Madrid
Japan had matches lined up in France, Germany, and Italy, while we were headed for the Netherlands, Spain, and England.
France, Germany, and Italy sat practically on top of one another. Finish in France and you could drive straight into Italy; from there it was a short hop through Austria or Switzerland into Germany.
We were not so lucky. Getting from the Netherlands to Spain meant cutting through Belgium and France, and from Spain to England you needed either a ferry or a plane.
The production team decided a road trip from the Netherlands to Spain would eat too much time, so they booked us a direct flight into Madrid.
“Ian, the plane’s almost here, right?”
“Ah. I was just about to call my parents.”
We had a six-in-the-morning flight to Madrid. The time difference between the Netherlands and Korea was seven hours.
I stepped outside the terminal for a moment, let the wind hit my face, and dialed.
A few rings later the line clicked open and a woman’s voice poured through.
“Well, well, look who it is~ Our handsome boy~!”
“Yeah. What are you up to?”
“Feeding your dad and doing the dishes~ What time is it over there?”
“Five-forty.”
“Really? What time did you say the flight was?”
“Six o’clock. Looks like we’re heading straight to Madrid.”
“Oh? They give you free time once you get there, right?”
“Only on the day we arrive.”
“Then go say hello to your grandfather, okay? It’s been ages since you last saw him.”
“But it’s a broadcast…”
“Your grandfather will lose his mind if he hears he’s going to be on TV. Your grandmother, I’m not so sure about.”
“Mm… all right. I’ll call again once we land.”
“Okay~ Do well and come back safe! Love you~”
I hung up and walked back inside the terminal.
Maternal grandfather, grandmother… It’s been a while. About two years…?
My mother had been born in Madrid, so of course my maternal grandmother still lived there as well.
When Mom moved to Korea she had tried to bring them along, but my grandfather had flat-out refused.
His reason? “If I go to Korea I won’t be able to watch Real’s matches!”
As I had said before, my mother’s side of the family were true Madridistas through and through.
They had only approved of her marriage to my father after confirming he did not support Barcelona or Atlético Madrid.
I decided I would call Grandfather the moment we touched down in Madrid, then boarded the plane.
Madrid.
Capital of Spain, home to the beautiful Royal Palace and Plaza Mayor.
Ever since I was little, any long holiday—summer break, winter break—I had come here often.
Having my grandparents’ house here was one reason, but there was another.
Any football fan who hears “Madrid” immediately thinks of two clubs.
Both call the city home and both carry “Madrid” in their names: Real Madrid and Atlético Madrid.
Whenever Real had a match, my grandfather—a hardcore Real Madrid fan—would drag me along to watch.
Then one day, while our whole family was visiting, El Clásico was being played at Real’s home ground, the Santiago Bernabéu.
As always I went hand-in-hand with Grandfather, but the thing that burned itself into my memory was not Real’s shocking 3-0 home defeat.
“Puta! Those dirty culer bastards!”
“They bought the referee! You want to play dirty, is that it?!”
Maybe it was the beer he had been drinking during the match, or maybe it was simply the loss.
The grandfather who always smiled so gently turned bright red and hurled abuse toward the away section.
That was the first and last time I ever heard him swear.
“All right! We have just arrived in the heart of Spain—Madrid!”
We cheered and clapped at a volume carefully measured so we would not bother the other people in the terminal.
Madrid only had this one major airport—Madrid-Barajas International—so the place was fairly crowded.
After about ten minutes of light filming we boarded the bus to the hotel.
We had booked a place near the airport, so rooms were assigned right away; we dropped our bags and headed back out.
In the meantime I called my grandfather.
“Oiga?”
“Abuelo!”
“Ian? Well, this is a surprise…”
“Heh. Guess where I am right now?”
“Still in the middle of the school term, so Korea, right? Or am I wrong?”
“I’m in Madrid.”
“What?!”
Half shock, half pure joy exploded through the receiver.
“So your father and mother are with you?”
“No. We’re filming a Korean TV program and the location is here. Right now we’re staying near the Metropolitano. Can I come over to your place? Just one cameraman with me.”
“Civitas Metropolitano? Hmm… all right. You know how to get here, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
I hung up and stepped out of the room.
The staff were sprawled across the sofas in the first-floor lobby. I walked over.
“Would it be all right if I ducked out for a bit to visit my grandparents?”
“Ah… you mentioned your grandparents live here, right?”
“Yes. So…”
“Go ahead. As long as you’re back before training starts tomorrow, you can even sleep there.”
I got the green light from the head staffer and set off for my grandparents’ house.
One cameraman came along, but we had already agreed he would only shoot the arrival and then head back to the hotel, so I was not particularly worried.
I boarded the familiar bus route without a second thought.
Grandfather’s place sat near Real Madrid’s home ground, the Santiago Bernabéu.
Our hotel was near Atlético Madrid’s home, the Civitas Metropolitano; a straight ride down the main road and I was practically there.
Ding-dong—
I pressed the doorbell. A face I had seen a thousand times appeared and lit up.
“Well, look who it is! Our grandson’s here!”
“Grandma.”
I pulled her into a tight hug. In the life before the regression she had passed away when I was in my late twenties; it had been nearly ten years since I last held her.
The moment we stepped inside, the inner door opened and Grandfather emerged—wearing, as always, a pure-white Real Madrid kit.
“You’re wearing that jersey again, Grandfather.”
“Joder! Do you have any idea how precious this is…?”
The kit he had on was from the 17-18 season, the year they completed the three-peat in the Champions League.
And of course it carried the name of the undisputed ace of that squad—Ronaldo.
“Look at me, forgetting my manners… You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
“No, I… I had the airplane meal…”
“Tsk…! Airplane food counts as a meal these days? Don’t they have a saying in Korea? ‘Koreans live on rice’ or something like that?”
Before I could even stop her, Grandmother had already dashed into the kitchen.
…No matter which country you were in, when it came to feeding a grandson, grandmothers were undefeated.
The cameraman wrapped the shoot before it got any later and returned to the hotel, leaving just me, Grandfather, and Grandmother in the house.
“So. You drew with Ajax, did you?”
“Yes. I scored one and added an assist.”
“Good… well done. Those damn Dutch bastards… they needed a thrashing.”
Grandfather launched into a full-blown rant about Ajax.
Four years earlier Ajax had met Real Madrid in the Champions League semi-finals and knocked them out—1-0 in the first leg, 1-1 in the second.
Then Ajax themselves had been eliminated by Bayern Munich in the final.
“Tsk tsk… So who are you facing this time? Don’t tell me it’s those filthy Catalan dogs?”
“No. We’re not playing Barcelona.”
Barcelona’s youth system, La Masia, was still regarded as the best in the world.
Ninety percent of that reputation belonged to the god of football himself, Lionel Messi, but it was not as if no one else had come through. The so-called midfield trinity of Xavi Hernández, Andrés Iniesta, and Sergio Busquets were all La Masia products, along with Jordi Alba and Carles Puyol.
From the production team’s point of view there was zero interest in lining us up against a side that would simply steamroll us, and the same logic applied to Real Madrid’s own youth side, Castilla.
So who was left? La Liga was essentially carved up by three clubs.
Real Madrid, FC Barcelona, and finally Atlético Madrid.
“We’re playing Atlético Madrid’s U-19s.”
“Is that so? Perfect chance to thrash those idiots. Where’s the match? Estadio Cerro del Espino?”
“No. At the Metropolitano. Closed doors.”
“…Those producers must be rolling in money if they can rent a first-team stadium.”
Grandfather’s mouth opened slightly in surprise, then closed again.
“Anyway, just like you want, Grandfather—I’ll go beat the living daylights out of those Atléticos.”
“Good. Go give it everything you’ve got.”
With that the conversation ended. I slipped into the room my mother used to use and slept more soundly than I had in a long time.
Time rolled on, and at last the day of the match against Atlético Madrid arrived.