Opaque
by lemongrasstea
It comes down to this, at first: Diego isn't much good at German (yet) and Markus isn't interested in learning Portuguese (he assumes), and it's easy to slide into a habit of not speaking. They hug on the pitch, give each other high-fives; but they're new to and cautious with each other, still learning to work as a unit the way two players desperate to prove themselves can.
Diego isn't comfortable with silence, not really -- sometimes he lets the dog sleep with him, just to hear its breathing in the dark -- but he keeps the noise of the football pitch close to him, even when grey skies threaten to smother Bremen's skyline. And it's not as if their teammates don't make up for the lack, whatever Werder Bremen's reputation as a sensible team. Between him and Naldo (and Aaron, when suitably riled), they've racked up a enough blackmail material to make Bild very, very happy.
(There are times when the thought of giving Frings a taste of his own medicine occupies far too much of the space Diego allows for resentment; and he has to breathe deep, and let go. There are secrets and then there are secrets, and he despises malice in himself.)
So when he comes back from Copa America to Klasnic's measured e-mails about the pre-season and a quiet dressing room, he almost backs out again. There are too many mines to tread around here -- the lines on Schaaf's face, the knowledge that Klasnic will never play professional football again, Miroslav Klose's absence -- and he's nowhere near thick-skinned or oblivious enough to ignore them.
"Congratulations," Jurica greets him, smiling. He's still in his cycling gear, hands cupped around the unstrapped helmet on his head.
Diego almost says, "I didn't make a difference. The press said to me: you're not as good as Kaká, and thank God Dunga didn't play you as much as he would've Kaká."
He almost says, "They won without me."
But he can't remember how to say it all in German, and Jurica means well, so the only thing he says is, "Thank you."
Diego looks around the dressing room and sees the strained smile on Markus Rosenberg's face, and remembers his first few months in Werder Bremen. They're cutting you more slack than they ever did me, he thinks, but Markus wasn't in the way of anyone's ambitions last season, and it is with Klose's departure that the burden on his shoulders makes itself apparent. Diego doesn't have to worry now that Klose and Frings won't find him good enough -- not even Frings, who's still on the team, no, not after Juventus -- but it's only a matter of time now before Rosenberg has to stand and take it as someone mouths off about him.
After training, Diego asks, "Do you play billiards?"
Markus doesn't, but he readily picks up a PS2 controller and they spend the next few hours beating the shit out of each other in Soul Calibur 3. Diego notices Markus blinking at the doormat and the mirrors hung above his trophies, but neither he nor Markus says anything. They learn, after a few false starts: Markus starts leaving Taki for Diego to play, and Diego waits while Markus makes the agonising choice between Kilik and Raphael. At one point Naldo wanders into Diego's home and makes rude comments about their choices of characters, and they call a brief truce to throw shoes at him.
(They're forced to call a longer truce when Diego has to retrieve Markus's shoe from his dog.)
It comes down to this, now: they don't need to say anything, even off the pitch. Diego doesn't know what Markus gets out of it, but he doesn't think it matters, and he keeps his own counsel when he watches Markus's blond head puzzling over the angle of a shot on the billiard table. Markus smiles and looks away when Hugo gets sentimental and wraps himself around Diego like an affectionate bear, and is inducted into the weird choreography the junior players perform around Frings and Baumann -- everyone knows that Baumann will go sooner or later, but no one wants to bet how the chips will fall.
He and Markus are not friends, Diego thinks. It's a word he can only use with ease after he's past feeling relief at the knowledge that he's secure here, even with Carlos Alberto gunning after his position, that his teammates will pause and listen as he struggles to express himself in German. And it's not a word to use when he still avoids giving Rosenberg any indication of vulnerability, and they still don't talk.
But Markus knows what he means when he says, "Meet me at the swineherd and his pigs", and Diego knows what it means when Markus stands with his fists clenched, eyeing the other strikers -- and that's enough.
The bubble bursts one evening when they're rolling katamaris into stars, remaking constellations (the way they couldn't recreate the title challenge, but they don't talk about that either). Markus grips the controller in his hands and leans over, across the small space between them on the sofa, to kiss Diego on the corner of his mouth. Clumsy, forceful, and defensive.
There is nothing impulsive about it.
Diego freezes, and swallows. Maybe, it occurs to him, he hasn't read the words in their silence as well as he thinks he does. Maybe they should have been speaking from the beginning, because this -- the fact that he's not running off screaming -- isn't something he's ever wanted to acknowledge.
He may be far away from home, and in this room the scribblers of the press ("the 2004 Olympics, Copa America, now this... Kaká-lite, but homosexual... it's his parents, an adulterer and a would-be murderer") are absent, but he's no safer from falling off the edge of the world than he is when Co Adriaanse made it clear there was no place for him in Porto.
Diego shifts away from Markus's insistent mouth, just short of rejection, and says, "Tomorrow we will talk."
(He doesn't say, "Don't you have a girlfriend? Are you fucking insane?")
He can feel Rosenberg's eyes boring into his head, and ignores them the best he can. His hands are shaking, but he presses them against his knees, waiting until Markus leans back with a disgruntled noise.
He hopes Markus is better at this than he is.
Author's Notes: Much of the information on Diego came from a September 2006 online chat at Uefa.com and this interview. I am indebted to the uploader for making it available.
It comes down to this, at first: Diego isn't much good at German (yet) and Markus isn't interested in learning Portuguese (he assumes), and it's easy to slide into a habit of not speaking. They hug on the pitch, give each other high-fives; but they're new to and cautious with each other, still learning to work as a unit the way two players desperate to prove themselves can.
Diego isn't comfortable with silence, not really -- sometimes he lets the dog sleep with him, just to hear its breathing in the dark -- but he keeps the noise of the football pitch close to him, even when grey skies threaten to smother Bremen's skyline. And it's not as if their teammates don't make up for the lack, whatever Werder Bremen's reputation as a sensible team. Between him and Naldo (and Aaron, when suitably riled), they've racked up a enough blackmail material to make Bild very, very happy.
(There are times when the thought of giving Frings a taste of his own medicine occupies far too much of the space Diego allows for resentment; and he has to breathe deep, and let go. There are secrets and then there are secrets, and he despises malice in himself.)
So when he comes back from Copa America to Klasnic's measured e-mails about the pre-season and a quiet dressing room, he almost backs out again. There are too many mines to tread around here -- the lines on Schaaf's face, the knowledge that Klasnic will never play professional football again, Miroslav Klose's absence -- and he's nowhere near thick-skinned or oblivious enough to ignore them.
"Congratulations," Jurica greets him, smiling. He's still in his cycling gear, hands cupped around the unstrapped helmet on his head.
Diego almost says, "I didn't make a difference. The press said to me: you're not as good as Kaká, and thank God Dunga didn't play you as much as he would've Kaká."
He almost says, "They won without me."
But he can't remember how to say it all in German, and Jurica means well, so the only thing he says is, "Thank you."
Diego looks around the dressing room and sees the strained smile on Markus Rosenberg's face, and remembers his first few months in Werder Bremen. They're cutting you more slack than they ever did me, he thinks, but Markus wasn't in the way of anyone's ambitions last season, and it is with Klose's departure that the burden on his shoulders makes itself apparent. Diego doesn't have to worry now that Klose and Frings won't find him good enough -- not even Frings, who's still on the team, no, not after Juventus -- but it's only a matter of time now before Rosenberg has to stand and take it as someone mouths off about him.
After training, Diego asks, "Do you play billiards?"
Markus doesn't, but he readily picks up a PS2 controller and they spend the next few hours beating the shit out of each other in Soul Calibur 3. Diego notices Markus blinking at the doormat and the mirrors hung above his trophies, but neither he nor Markus says anything. They learn, after a few false starts: Markus starts leaving Taki for Diego to play, and Diego waits while Markus makes the agonising choice between Kilik and Raphael. At one point Naldo wanders into Diego's home and makes rude comments about their choices of characters, and they call a brief truce to throw shoes at him.
(They're forced to call a longer truce when Diego has to retrieve Markus's shoe from his dog.)
It comes down to this, now: they don't need to say anything, even off the pitch. Diego doesn't know what Markus gets out of it, but he doesn't think it matters, and he keeps his own counsel when he watches Markus's blond head puzzling over the angle of a shot on the billiard table. Markus smiles and looks away when Hugo gets sentimental and wraps himself around Diego like an affectionate bear, and is inducted into the weird choreography the junior players perform around Frings and Baumann -- everyone knows that Baumann will go sooner or later, but no one wants to bet how the chips will fall.
He and Markus are not friends, Diego thinks. It's a word he can only use with ease after he's past feeling relief at the knowledge that he's secure here, even with Carlos Alberto gunning after his position, that his teammates will pause and listen as he struggles to express himself in German. And it's not a word to use when he still avoids giving Rosenberg any indication of vulnerability, and they still don't talk.
But Markus knows what he means when he says, "Meet me at the swineherd and his pigs", and Diego knows what it means when Markus stands with his fists clenched, eyeing the other strikers -- and that's enough.
The bubble bursts one evening when they're rolling katamaris into stars, remaking constellations (the way they couldn't recreate the title challenge, but they don't talk about that either). Markus grips the controller in his hands and leans over, across the small space between them on the sofa, to kiss Diego on the corner of his mouth. Clumsy, forceful, and defensive.
There is nothing impulsive about it.
Diego freezes, and swallows. Maybe, it occurs to him, he hasn't read the words in their silence as well as he thinks he does. Maybe they should have been speaking from the beginning, because this -- the fact that he's not running off screaming -- isn't something he's ever wanted to acknowledge.
He may be far away from home, and in this room the scribblers of the press ("the 2004 Olympics, Copa America, now this... Kaká-lite, but homosexual... it's his parents, an adulterer and a would-be murderer") are absent, but he's no safer from falling off the edge of the world than he is when Co Adriaanse made it clear there was no place for him in Porto.
Diego shifts away from Markus's insistent mouth, just short of rejection, and says, "Tomorrow we will talk."
(He doesn't say, "Don't you have a girlfriend? Are you fucking insane?")
He can feel Rosenberg's eyes boring into his head, and ignores them the best he can. His hands are shaking, but he presses them against his knees, waiting until Markus leans back with a disgruntled noise.
He hopes Markus is better at this than he is.
Author's Notes: Much of the information on Diego came from a September 2006 online chat at Uefa.com and this interview. I am indebted to the uploader for making it available.