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Chapter 1 - Germany vs. France. Lukas is injured.
The tension in the locker room was definitely there, the nerves were frayed and voices were low, far too low. Where was the usual team spirit? The excitement, the buzz before the match? Not there. Sure, they had played some good teams thus far, but this was definitely the first big test since the World Cup. France. Though they’d had a rockier start to things, they were still up there. At the top.
But that’s where they were too, wasn’t it? Why were the nerves so jangled then, if they’re playing a team closer to their calibre? Excitement to really prove themselves, to waylay any lingering doubt, that’s what this match represents. That’s what they’re hoping for.
The beginning of the match is so close and they all sit there, looking at each other. Who’s going to be the first one to break the silence? Who’s going to start the build up?
“This is ridiculous. Michael, you’re captain. You say something inspirational.” Torsten Frings cracks a smile first, nudging his midfield partner. Michael grins, but that little bit of nervousness is still there. But it’s dissipating.
“At least Zidane has retired?” The comment makes everyone smile, and some of them shake their heads and laugh a little. Not at all the Michael they know and love. It’s almost as though his little confession of nerves has let the whole team loose, though. Everyone is starting to feel a bit more relaxed. There's talking again, and not in hushed whispers. It’s just another game, after all. It might be France, but really, it’s just another game.
Torsten leans in to Michael, his hair falling in front of his face. “You deserve an award for that one.” Michael doesn’t have to listen hard to hear the sarcasm, it’s written plain as day on Torsten’s face, in his smile. Part of him wants to defend his comment, stating that at least the tension has eased now. But instead he looks at Torsten and smiles, reaching his hand out to push the brown hair back behind Torsten’s ear. That’s all he needs to say.
Soon enough the teams are heading onto the pitch, hands clasping the little ones of the kids walking beside them. It’s cute, bringing the kids out. Does any other sport do this? It doesn’t really matter if anyone else has adopted the practice, because it’s definitely a football thing. The kids help to ease whatever tension is left and the players like to look at them and wonder if any of them will grow up to replace them on the field? Wouldn’t it be something, to tell your grand kids that you walked out to play a match once, holding the hand of the next great football star?
The match starts and it’s going strong. Everyone’s performing, for both sides. Seventeen minutes in and the silence is interrupted when the ball goes sailing past Mickael Landreau’s outstretched fingers. It’s Lukas.
The crowd is on their feet as the young striker runs wildly around the corner, accepting congratulations from Miroslav and Torsten before finally finding Bastian. Sometimes you have to worry about those two. So young and so successful, there’s so much pressure on them. Bastian seems to cope a bit better, but then he didn’t quite receive the attention Lukas did. He didn’t have a song written about him and he wasn’t named the Gillette Best Young Player. He wasn’t still sitting on the bench for Bayern Munich.
The boys lock hands and embrace and it seems that as long as they have each other out here, they’ll be fine. One without the other is an oddity, something that doesn’t seem right. This is another reason why Magath’s lingering refusal to have Lukas start for Bayern still seems like such a bad decision. They deserve each other out here. Everyone should have the chance to play with their best friend, and that’s definitely what these two boys are.
Celebrations over for now and the teams get back to work. The French definitely won’t let the tide sway too strongly in the Germans' direction. Ten minutes later and it’s quite clear that they haven’t forgotten Lukas’ goal, as they answer with one of their own. The team walks back to their positions, heads down but still throwing glances back, watching as everyone celebrates Diarra’s victory. But it’s clear that the French aren’t about to get cocky. There’s still a lot of time left and anything can happen.
This becomes quite evident in the thirty second minute, when suddenly things go horribly wrong. Miroslav has the ball, looking to set up Lukas again. The ball gets deflected and heads a little low, but still the youngster twists for it, swinging his leg out to meet it, trying to send it back to where Miroslav and Bastian are both ready for a shot. But he didn’t see Gael Givet making a dash toward him from behind. The Frenchman obviously hadn’t been expecting Lukas to go so low to get a clear shot. If he had been expecting it, then he wouldn’t have hurtled at Lukas the way he had. He would have moved.
But instead his knee connected hard with the side of Lukas’ head, sending the forward to the grass in a heap, his head connecting hard with the ground. The ball had been a good shot, but neither Bastian nor Miroslav made much of a move for it. They had seen Gael. They had known what was about to happen.
As soon as Lukas’ body hit the ground the whistle was blown and play stopped. It seemed that everyone except Gael had anticipated Lukas’ move. It obviously hadn’t been intentional, given the look of remorse on his face. He would have knelt to check on Lukas himself, except that Bastian was already there. He’d sprinted from his spot further away the moment Lukas’ head hit Gael’s knee. He knew it was a bad hit and he was worried.
He didn’t dare shake him, though Lukas’ eyes were closed. He wanted to. He wanted to shake him until his eyes opened. Instead he just knelt at his side, a hand on Lukas’ shoulder, shouting at him.
In just a moment the medical team was there, pushing Bastian away. He wasn’t going easily, not until he felt a very strong arm pull him away. “Leave him, Basti. You can’t do anything for him, just wait.”
Bastian was angry. Just wait. How could he wait when his best friend was on the ground, eyes closed and unresponsive? How could Michael possibly be so calm, his voice so controlled? His arm was so snug around Bastian’s chest, as though knowing that the young midfielder was prepared to struggle out of his grasp. But Michael wasn’t going to let him go.
Finally everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Lukas was sitting up, his eyes following the finger of the medical examiner and saying that he was fine. Was he, though? He seemed responsive. But after a hit like that? Everyone watched as Lukas was helped to his feet, shaking his head as though shaking off the cloud the hit had left behind. Was he really okay?
Finally Michael let go of Bastian, knowing it would be nonsense to hold him any longer. Instead he watched, a smile on his face finally, as Bastian waited for the medical examiner to back away before throwing his arms around Lukas, relief so plainly clear in his features. It was almost as though he’d thought Lukas was about to die.
Lukas was grinning, teasing Bastian. “You love me, Basti! You just can’t live, or play, without me, can you?” Bastian is still too relieved to be upset with Lukas for teasing him, so he just smiles and pats him on the head before Lukas is forced to leave the field, and they get set to resume play. Michael reaches out a hand to halt Lukas, pulling him into a quick hug to alleviate his own worries. Though he worried equally about everyone on the team, he’d always had a soft spot for Lukas.
Though it hadn’t been intentional, the hit had still been a foul and Gael had been shown a yellow card. No one protested-it could have been a red. But as Lukas and Gael’s gazes met momentarily, the understanding passed between them. It had just been a mistake. An unintentional hit. It wasn’t worth getting upset over, they were both above that.
Everything was fine again, play resumed and Lukas’ momentary collapse was all but washed away. At the next throw-in he was allowed back onto the field and soon found himself immersed again in the game. Until the thirty sixth minute. Ribery had managed to steal the ball halfway through a pass from Philipp to Michael, and was rushing toward the German net. Michael chased him and Lukas closed in on Henry, who was the likely target. Lukas had been the closest to him and sped toward him. The two men collided hard, bodies jarring from the contact, and the pass was interrupted, the ball flying back toward the middle of the pitch. Once they separated, Henry ran back into position, but Lukas didn’t. It only took seconds but they seemed to drag out like minutes. The young striker had turned from where he’d struck Henry, facing toward the middle of the pitch where the ball had gone. He took a step forward, and then fell limply to the ground.
It almost didn’t seem real. Lukas was joking around, wasn’t he? He’d been cleared by the medical staff and Henry hadn’t even hit his head! But as he remained on the ground, not moving from where his body had crumpled, it all became too much like the scene they’d just witnessed. This time Michael was in between Lukas and Bastian and even though he knew how upset the other youngster was, he didn’t trust Bastian’s self control this time. He grabbed the arms as they flew by him, pulling Bastian into an embrace, not letting him anywhere near Lukas.
If Bastian had thought himself angry before with Michael’s interference, he was furious now. How could he?! Lukas was on the ground again and he wanted to be there, he wanted to know firsthand what was wrong. It was his right, as Lukas’ best friend. Who was Michael to hold him back?
“Basti, calm down. Let the-”
“Fuck them, Michael! Let me go!” He struggled against the bigger man’s grasp, strengthened by his worry.
“Bastian! You can’t do anything for him; let the doctors look after him.” Michael gripped the boy’s arms, holding him in front of himself. If only he could be sure Bastian had a grip on himself, he’d let him go.
“You don’t understand, let me go to him!” Bastian was frantic. What if something was really wrong with Lukas? What if something was really damaged? He wanted to be with him.
“I do understand, Bastian. Just calm down.” Michael pulled him into an embrace, his arms tight around Bastian’s shoulders. He looked over the boy’s shoulder, seeing a very concerned Torsten standing beside Miroslav and Philipp. Were they more worried about Lukas, or Bastian? He couldn’t tell.
“I just want to see him.” Bastian’s anger had surpassed finally, and now he was shuddering, his ribs seeming to rattle inside his chest from worry. He just wanted to see Lukas. Why wouldn’t Michael just let him see Lukas? To know he was still breathing, at least?
Sensing the shift in Bastian, Michael eased up his grip, keeping an arm around his shoulder and leading Bastian toward the doctors who were still huddled around Lukas. Only this time, Lukas wasn’t sitting up. They stopped far away enough to see what was happening, but they weren’t in the way. A stretcher was being called for and Lukas’ eyes were still closed. They had him loaded and were strapping him to the stretcher, and Michael knew that Bastian needed to know, more than anyone else, just how bad it was.
They approached one of the lingering medical team members, who seemed to sense their approach. He turned around, sympathy on his face. “He’s being rushed to the hospital now. It’s likely he’s suffered a severe concussion.” They weren’t supposed to tell you what was wrong. That was supposed to be kept quiet until a real diagnosis was made. But it seemed that the young man understood that Bastian needed to know.
The young midfielder nodded sullenly, feeling a sudden calm wash over him. It was okay. He was still alive. He was still breathing.
Michael knew differently, though. Bastian had calmed but it likely had nothing to do the news. It was just the next stage of his shock. He didn’t want to acknowledge that Lukas was in serious trouble still. Maybe he just thought his friend needed a few hours to sleep it off and he’d be okay. But Michael knew better. Lukas would probably need weeks, months maybe, if he was ever going to return to professional football. If. It all depended on the severity of the hit and the results of the MRI. Concussions were a nasty thing, and he'd seen his fair share of players over the years who'd suffered from them.
He led Bastian over to the sideline where the others were already gathered around Loew. Everyone was staring at them as they approached, but Bastian either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The only thing on his mind now was getting out of here and being at the hospital with Lukas. He wanted to be there when he woke up. He wanted to tell him to never do that again. Then he wanted to tease him and sing his song while he was stuck in bed. He didn’t care about the game anymore.
It took a few minutes to get the team back together, and even Bastian had gotten over his initial shock. He knew he had to keep playing for the rest of the first half at least, it was his responsibility. Lukas wouldn’t want him to quit in the middle of a match because he was worried about him. He wouldn’t let him.
Lukas’ hit had a definite effect on the Germans, who seemed a little scattered in the remaining few minutes of the first half. Things went so badly that the French scored again. It was obvious though, looking at their faces that they felt horribly for their opponents. It was always bad to lose a team mate to an injury, but something as serious as possible head injury resulting in a loss of consciousness wasn’t something that was easily wiped from your mind. Everyone had been looking in Lukas’ direction when he’d fallen, everyone had seen his body simply give up and shut down on him. It had been frightening.
As they sat together during half time, Bastian’s worry came gnawing back at him. He knew he had a responsibility to the team, but how could he concentrate with Lukas at the hospital? How could he play with the all too vivid memory of Lukas falling to the ground? Could he do it? Did he have it in him to keep playing?
It looked as though he didn’t have to make that decision. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Jogi and Michael. The coach looked sympathetic and Michael looked apprehensive. “Bastian, do you want to go to the hospital?” Jogi had asked him, but Bastian knew Michael had suggested it. Michael knew everyone, he knew how everyone reacted. Had it been anyone other than Lukas, he knew Bastian would have been okay to continue playing. But it was Lukas, and that meant Bastian wouldn’t be okay.
He didn’t know what to say. Though he wanted to say yes, how could he possibly leave the team? They were already without Lukas, they needed him. But would he even be useful?
“It’s okay Bastian. You can go. This is only a friendly, after all.” Michael was looking at him, silently pleading with him to go. If he stayed, everyone would just look at him and think about Lukas. Everyone would worry even more. If Bastian left, they might possibly be able to focus a little better. It wasn’t right for one to play and the other to not.
“I don’t know, I feel bad-”
“Go, Bastian. We understand, it’s Lukas.” Jogi spoke, his words hitting Bastian hard. Everyone understood their bond, their reliance on each other during games. Everyone understood how hard it would be for him to concentrate and they weren’t going to hold it against him. Bastian nodded and stood up. He still felt bad for leaving.
Jogi squeezed his shoulder before turning to speak with the other members of the coaching staff, leaving Michael and Bastian alone. Michael moved in closer and slung his arm around the younger man's shoulders. “Go on, like I said, it’s only a friendly, we can manage without you. We’ll be there as soon as the match ends.”
Bastian nodded. Michael moved back, but was soon replaced by the others. Torsten was the first to hug him again, letting his arms do the talking for once. Philipp whispered that Lukas would be fine as he hugged Bastian, while Timo ruffled his hair and told him to keep Lukas company. David looked more upset than anyone else and Bastian felt guilty once again. He knew that after himself, Lukas was the closest to David. Yet David had to stay. Bastian found himself hugging David, feeling the need to comfort him instead. No one interrupted their embrace.
Everyone else offered their well wishes and sympathies, as well as promises to head for the hospital the moment the match was over. Bastian was finally able to change out of his cleats, slipping on sneakers, but the rest of his uniform stayed on. He didn’t have the time to change; he had to get to the hospital.
He didn’t stop to think how strange he might look, walking into the hospital in his uniform alone. He was just thankful they were in Germany and not France. Then again, perhaps being at home would prove more troublesome in the end. He made it to the hospital quickly, asking the lady at the information desk where they had taken Lukas. She was a little stunned at first and took a moment to process what Bastian was asking her, but finally she gave him the information. Bastian practically sprinted for the elevators, riding up to the third floor. The nurses up here seemed almost prepared for him, as though they’d been waiting.
He was led to a private waiting room and was told that they couldn’t tell him anything at the time. The doctor had to finish his examination, and then he would come in and tell him the results. “He has a concussion, doesn’t he?” In all honesty, Bastian didn’t know much about the head injury. He’d never had one and so far no one on the team had had one either. How serious were they?
The nurse simply repeated what she had said before. Bastian had no choice but to sit and wait. Another nurse showed up soon to let him know that he was free to use the kitchen area down the hall if he wanted tea or coffee. Anything else he would have to get in the cafeteria. Bastian thanked her and resumed pacing the room. He stopped at the window and looked out. What if this was really serious? More serious than he anticipated? Could you get amnesia from a concussion? What if Lukas didn’t remember anything when he woke up? What if Lukas didn’t remember him?
Bastian sat down, his hands clasping over his knees. What if Lukas couldn’t walk? What if he had brain damage? There were so many what-ifs and not nearly enough information or answers. Coffee would help.
He left the room and walked down the hall, suddenly feeling a little odd in his gear. He really should have changed. Or at least removed his shin guards. He stood by the coffee machine, a cup in his hand but no coffee brewing. He was still stuck on what-ifs. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. But he did feel a hand on his elbow and he turned around to see a middle-aged woman standing in front of him. She offered him a polite smile and asked if she could make him a coffee. He nodded, thanking her. He had to get a grip on himself.
She set up the machine, setting it to brew, then turned back to look at him. “I’m here for my son. Car accident. We saw the match on the television in the waiting room. My daughter cried.”
Bastian didn’t know what to say. What could he say, really? He simply nodded, still feeling overwhelmed. The coffee was ready and the woman poured herself a cup, and then held out the pot to pour him some as well. He held out the cup he’d been holding, thanking her. He wished her well with her son, and then excused himself back to the room. It wasn’t any easier to know your fans were crying along with you.
The tension in the locker room was definitely there, the nerves were frayed and voices were low, far too low. Where was the usual team spirit? The excitement, the buzz before the match? Not there. Sure, they had played some good teams thus far, but this was definitely the first big test since the World Cup. France. Though they’d had a rockier start to things, they were still up there. At the top.
But that’s where they were too, wasn’t it? Why were the nerves so jangled then, if they’re playing a team closer to their calibre? Excitement to really prove themselves, to waylay any lingering doubt, that’s what this match represents. That’s what they’re hoping for.
The beginning of the match is so close and they all sit there, looking at each other. Who’s going to be the first one to break the silence? Who’s going to start the build up?
“This is ridiculous. Michael, you’re captain. You say something inspirational.” Torsten Frings cracks a smile first, nudging his midfield partner. Michael grins, but that little bit of nervousness is still there. But it’s dissipating.
“At least Zidane has retired?” The comment makes everyone smile, and some of them shake their heads and laugh a little. Not at all the Michael they know and love. It’s almost as though his little confession of nerves has let the whole team loose, though. Everyone is starting to feel a bit more relaxed. There's talking again, and not in hushed whispers. It’s just another game, after all. It might be France, but really, it’s just another game.
Torsten leans in to Michael, his hair falling in front of his face. “You deserve an award for that one.” Michael doesn’t have to listen hard to hear the sarcasm, it’s written plain as day on Torsten’s face, in his smile. Part of him wants to defend his comment, stating that at least the tension has eased now. But instead he looks at Torsten and smiles, reaching his hand out to push the brown hair back behind Torsten’s ear. That’s all he needs to say.
Soon enough the teams are heading onto the pitch, hands clasping the little ones of the kids walking beside them. It’s cute, bringing the kids out. Does any other sport do this? It doesn’t really matter if anyone else has adopted the practice, because it’s definitely a football thing. The kids help to ease whatever tension is left and the players like to look at them and wonder if any of them will grow up to replace them on the field? Wouldn’t it be something, to tell your grand kids that you walked out to play a match once, holding the hand of the next great football star?
The match starts and it’s going strong. Everyone’s performing, for both sides. Seventeen minutes in and the silence is interrupted when the ball goes sailing past Mickael Landreau’s outstretched fingers. It’s Lukas.
The crowd is on their feet as the young striker runs wildly around the corner, accepting congratulations from Miroslav and Torsten before finally finding Bastian. Sometimes you have to worry about those two. So young and so successful, there’s so much pressure on them. Bastian seems to cope a bit better, but then he didn’t quite receive the attention Lukas did. He didn’t have a song written about him and he wasn’t named the Gillette Best Young Player. He wasn’t still sitting on the bench for Bayern Munich.
The boys lock hands and embrace and it seems that as long as they have each other out here, they’ll be fine. One without the other is an oddity, something that doesn’t seem right. This is another reason why Magath’s lingering refusal to have Lukas start for Bayern still seems like such a bad decision. They deserve each other out here. Everyone should have the chance to play with their best friend, and that’s definitely what these two boys are.
Celebrations over for now and the teams get back to work. The French definitely won’t let the tide sway too strongly in the Germans' direction. Ten minutes later and it’s quite clear that they haven’t forgotten Lukas’ goal, as they answer with one of their own. The team walks back to their positions, heads down but still throwing glances back, watching as everyone celebrates Diarra’s victory. But it’s clear that the French aren’t about to get cocky. There’s still a lot of time left and anything can happen.
This becomes quite evident in the thirty second minute, when suddenly things go horribly wrong. Miroslav has the ball, looking to set up Lukas again. The ball gets deflected and heads a little low, but still the youngster twists for it, swinging his leg out to meet it, trying to send it back to where Miroslav and Bastian are both ready for a shot. But he didn’t see Gael Givet making a dash toward him from behind. The Frenchman obviously hadn’t been expecting Lukas to go so low to get a clear shot. If he had been expecting it, then he wouldn’t have hurtled at Lukas the way he had. He would have moved.
But instead his knee connected hard with the side of Lukas’ head, sending the forward to the grass in a heap, his head connecting hard with the ground. The ball had been a good shot, but neither Bastian nor Miroslav made much of a move for it. They had seen Gael. They had known what was about to happen.
As soon as Lukas’ body hit the ground the whistle was blown and play stopped. It seemed that everyone except Gael had anticipated Lukas’ move. It obviously hadn’t been intentional, given the look of remorse on his face. He would have knelt to check on Lukas himself, except that Bastian was already there. He’d sprinted from his spot further away the moment Lukas’ head hit Gael’s knee. He knew it was a bad hit and he was worried.
He didn’t dare shake him, though Lukas’ eyes were closed. He wanted to. He wanted to shake him until his eyes opened. Instead he just knelt at his side, a hand on Lukas’ shoulder, shouting at him.
In just a moment the medical team was there, pushing Bastian away. He wasn’t going easily, not until he felt a very strong arm pull him away. “Leave him, Basti. You can’t do anything for him, just wait.”
Bastian was angry. Just wait. How could he wait when his best friend was on the ground, eyes closed and unresponsive? How could Michael possibly be so calm, his voice so controlled? His arm was so snug around Bastian’s chest, as though knowing that the young midfielder was prepared to struggle out of his grasp. But Michael wasn’t going to let him go.
Finally everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Lukas was sitting up, his eyes following the finger of the medical examiner and saying that he was fine. Was he, though? He seemed responsive. But after a hit like that? Everyone watched as Lukas was helped to his feet, shaking his head as though shaking off the cloud the hit had left behind. Was he really okay?
Finally Michael let go of Bastian, knowing it would be nonsense to hold him any longer. Instead he watched, a smile on his face finally, as Bastian waited for the medical examiner to back away before throwing his arms around Lukas, relief so plainly clear in his features. It was almost as though he’d thought Lukas was about to die.
Lukas was grinning, teasing Bastian. “You love me, Basti! You just can’t live, or play, without me, can you?” Bastian is still too relieved to be upset with Lukas for teasing him, so he just smiles and pats him on the head before Lukas is forced to leave the field, and they get set to resume play. Michael reaches out a hand to halt Lukas, pulling him into a quick hug to alleviate his own worries. Though he worried equally about everyone on the team, he’d always had a soft spot for Lukas.
Though it hadn’t been intentional, the hit had still been a foul and Gael had been shown a yellow card. No one protested-it could have been a red. But as Lukas and Gael’s gazes met momentarily, the understanding passed between them. It had just been a mistake. An unintentional hit. It wasn’t worth getting upset over, they were both above that.
Everything was fine again, play resumed and Lukas’ momentary collapse was all but washed away. At the next throw-in he was allowed back onto the field and soon found himself immersed again in the game. Until the thirty sixth minute. Ribery had managed to steal the ball halfway through a pass from Philipp to Michael, and was rushing toward the German net. Michael chased him and Lukas closed in on Henry, who was the likely target. Lukas had been the closest to him and sped toward him. The two men collided hard, bodies jarring from the contact, and the pass was interrupted, the ball flying back toward the middle of the pitch. Once they separated, Henry ran back into position, but Lukas didn’t. It only took seconds but they seemed to drag out like minutes. The young striker had turned from where he’d struck Henry, facing toward the middle of the pitch where the ball had gone. He took a step forward, and then fell limply to the ground.
It almost didn’t seem real. Lukas was joking around, wasn’t he? He’d been cleared by the medical staff and Henry hadn’t even hit his head! But as he remained on the ground, not moving from where his body had crumpled, it all became too much like the scene they’d just witnessed. This time Michael was in between Lukas and Bastian and even though he knew how upset the other youngster was, he didn’t trust Bastian’s self control this time. He grabbed the arms as they flew by him, pulling Bastian into an embrace, not letting him anywhere near Lukas.
If Bastian had thought himself angry before with Michael’s interference, he was furious now. How could he?! Lukas was on the ground again and he wanted to be there, he wanted to know firsthand what was wrong. It was his right, as Lukas’ best friend. Who was Michael to hold him back?
“Basti, calm down. Let the-”
“Fuck them, Michael! Let me go!” He struggled against the bigger man’s grasp, strengthened by his worry.
“Bastian! You can’t do anything for him; let the doctors look after him.” Michael gripped the boy’s arms, holding him in front of himself. If only he could be sure Bastian had a grip on himself, he’d let him go.
“You don’t understand, let me go to him!” Bastian was frantic. What if something was really wrong with Lukas? What if something was really damaged? He wanted to be with him.
“I do understand, Bastian. Just calm down.” Michael pulled him into an embrace, his arms tight around Bastian’s shoulders. He looked over the boy’s shoulder, seeing a very concerned Torsten standing beside Miroslav and Philipp. Were they more worried about Lukas, or Bastian? He couldn’t tell.
“I just want to see him.” Bastian’s anger had surpassed finally, and now he was shuddering, his ribs seeming to rattle inside his chest from worry. He just wanted to see Lukas. Why wouldn’t Michael just let him see Lukas? To know he was still breathing, at least?
Sensing the shift in Bastian, Michael eased up his grip, keeping an arm around his shoulder and leading Bastian toward the doctors who were still huddled around Lukas. Only this time, Lukas wasn’t sitting up. They stopped far away enough to see what was happening, but they weren’t in the way. A stretcher was being called for and Lukas’ eyes were still closed. They had him loaded and were strapping him to the stretcher, and Michael knew that Bastian needed to know, more than anyone else, just how bad it was.
They approached one of the lingering medical team members, who seemed to sense their approach. He turned around, sympathy on his face. “He’s being rushed to the hospital now. It’s likely he’s suffered a severe concussion.” They weren’t supposed to tell you what was wrong. That was supposed to be kept quiet until a real diagnosis was made. But it seemed that the young man understood that Bastian needed to know.
The young midfielder nodded sullenly, feeling a sudden calm wash over him. It was okay. He was still alive. He was still breathing.
Michael knew differently, though. Bastian had calmed but it likely had nothing to do the news. It was just the next stage of his shock. He didn’t want to acknowledge that Lukas was in serious trouble still. Maybe he just thought his friend needed a few hours to sleep it off and he’d be okay. But Michael knew better. Lukas would probably need weeks, months maybe, if he was ever going to return to professional football. If. It all depended on the severity of the hit and the results of the MRI. Concussions were a nasty thing, and he'd seen his fair share of players over the years who'd suffered from them.
He led Bastian over to the sideline where the others were already gathered around Loew. Everyone was staring at them as they approached, but Bastian either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The only thing on his mind now was getting out of here and being at the hospital with Lukas. He wanted to be there when he woke up. He wanted to tell him to never do that again. Then he wanted to tease him and sing his song while he was stuck in bed. He didn’t care about the game anymore.
It took a few minutes to get the team back together, and even Bastian had gotten over his initial shock. He knew he had to keep playing for the rest of the first half at least, it was his responsibility. Lukas wouldn’t want him to quit in the middle of a match because he was worried about him. He wouldn’t let him.
Lukas’ hit had a definite effect on the Germans, who seemed a little scattered in the remaining few minutes of the first half. Things went so badly that the French scored again. It was obvious though, looking at their faces that they felt horribly for their opponents. It was always bad to lose a team mate to an injury, but something as serious as possible head injury resulting in a loss of consciousness wasn’t something that was easily wiped from your mind. Everyone had been looking in Lukas’ direction when he’d fallen, everyone had seen his body simply give up and shut down on him. It had been frightening.
As they sat together during half time, Bastian’s worry came gnawing back at him. He knew he had a responsibility to the team, but how could he concentrate with Lukas at the hospital? How could he play with the all too vivid memory of Lukas falling to the ground? Could he do it? Did he have it in him to keep playing?
It looked as though he didn’t have to make that decision. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Jogi and Michael. The coach looked sympathetic and Michael looked apprehensive. “Bastian, do you want to go to the hospital?” Jogi had asked him, but Bastian knew Michael had suggested it. Michael knew everyone, he knew how everyone reacted. Had it been anyone other than Lukas, he knew Bastian would have been okay to continue playing. But it was Lukas, and that meant Bastian wouldn’t be okay.
He didn’t know what to say. Though he wanted to say yes, how could he possibly leave the team? They were already without Lukas, they needed him. But would he even be useful?
“It’s okay Bastian. You can go. This is only a friendly, after all.” Michael was looking at him, silently pleading with him to go. If he stayed, everyone would just look at him and think about Lukas. Everyone would worry even more. If Bastian left, they might possibly be able to focus a little better. It wasn’t right for one to play and the other to not.
“I don’t know, I feel bad-”
“Go, Bastian. We understand, it’s Lukas.” Jogi spoke, his words hitting Bastian hard. Everyone understood their bond, their reliance on each other during games. Everyone understood how hard it would be for him to concentrate and they weren’t going to hold it against him. Bastian nodded and stood up. He still felt bad for leaving.
Jogi squeezed his shoulder before turning to speak with the other members of the coaching staff, leaving Michael and Bastian alone. Michael moved in closer and slung his arm around the younger man's shoulders. “Go on, like I said, it’s only a friendly, we can manage without you. We’ll be there as soon as the match ends.”
Bastian nodded. Michael moved back, but was soon replaced by the others. Torsten was the first to hug him again, letting his arms do the talking for once. Philipp whispered that Lukas would be fine as he hugged Bastian, while Timo ruffled his hair and told him to keep Lukas company. David looked more upset than anyone else and Bastian felt guilty once again. He knew that after himself, Lukas was the closest to David. Yet David had to stay. Bastian found himself hugging David, feeling the need to comfort him instead. No one interrupted their embrace.
Everyone else offered their well wishes and sympathies, as well as promises to head for the hospital the moment the match was over. Bastian was finally able to change out of his cleats, slipping on sneakers, but the rest of his uniform stayed on. He didn’t have the time to change; he had to get to the hospital.
He didn’t stop to think how strange he might look, walking into the hospital in his uniform alone. He was just thankful they were in Germany and not France. Then again, perhaps being at home would prove more troublesome in the end. He made it to the hospital quickly, asking the lady at the information desk where they had taken Lukas. She was a little stunned at first and took a moment to process what Bastian was asking her, but finally she gave him the information. Bastian practically sprinted for the elevators, riding up to the third floor. The nurses up here seemed almost prepared for him, as though they’d been waiting.
He was led to a private waiting room and was told that they couldn’t tell him anything at the time. The doctor had to finish his examination, and then he would come in and tell him the results. “He has a concussion, doesn’t he?” In all honesty, Bastian didn’t know much about the head injury. He’d never had one and so far no one on the team had had one either. How serious were they?
The nurse simply repeated what she had said before. Bastian had no choice but to sit and wait. Another nurse showed up soon to let him know that he was free to use the kitchen area down the hall if he wanted tea or coffee. Anything else he would have to get in the cafeteria. Bastian thanked her and resumed pacing the room. He stopped at the window and looked out. What if this was really serious? More serious than he anticipated? Could you get amnesia from a concussion? What if Lukas didn’t remember anything when he woke up? What if Lukas didn’t remember him?
Bastian sat down, his hands clasping over his knees. What if Lukas couldn’t walk? What if he had brain damage? There were so many what-ifs and not nearly enough information or answers. Coffee would help.
He left the room and walked down the hall, suddenly feeling a little odd in his gear. He really should have changed. Or at least removed his shin guards. He stood by the coffee machine, a cup in his hand but no coffee brewing. He was still stuck on what-ifs. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. But he did feel a hand on his elbow and he turned around to see a middle-aged woman standing in front of him. She offered him a polite smile and asked if she could make him a coffee. He nodded, thanking her. He had to get a grip on himself.
She set up the machine, setting it to brew, then turned back to look at him. “I’m here for my son. Car accident. We saw the match on the television in the waiting room. My daughter cried.”
Bastian didn’t know what to say. What could he say, really? He simply nodded, still feeling overwhelmed. The coffee was ready and the woman poured herself a cup, and then held out the pot to pour him some as well. He held out the cup he’d been holding, thanking her. He wished her well with her son, and then excused himself back to the room. It wasn’t any easier to know your fans were crying along with you.