended his hand to Klopp. The situation was strange but if letting Klopp touch his hand would snap him out of whatever fugue he was in, then he was doing it.

“It is you…” Klopp gripped Lijnders’ hand and let out a borderline hysterical laugh. “Pep Lijnders, you’re here!”

“Yes, I’m here.” Lijnders decided to get to the point before things got even more awkward. “Why have you locked yourself in here?”

Instead of responding, Klopp gripped his hand tighter, avoiding all eye contact. Lijnders repeated the question, but Klopp remained nonverbal, as if he hadn’t burst into hysterical laughter seconds before.

“Oh…okay, nonverbal. But it’s okay!” Lijnders quickly added. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? Show me.”

Klopp held up seven fingers, then pointed to the clock.

“Seven hours…so you’re telling me you didn’t eat anything the whole day?” Lijnders got off the coffee table as if it was made of lava, extending a hand towards Klopp. “Come on, man. Let’s get into the kitchen.”

The German shook his head, wrapping himself further into the quilt.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Lijnders insisted. “Look, if you’re not going to help yourself, at least let me help you.”

Klopp hesitated, before taking Lijnders’ hand. The Dutchman pulled him off the couch, leading him towards the kitchen.

“Jurgen, you have next to nothing in your cabinets!” Lijnders gave up on searching Klopp’s kitchen and opened the paper bags on the counter. Thank goodness he’d went shopping before he’d came here. “When was the last time you’d went out?”

“Um…I don’t know.” Klopp stared into his mug of coffee as if it held the answers. Apparently, the hot drink had returned Klopp’s voice to the owner. “When did lockdown start again?”

“Four weeks ago.” Lijnders dug a box of spaghetti from the bag, along with a saltshaker. “Alisson told me that you visited on day five.”

“Oh, yeah. I think that was the last time I left the house, actually. So three weeks.” Klopp groaned, staring at the calendar. “It’s only been three weeks?”

Lijnders set the pot on the stove, filled with water. “What do you mean, only three weeks? Feels like forever since I’ve seen you. We’ve started gathering on the sidewalks now—socially distanced, though.”

“We did?” Klopp asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “I thought we were all still at home.”

“Oh right, I forgot you blocked all of us and so you didn’t get any of Hendo’s thirty-eight messages to you.” Lijnders paused his tomato chopping, glancing at Klopp. “Jurgen, why did you do that?”

Klopp continued staring into his coffee instead of drinking it. “Promise you’re not going to think I’m an idiot.”

“Jurgen, you don’t do things without a reason. People called you an idiot when you sold Phillipe, and look where it got us.”

“Fine.” Klopp finally looked up from his coffee, fixing his gaze on the counter. “I blocked all of you, and my news sites, and basically everything, because it was…depressing.”

“I can see why,” Lijnders nodded, eyes away from the cutting board. “I’ve seen the news, it’s ninety percent dystopia in there. You did good to cut it off—but why us?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There were just so many problems, and I couldn’t solve them.” Klopp held onto the quilt even tighter, as is he’d float away if he’d let go. “I couldn’t do anything about them, and it was just killing me inside. Literally.”

“But isolating yourself from us is killing you, too,” Lijnders argued, pouring tomatoes and onions into a saucepan. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Probably a good thing. I tried going on an exercise plan, but I was too exhausted after and I stopped. Then I stopped eating as much, so I could still lose some weight.”

“And you were exhausted because…”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he confessed. “I stayed awake all night and fell asleep at random times of day. I couldn’t find the energy to do anything.”

“What about therapy in our therapy chat?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Jurgen. Norman. Klopp.” Lijnders set the lid on the saucepan and turned his full attention towards Klopp. “In four weeks, you’ve went through restlessness, boredom, narcolepsy, insomnia, depression, self-starvation, pandemic-related stress, and social isolation issues. Tell me which part of that doesn’t say you need therapy.”

“I guess you’re right,” Klopp admitted. He tried to drink his coffee, only to realize it was now cold. “But I can’t put that in the therapy chat. The boys already have enough problems as things stand, they don’t need to worry about me.”

“Too late, they’ve started worrying already.”

“So I did this all for nothing.”

Lijnders shook his head, shaking the saucepan over the stove. “You did what you thought was best, Jurgen. The problem was that once again, you let your heart lead the way and not your mind. And normally that’s a good thing, but in this case…”

“I know. I’m sorry, Pep. For not letting you in and…everything, really.”

“Hey, I get it. Let’s talk about something else, okay?” Lijnders added the spaghetti to the pot, covering it once again. “Like, where did you get that quilt? It looks handmade.”

“That’s because it is handmade.” Klopp displayed a section for Lijnders to see. It was made of multicolored squares, but mainly red and white ones. “I’ve had it since I was a kid. My mom took my old football jerseys with the holes and made them into this. I still have it even know.”

“Honestly, I’m not surprised.” Lijnders chuckled, fingering the blanket. “You’ve never been one to throw away stuff. It’s a nice quilt.”

“I got that from Mom. She wouldn’t let me throw anything away until we were sure there was no other use for it. And I’m still keeping this. It has my first Wiesbaden jersey, after all.”

“So that’s why you’ve had it with you the whole time.” Lijnders poured the spaghetti into a bowl, covering it with the tomatoes. “It’s like a…security object of sorts.”

“I guess you can say that.”

Lijnders divided the spaghetti between two plates and took a seat at the counter. He poured some more coffee for the two, which now glinted in the sunlight thanks to Lijnders opening the windows.

“Pep…I’ve really gotta thank you.” Klopp looked up from his plate, which was already one-thirds empty. “You rescued me, literally. I think you saved my butt this time.”

“Like I’ve not done it many times before. But you’re welcome.” Lijnders took a bite and pulled a face. “It’s overcooked again.”

Klopp shrugged. “Tasted fine to me.”

Lijnders stared at Klopp incredulously. “You mean you don’t like sour tomato sauce?”

“You do?”

“Well, yes.”

“That stuff tastes like crap!”

Lijnders shook his head in amusement, squeezing a lemon over his pasta. Klopp was definitely on the mend.

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damarcarsblog · 2 years

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"💥🏆 FIRST CHAMPIONS LEAGUE!! Barça 1-0 Sampdoria | EXTENDED HIGHLIGHTS"...el dia més gran esportivament parlant com culer de la meva vida...gràcies DREAM TEAM, JOHAN CRUYFF, RONALD KOEMAN I TOTS ELS JUGADORS D'AQUELLA PLANTILLA QUE VAN FER REALITAT EL SOMNI D'UN NEN DE NOMÉS 12 ANYS, MAI M'OBLIDARÉ DE L'ABRAÇADA AMB EL MEU PARE PLORANT I DIENT-LI: PAPA JA SOM CAMPIONS D'EUROPA PER FI, UN TINC GRABAT A FOC A LA MEVA MEMÒRIA...PER AIXÒ US VULL AJUDAR CULLONS.

youtube

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thesunshinemaria · 6 days

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🇳🇱WHEN WILL MY COACHES LEARN ?????????🇳🇱

#oranje #nederland #soccer #football #lionel messi #kylian mbappe #ronald koeman #louis van gaal

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gerbie7 · 27 days

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Oranje in 2024 (deel 1, maart 2024)

Deze serie is een tijdje afwezig geweest. EK in Coronatijd, daarna een WK in een land met slavernij en geen mensenrechten. Nu duurde het even voor we ons kwalificeerden, mijn reactiesnelheid bleek erg traag. Maar alsnog dus, op weg naar het EK 2024 bij onze Oosterburen. Terug naar 23 spelers, wat logisch lijkt. Drie keepers en elke positie dubbel bezet. Vraag is dan of Koeman met een vast systeem…

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#EK 2024 #Nederlands elftal #Oranje #Ronald Koeman #voetbal

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anfieldroad · 1 month

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get your hands off of cody bro

#i do not like ronald koeman #posting it just bcs it’s cody tho 🫶🫶🫶 i love cody

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pedripics · 6 months

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Barça's Little Buddha - Champions Journal Issue 16

Sometimes it's not just what you say, but how you say it, and as Graham Hunter discovers, Barcelona wonder kid Pedri is as cool, calm and collected in conversation as he is on the pitch.

For everyone involved, the atmosphere of a TV interview at the training ground of a major football club is usually at the rarefied end of the scale. This one is with Pedro González López - better known as Pedri - so it's important that everything is spot on. In truth, the empty room we've been given is functional and dull - two things we don't want the interview to be. However, there's nothing dull about the activity taking place: there's a whirl of moving parts and participants, busy constructing the 'studio' where part of this interview will be filmed. It's an intricate, intense and necessarily efficient business. A cameraman, two cameras worth tens of thousands of pounds, a producer, spotlights, backdrops, microphones, three club press officers, an interviewer (me) and ... the player.

Pedri appears to be in the eye of this hurricane of activity, unruffled and unperturbed. It makes a great metaphor for how Pedri plays - what it looks like when rivals fret and flock around him, trying to shackle his elegant imposition of intelligence upon Europe's football fields. But, right now, accompanying that preternatural calm is a gently amused smile. It is neither sardonic nor condescending; rather, it is the smile of someone who is deeply self-assured. And importantly, it reaches his eyes.

"My first club in Tenerife, Tegueste, were big on values. They instilled in us the idea that we shouldn't get angry during matches or argue with the referee - there's no point. They also taught us to have fun. Now, these days I do get angry occasionally. That's normal. But the self-discipline to stay calm and to do better next time you're on the ball can make the difference."

Not to overdo the theme, but Pedri's self-possession also helped him govern the emotions of moving to the Camp Nou in 2020. Just over two and a half years before, he'd been on trial at Real Madrid's Valdebebas training ground, which was a miserable experience: it was snowy, training was disrupted and those in charge told him he wasn't yet at their level. So, turning up at Barcelona with the impression that he might be put under contract only to be immediately loaned out meant guarantees were in short supply.

"When my family and I arrived at our hotel, I made a deliberate effort to stay calm. I knew that, at any time, the club might tell me they weren't going to sign me."

He was 16, small and slight, joining a great club in great turmoil. At the time of signing, he had only started for Las Palmas, in the second division, three times. After completing his first full senior season with the Canary Islanders, the best option that staying put at Barcelona seemed to offer was joining Barça B. But that's not what happened.

"The day Ronald Koeman told me that I could stay with his first team, that I might get a few minutes, was a huge shock - I really didn't expect it. The surprise opportunity filled me with determination to keep training hard, to compete fiercely and to immediately try to grab as much playing time as possible."

From his Barcelona debut (September 2020 against Villarreal) until the end of that season, Pedri played 73 times for club and country. He scored his first Champions League goal at 17; at 18 he won Spain's Copa del Rey and was named in the EURO 2020 team of the tournament (he also won the Young Player award for good measure). And now, aged 20, he has won his first Liga title.

No offence to the great sides that Pedri has faced across Europe, but his most ferocious rival so far might still be his own grandmom. The González family run an eatery in Tenerife and, as a kid, Pedri, his brother and mates would move the tables and chairs to play 2v2 football. One time, a wayward shot smashed a glass lantern; Grandma González was so furious that she tried to burst the ball with a knife. You soon learn tight control after a fright like that. So, is Pedri's ability to be surrounded by four or five opponents but skip free with the ball innate, or was it learned in the family restaurant?

"It's a bit of both. I was able to do some things like that when I was younger, and it's down to the work with all the coaches. But certain things stick with you and often you do things naturally, without thinking."

Champions League defenders, you have been warned: the boy's a natural.

#such a beautifully written article #finally came around to writing it all down #pedri #pedri gonzalez #fc barcelona #fc barça #barça #*interview

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adidasshorts67 · 2 months

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Ruud Gullit And Ronald Koeman.

#vintage shorts #short shorts #nylon shorts #adidas shorts #adidas beckenbauer shorts

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peligrosapop · 7 months

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stoppp the first photo hahah https://www.tumblr.com/peligrosapop/729466856804646912/aleix-garrido-y-pablo-gavi-made-in-la-masia I wonder if they are close , never seen him included in gavi’s la masia crew pics haha

Gavi and Aleix? They are friends. They have been for a long time. Gavi just jumped youth categories faster than most of his teammates and went to the first team when he was called up by Ronald Koeman after preseason 21/22 season. Gavi’s bffs at La Masia were Ilias and Cristo, he was good friends with Diego Almeida (he left FcB last year after like 2 years in Barça Atlètic), Fermín, Biel and others as well.

Baby Gavi and Aleix Garrido:

#gavi #aleix garrido #pablo gavi #la masia

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jarellquansah · 5 months

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ronald koeman you will begin to cough in 3 days

#why is virgil starting AGAINST GIBRALTAR

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justforbooks · 1 year

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Gianluca Vialli, who has died of pancreatic cancer aged 58, became the first Italian to manage a top-flight English football club when he took over at Chelsea in 1998, guiding them to FA Cup, League Cup and European Cup Winners’ Cup trophies. However, he will be better remembered for his playing career as a dynamic, intelligent and versatile forward at Sampdoria and Juventus, as well as for Italy, with whom he won 59 caps between 1985 and 1992.

During a lengthy sojourn at Sampdoria in the 1980s and early 90s, Vialli won various honours, including the Italian League and the European Cup Winners’ Cup, but it was during his later, shorter stay at Juventus that he hit the greatest heights, captaining the side to a Champions League title in 1996.

Moving on to Chelsea immediately afterwards, he became a well-liked figure in west London, graduating from player to player-manager and then solely to manager – until, in the modern Chelsea tradition, he was sacked while still in full flow. A year followed as manager of Watford, after which he decided to concentrate on other interests, including television work and a backroom job with the Italian national side.

Vialli had an unusually wealthy background for a footballer. Born in Cremona in northern Italy, he was raised with his four older siblings in a huge 14th-century castle in the village of Belgioioso, not far from Milan, which had been bought by his father, a self-made millionaire.

In 1980, at the age of 16, he signed for his local club, Cremonese, in the third tier of the league, and four years later was bought by the Genoese Serie A team Sampdoria, who paired him up front with Roberto Mancini. Together they became known as the “goal twins” for their scoring exploits, as Sampdoria, who had won nothing of note up to that point, suddenly became a force in the Italian game.

Vialli’s first winner’s medal came in the Italian Cup in 1985, and under the Yugoslavian manager Vujadin Boškov he won another two cup finals, in 1988 and 1989, before appearing in the 1990 European Cup Winners’ Cup final, a 2-0 win against Anderlecht in which he scored both goals in extra time.

That year, Vialli also featured in the 1990 World Cup finals in Italy. He was dropped after missing a penalty in the second match against the USA, but returned for Italy’s semi-final against Argentina, which they lost on penalties.

A year later Sampdoria won the Serie A championship for the first and only time, finishing a comfortable five points clear of Internazionale at the end of the 1990-91 season, thanks in part to Vialli’s 19 goals as top scorer in the league. Qualifying for the European Cup, they reached the final at Wembley in 1992, but lost 1-0 to Barcelona in extra time, Vialli uncharacteristically missing three good chances before Ronald Koeman scored the winner.

Shortly afterwards he accepted an offer to join Juventus for a world-record fee of £12.5m, ushering in the end of Sampdoria’s great era of achievement. In Turin he won the 1993 UEFA Cup during his first season and then, under a new manager, Marcello Lippi, captained the side to a double of the 1994-95 Italian championship and the Italian Cup, creating another formidable goal-scoring combination with Fabrizio Ravanelli in a side that also boasted Roberto Baggio, Alessandro Del Piero and Andreas Möller.

The crowning glory of his four-year spell at Juventus was victory in the 1996 Champions League final at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome, where he lifted the trophy as captain after a win on penalties against Ajax.

By then in his early 30s, Vialli decided on a final move to the Premier League with Chelsea. He soon became a popular presence at Stamford Bridge, helped by his excellent command of English and use of colloquialisms, as well as his suave but likable aura.

He won the 1997 FA Cup in his first year at the club, but was limited to five minutes off the bench in the 2-0 win over Middlesbrough in the final, and for much of his time under manager Ruud Gullit he found his place in the side was hardly guaranteed.

When Gullit was sacked unexpectedly in early 1998, Vialli took over as player-manager, handing out glasses of champagne in the dressing room before his first match in charge, a League Cup semi-final second-leg win against Arsenal. That took them to the final, where they again beat Middlesbrough 2-0.

Having landed his first managerial honours within weeks of taking charge, Vialli also inherited a decent position in the European Cup Winners’ Cup, taking his side from the quarter-finals to the final and beating Stuttgart 1-0 in Stockholm to become, at the time, the youngest manager to win a European competition.

Third position in the Premier League at the end of the following 1998-99 season was Chelsea’s best showing in the top flight since 1970, and after stepping down as a player to concentrate solely on management, by the finish of 1999-2000 he had steered them to an FA Cup final win against Aston Villa and fifth place in the league. However, only five games into the next campaign, the club dispensed with his services.

Vialli’s subsequent move to manage Watford, who had just dropped out of the Premier League, was not nearly so successful. After a season in which the club finished 14th in the First Division he was sacked, prompting a lengthy legal dispute over substantial payments he said were due for the rest of his contract.

That was enough to put him off management for good, and he moved instead into work as a television analyst and commentator, mainly for Sky Italia. He also set up a sports investment company, Tifosy, and in 2019 was appointed delegation chief for the Italy team under his friend Mancini, a behind-the-scenes position he held until his death in London, where he had lived since his Chelsea days.

He is survived by his wife, Cathryn White-Cooper, whom he married in 2003, two daughters, Olivia and Sofia, his mother, Maria Teresa, his brothers, Nino, Marco and Maffo, and his sister, Mila.

🔔 Gianluca Vialli, footballer and manager, born 9 July 1964; died 6 January 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Gianluca Vialli #in memoriam

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live-laugh-loverpool · 2 years

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The Teranga Elephant--Part 1

Hey, it's Lynn here! Here's the story I may or may not have mentioned. It's the first part--the second part will come before the season starts, so don't worry.

Tags: @millythegoat, @alissonbecksfan234

This story is based off a part of this headcanon on AO3, so all thanks to the author for that idea!

Dear Diary,

It’s me, Pep Lijnders. The group seems really empty without Sadio here. Fabi and Naby-lad are still trying to convince him to stay over the phone even though he already moved to Bayern. Thankfully, he seems happy there, which is what matters now. But I wonder if he would be as happy, if he didn’t have his little companion with him…

Mane had called the elephant Teranga.

No, not a real elephant! An elephant plushie!

He had gotten it at Southampton in 2014. The nights had been very quiet--a little too quiet for young Mane…

“Oyasumi!” Maya Yoshida called out in the middle of the night. “Oyasumi!”

“Usiku mwema!” called Victor Wanyama.

“Goedenacht!” said Terry Alderweirld.

“What are you saying?” Mane called in French, but nobody seemed to understand.

Mane shot up from his bed. Another nightmare, the third that night. He knew nobody in Southampton. Nobody at all.

And now he couldn’t even sleep during the “team bonding sleepover”.

He sighed, tiptoeing down the hall. Ronald Koeman would know what to do--at least he hoped. Mane pushed open the office door to find his manager, surrounded by what seemed to be antique toys.

“Sadio?” Koeman whispered once he recovered from the shock. “What are you doing here? I thought you were sleeping.”

“Can’t sleep.” Mane picked up a wind-up goose, noticing how…new it seemed to be. “Are all of these yours, sir?”

“Well…not really…yeah. I find them at auctions, garage sales, and old-fashioned antique junk stores,” Koeman explained. He picked up a flat tin soldier, beaming with pride. “This one came from the late 1890s and it’s almost as old as Liverpool! I found it in an auction in Birmingham. Did you know that tin soldiers were the first soldiers to be mass-produced?”

“No, sir, I had no idea.” Mane spotted a porcelain doll. He reached for it, but Koeman blocked him.

“Whoa, careful! That’s from the 1910s there, pre-World War I. It’s worth millions! And that’s Raggedy Andy.” Koeman took up a shabby-looking rag doll. “I picked him up at an antique store and haven’t gotten to refurbishing him. He’s in pretty good condition--he just needs some cleaning.”

Mane took a good look around the room. There were painted wooden dolls with many feet--ugh, creepy--, yarn haired, button-eyed rag dolls with mismatched clothing, and Victorian porcelain dolls in lacy, frilly dresses. There were glass-eyed, golden-tan teddy bears with long limbs, organ grinder monkeys with tiny cymbals, and muscley horses--real athletes--on wheels! There were painted tin airplanes and little toy Volkswagens and miniature dump trucks, some with chipped paint and missing wheels. But one thing in particular caught his eye.

It was a stuffed elephant, greyish-tan. It had patches all over it of similar, but still far-off in color, fabric. Some were velveteen, while others were cotton and still others were corduroy. It was old, tuskless and missing an eye, but the antique had a certain appeal to it, and Mane couldn’t help but pick it up off the shelf.

“Where did this one come from?” he asked Koeman, who was busy re-hairing a poor, cracked porcelain doll.

“Oh, that? It’s from 1923,” Koeman announced, quite proud of his handiwork. “I found it in derelict conditions--old, ripped, stained, missing wheels!”

“Wait, it had wheels?”

“At least it did before. It was 1999, when an elderly lady gave it to me. It had been a toy from her childhood. At that time, I wasn’t exactly great at finishing what I started,” he chuckled, “but after three years of putting it off and matching fabrics, I finally finished repairing it. I looked to find the lady, but she was so shocked at its appearance after repair that she didn’t want it anymore. So I kept it all these years. It does have a certain appeal, doesn’t it, Sadio?”

“Yes, sir,” Mane agreed. “It has plenty of appeal.” He stroked the elephant’s plush ear, sighed, and prepared to put it back on the shelf.

“You know what?” Koeman finished re-hairing the doll. “I do need some more space on the shelf. I was going to bring this along with some other toys to auction to get some iron men, but you seem to like this one. Have it.”

“W-what?!” Mane stuttered. “But this could be worth thousands!”

“Eh, I’ll get my millions from the tin soldiers and cymbal-monkeys anyways. Consider it as my gift to you.”

“Um…thank you, sir!” Mane carefully picked the elephant back up, taking a look at its face. “Say, where’d the eye go?”

“Oh, I can repair that for you if you want!” Koeman said, rooting in his drawer for something. “All you need is some embroidery floss.”

“You know what?” Mane took another look at the elephant plush. “It’s fine just like this, sir. Thank you.”

“Please, call me Koeman!” The Dutch waved Mane away as he went back to work.

Mane finally made it back to the auditorium, settling back into his sleeping bag and setting the elephant next to his head. After some careful inspection of the room to make sure nobody was watching, he held it close to him, finally relaxing.

“I’ll call you Teranga.”

Now, almost eight years later, Mane was in Germany, playing with some of the world’s best talents. He was grateful for the opportunity to play for Bayern Munchen, he really was! And he was lucky to have left Liverpool with such a good reputation and such love.

Now if only he could find Teranga…

He searched through his room and all the other rooms. He was a little surprised when he found a guaguanco band in the basement, but since this was Tacito’s house, he guessed it kind of made sense. But he couldn’t find his Teranga anywhere, and that meant…

“Oh no,” Mane groaned, slamming his hand on the counter in frustration. “I left it at Säbener Straße!”

Säbener Straße was Bayern’s training ground, and Mane was still quite new there. He had settled in with a couple of people already, but he still had a few--or rather, a few hundred--bones to pick with Manuel Neuer. And what would he say if Neuer found Teranga?! He was the only new arrival so far, so Neuer would instantly know who it belonged to. And then it would be horrible from there…

I need to go find Teranga, Mane decided. But we gather in four hours. What if Manuel spots me? I have no idea how Säbener Straße’s halls are, unlike Kirkby where we had maps and diagrams everywhere! What should I do?

He sighed, picking up his keys. Mane had no choice--he had to drive over to Säbener Straße before somebody else found his precious elephant.

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