The Cold Mentor
by Gia
2006:
So there he was, 75 kilos of pure Colombian muscle, in his home land, in his home stadium, watching his home team, and trembling like a leaf. He swallowed hard, pushed down the twisting feeling in his stomach, and focused on the game down on the pitch. To think, it was a postcard, a silly little postcard from Juan Pablo that finally broke through the bubble of anonymity and drew him home.
1981:
"Ah you got one, Paisa1!" The professional lifted the little boy high in the air and ran with him on his shoulders shouting "Goooooallllllllll!"
"You let me score that one, Carlos."
"Never. I play you as hard as I play any Cali defender. Come on, come at me again." There were advantages to growing up with a neighbor like Carlos Valderrama. He may not have been born in Medellín, but he’d lived there for as long as he could remember. They played hard in Juan Pablo's back-yard pitch until the “¡Niños, a comer!” came from inside and brought them stumbling back in, bruised and battle-weary warriors, to discuss La Liga over hot bowls of Ajiaco.
“You’re going to make us proud one day, Paisa.”
1992:
The boy’s room was littered with postcards; not the scenic, picturesque ones, but silly ones in bright colors with pictures of animals with googly eyes or people making goofy faces. All these were from Carlos, whether from a friendly match in a far away place or a practice session in Bogota, the place didn’t matter. Carlos and his team were winning games, defeating mighty Argentina and their unstoppable Maradona-Caniggia combination, raising the country’s image and hope. They were on the fringe end of the rope the country’s history of violence and unrest.
Outside of their small neighborhood, Carlos learned a lot in his time in the city about how dark and cold the world could be but in that, he gained street-smarts. Most importantly, he learned what he did not know. He knew nothing about any kidnappings or killings. He certainly knew nothing about any cartel paying off referees or laundering money through his club. No, Carlos decided he most certainly did not know anything about that.
In what he knew as a dark world, sending the colorful postcards to little Juan Pablo was the light he craved, the transportation back to a simpler, happier time.
While Carlos preferred to avoid it all, his best friend and teammate Andrés believed in the good in people and the good the team was doing. They talked for many late nights about how the world would be different ten years from now - how it would be different for Juan Pablo.
1994:
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
-T.S. Eliot
Everything changed after World Cup 1994 and it wasn’t just that they killed Andrés2.
It wasn’t. Carlos would never lay that burden on him. It was everything: the threats, the buildup, the end that wasn’t any longer in sight. He now watched his world instead of living in it while he plummeted down to the very bottom of that hierarchy of needs and laid his head down on Maslow’s cold hard basement level. He made sure he had food and shelter. That’s all.
Carlos lost his heart then, and Colombia, her soul. Luis Perea hung up his boots afterward and Carlos was tempted to do the same. He still came home at Christmastime like he was supposed to, to visit his family and also Juan Pablo but he was different now. Solemn.
“Get up, Paisa, vamos!” Carlos ran over and was pleased to be pushed back while the not-so-small-anymore boy picked himself up and brushed off his knees. He scowled back at the little tree he’d tripped over with its little roots in the middle of the backyard pitch. “That was Maradona, hermanito3. He’ll get you every time. ¡Penaaaal4!” Carlos ran the ball to the spot and set his heels on the goal line. “Ok, I’m their goalkeeper. Take your best shot.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and announced to the skies. “With seconds left in injury time, Juan Pablo Angél will take the penalty for Colombia’s win!”
It was the one little glimpse of time when Juan Pablo was able to see Carlos lose himself in the moment and not simply stare numbly at his glass. Juan Pablo would still throw his arms around him, but now he could feel the secrets, buried deep inside, burning to get out. They were the type of secrets that one would take to his grave, burning behind the dark and clouded-over eyes, beneath the crazy, fun mess of blond hair. While everyone else just saw the shell of the man they once knew, Juan Pablo could feel the burning.
Juan Pablo didn’t understand. Of course he knew what happened. The whole world knew, but he didn’t conoció. It didn’t haunt him deep in his bones the way it haunted Carlos.
1996:
It wasn’t long until Carlos transferred to the USA’s league, a world away. There in his little bubble of safety that was south Florida, Carlos found solace in his brightly colored house writing out silly postcards to Juan Pablo. Here, where his team had fans, but they were by no means the very pulse of a nation.
His writing became less personal and less encouraging until it degenerated into just his trademark quirky quotes with no personal message at all. Juan Pablo was happy to receive them anyway. At least he’d taken a step up from the bottom. At least he was starting to feel the safety of knowing there was an ocean between him and his past now.
1998:
People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. -Angelou
Carlos visits were few and far between now, but when Juan Pablo saw him, cold and solemn, he always made a point to run up to him with the enthusiasm of the child inside and embrace him fully; hard enough to catch him off-guard and long enough to draw at least one smile. Juan Pablo craved and shred of the past from the empty shell of the man he once knew.
They played - of course they played, and Juan Pablo was getting better now that he was a fresh member of Carlos’ national team and a newly signed River Plate star.
“¡You’re defending me like a Boca player old man, vamos!” He taunted lightly while pulling off a shot from just past midfield (mid backyard field).
“I’ll teach you how to play like a Boca Junior, Paisa…”
2006:
Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. -Lovelace
Carlos held the postcard in his hands and held it close to his heart. The World Cup qualifier against Paraguay would be the biggest game of little Paisa’s life. The thought of going back terrified him more than he would ever admit, but the thought of missing it terrified him even more. So here he was, home. Home in his colors. Home in his stadium. Home in his element. Home where he was once loved. He should have been relieved to be surrounded by the sea of yellow, red, and blue, but his heart was pounding for his own pain, for his country, and for Juan Pablo who was down there doing it, self-actualizing, leaving everything he had on the field.
He played hard, the way Carlos always made him play. Cordoba sent a long cross that he chased down with his weary legs when anyone else would have let it go out. The cross came back to him, as he streaked toward the box. He took the shot with one touch and - post. A minute later, deep in injury time, having made a run and beaten Roque Santa Cruz, Falcao’s cross sailed across, goalkeeper Villar was out of position, Juan Pablo jumped with every molecule he had and with his head made solid contact with the ball. He crashed onto the grass and looked up to see - crossbar.
Carlos climbed over drunken fans and celebrating Paraguayans to get down to the dressing room. There, he put his hands on a deflated, beaten, and grass-stained Juan Pablo and lifted him up onto his feet. He held him there in silence, held Andrés, and took two fingers to lift his Paisa’s chin and look into his eyes. And then, inexplicably, he laughed. Carlos laughed a deep genuine laugh, the kind from deep in the belly that makes everyone turn and look at the crazy, wild-haired man.
“Paisa, we’re back. Colombia is back. You’re the hingepin.” Juan Pablo returns the gaze with one of defeat and now confusion. “You just played with a heart that I haven’t seen in a lot of years. Paisa, I’ve just seen Colombia get her soul back.”
“Carlos.”
“It won’t be today, Paisa, but the time is coming. Tomorrow, in Medellín, we’re going to play. You and me, in the yard, like we used to.”
Juan Pablo threw an arm around Carlos as they walked. He was no fool. There was a long road ahead for both of them. At the end of that road though, at the very end, he could see his old Carlos again. “You want me to teach you that little move I put on Roque, sí?
“Tonight, Paisa, you’ve made me proud.”
1. Paisa - A person from Medellín.
2. Andrés Escobar - close friend and teammate of Valderrama who scored an own goal in an opening round loss of WC 94 and was shot and killed in Medellín a few days later.
3. Hermanito - little brother
4. Penal - Penalty Shot
2006:
So there he was, 75 kilos of pure Colombian muscle, in his home land, in his home stadium, watching his home team, and trembling like a leaf. He swallowed hard, pushed down the twisting feeling in his stomach, and focused on the game down on the pitch. To think, it was a postcard, a silly little postcard from Juan Pablo that finally broke through the bubble of anonymity and drew him home.
1981:
"Ah you got one, Paisa1!" The professional lifted the little boy high in the air and ran with him on his shoulders shouting "Goooooallllllllll!"
"You let me score that one, Carlos."
"Never. I play you as hard as I play any Cali defender. Come on, come at me again." There were advantages to growing up with a neighbor like Carlos Valderrama. He may not have been born in Medellín, but he’d lived there for as long as he could remember. They played hard in Juan Pablo's back-yard pitch until the “¡Niños, a comer!” came from inside and brought them stumbling back in, bruised and battle-weary warriors, to discuss La Liga over hot bowls of Ajiaco.
“You’re going to make us proud one day, Paisa.”
1992:
The boy’s room was littered with postcards; not the scenic, picturesque ones, but silly ones in bright colors with pictures of animals with googly eyes or people making goofy faces. All these were from Carlos, whether from a friendly match in a far away place or a practice session in Bogota, the place didn’t matter. Carlos and his team were winning games, defeating mighty Argentina and their unstoppable Maradona-Caniggia combination, raising the country’s image and hope. They were on the fringe end of the rope the country’s history of violence and unrest.
Outside of their small neighborhood, Carlos learned a lot in his time in the city about how dark and cold the world could be but in that, he gained street-smarts. Most importantly, he learned what he did not know. He knew nothing about any kidnappings or killings. He certainly knew nothing about any cartel paying off referees or laundering money through his club. No, Carlos decided he most certainly did not know anything about that.
In what he knew as a dark world, sending the colorful postcards to little Juan Pablo was the light he craved, the transportation back to a simpler, happier time.
While Carlos preferred to avoid it all, his best friend and teammate Andrés believed in the good in people and the good the team was doing. They talked for many late nights about how the world would be different ten years from now - how it would be different for Juan Pablo.
1994:
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
-T.S. Eliot
Everything changed after World Cup 1994 and it wasn’t just that they killed Andrés2.
It wasn’t. Carlos would never lay that burden on him. It was everything: the threats, the buildup, the end that wasn’t any longer in sight. He now watched his world instead of living in it while he plummeted down to the very bottom of that hierarchy of needs and laid his head down on Maslow’s cold hard basement level. He made sure he had food and shelter. That’s all.
Carlos lost his heart then, and Colombia, her soul. Luis Perea hung up his boots afterward and Carlos was tempted to do the same. He still came home at Christmastime like he was supposed to, to visit his family and also Juan Pablo but he was different now. Solemn.
“Get up, Paisa, vamos!” Carlos ran over and was pleased to be pushed back while the not-so-small-anymore boy picked himself up and brushed off his knees. He scowled back at the little tree he’d tripped over with its little roots in the middle of the backyard pitch. “That was Maradona, hermanito3. He’ll get you every time. ¡Penaaaal4!” Carlos ran the ball to the spot and set his heels on the goal line. “Ok, I’m their goalkeeper. Take your best shot.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and announced to the skies. “With seconds left in injury time, Juan Pablo Angél will take the penalty for Colombia’s win!”
It was the one little glimpse of time when Juan Pablo was able to see Carlos lose himself in the moment and not simply stare numbly at his glass. Juan Pablo would still throw his arms around him, but now he could feel the secrets, buried deep inside, burning to get out. They were the type of secrets that one would take to his grave, burning behind the dark and clouded-over eyes, beneath the crazy, fun mess of blond hair. While everyone else just saw the shell of the man they once knew, Juan Pablo could feel the burning.
Juan Pablo didn’t understand. Of course he knew what happened. The whole world knew, but he didn’t conoció. It didn’t haunt him deep in his bones the way it haunted Carlos.
1996:
It wasn’t long until Carlos transferred to the USA’s league, a world away. There in his little bubble of safety that was south Florida, Carlos found solace in his brightly colored house writing out silly postcards to Juan Pablo. Here, where his team had fans, but they were by no means the very pulse of a nation.
His writing became less personal and less encouraging until it degenerated into just his trademark quirky quotes with no personal message at all. Juan Pablo was happy to receive them anyway. At least he’d taken a step up from the bottom. At least he was starting to feel the safety of knowing there was an ocean between him and his past now.
1998:
People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. -Angelou
Carlos visits were few and far between now, but when Juan Pablo saw him, cold and solemn, he always made a point to run up to him with the enthusiasm of the child inside and embrace him fully; hard enough to catch him off-guard and long enough to draw at least one smile. Juan Pablo craved and shred of the past from the empty shell of the man he once knew.
They played - of course they played, and Juan Pablo was getting better now that he was a fresh member of Carlos’ national team and a newly signed River Plate star.
“¡You’re defending me like a Boca player old man, vamos!” He taunted lightly while pulling off a shot from just past midfield (mid backyard field).
“I’ll teach you how to play like a Boca Junior, Paisa…”
2006:
Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. -Lovelace
Carlos held the postcard in his hands and held it close to his heart. The World Cup qualifier against Paraguay would be the biggest game of little Paisa’s life. The thought of going back terrified him more than he would ever admit, but the thought of missing it terrified him even more. So here he was, home. Home in his colors. Home in his stadium. Home in his element. Home where he was once loved. He should have been relieved to be surrounded by the sea of yellow, red, and blue, but his heart was pounding for his own pain, for his country, and for Juan Pablo who was down there doing it, self-actualizing, leaving everything he had on the field.
He played hard, the way Carlos always made him play. Cordoba sent a long cross that he chased down with his weary legs when anyone else would have let it go out. The cross came back to him, as he streaked toward the box. He took the shot with one touch and - post. A minute later, deep in injury time, having made a run and beaten Roque Santa Cruz, Falcao’s cross sailed across, goalkeeper Villar was out of position, Juan Pablo jumped with every molecule he had and with his head made solid contact with the ball. He crashed onto the grass and looked up to see - crossbar.
Carlos climbed over drunken fans and celebrating Paraguayans to get down to the dressing room. There, he put his hands on a deflated, beaten, and grass-stained Juan Pablo and lifted him up onto his feet. He held him there in silence, held Andrés, and took two fingers to lift his Paisa’s chin and look into his eyes. And then, inexplicably, he laughed. Carlos laughed a deep genuine laugh, the kind from deep in the belly that makes everyone turn and look at the crazy, wild-haired man.
“Paisa, we’re back. Colombia is back. You’re the hingepin.” Juan Pablo returns the gaze with one of defeat and now confusion. “You just played with a heart that I haven’t seen in a lot of years. Paisa, I’ve just seen Colombia get her soul back.”
“Carlos.”
“It won’t be today, Paisa, but the time is coming. Tomorrow, in Medellín, we’re going to play. You and me, in the yard, like we used to.”
Juan Pablo threw an arm around Carlos as they walked. He was no fool. There was a long road ahead for both of them. At the end of that road though, at the very end, he could see his old Carlos again. “You want me to teach you that little move I put on Roque, sí?
“Tonight, Paisa, you’ve made me proud.”
1. Paisa - A person from Medellín.
2. Andrés Escobar - close friend and teammate of Valderrama who scored an own goal in an opening round loss of WC 94 and was shot and killed in Medellín a few days later.
3. Hermanito - little brother
4. Penal - Penalty Shot