Free Learning to Lose by David Trueba Page B

Poggio said. You’re crazy, man, responds Osorio. They ask the owner to introduce them and they strike up a lively conversation. Should we call a friend? asks one when she sees Ariel’s serious expression, as he downs his wine. Ariel shakes his head. He stands up. I’m going home.
    He leaves a generous tip for the maître d’, who sends for his car keys. Do you like
orujo?
he asks, extending a thick glass bottle with a cork. The owner makes it himself. It’s dry and has no aftertaste. Ariel takes the bottle and picks up his car at the front door. He’s in the mood to drive. He puts on music and flees toward any highway. The last time he got sloshed was definitely nothing like this.
    It was in Buenos Aires. In a restaurant owned by the sister of his teammate Walter, to whom he had rented his little apartment in Belgrano when he left. The night before his flight, Ariel had gotten together for dinner with some friends from the neighborhood, players from his team, and the physical trainer, Professor Matías Manna, who swore that the great opera singers had a gin and tonic before going onstage, thus justifying his fourth of the night. Macero was there, too, still a close friend, even though he now plays for Newell’s and holds the championship record for red cards. Charlie didn’t come. You go out withyour friends, it’s your night. But Agustina did, his girlfriend up until a few months earlier. They joked with Ariel, saying he should remember them when he’s a millionaire. Several of them brought gifts that Ariel had to unwrap. An Argentinian flag, for you to put up in the locker room. Alberto Alegro, grandson of Aragonese exiled after the Spanish civil war, who studied with him during the last few years of high school, got up to sing him the schottische “Madrid,” and the others crooned trombone chords. By then most of them were drunk and some proposed going to Open Bay for drinks and others suggested dancing at Ink. Agustina was one of the first to say she was headed home, using the confusion at the restaurant door to say her parting words. I guess your trip will help me get over you, she said, and then kissed him on the lips. The breakup had happened without much explanation. I didn’t know how to do it, Ariel reproached himself. She was still in love with him and he felt nothing more than vague affection leftover from his initial enthusiasm in their relationship, one that was calm and sweet, but never completely fulfilling. He said good-bye more noisily to the others who were leaving, but with her he drew a strange, cruel curtain on their love. All the good-byes were bitter, as if he were closing a chapter. But the alcohol helped. He refused to stand up and say a few words, even though they demanded it, shouting, speech, speech. It was the sunrise that finally sent them home to bed.
    Now in the car, miles away on the almost empty highway, Ariel remembered the months he played in the “Cenicero,” which held only a third of what this potbellied Madrid stadium could pack, luxurious in its vertical expansion, with glassed-in box seats for special guests. Yet on the field the space seemed to be reversed. There he had enjoyed playing, he didn’t feelpressure, and it was easy to find open spots. He escaped the fullback’s brusqueness. When he played at home, the crowd chanted his name or sang to the team like familiar background music, show some balls, show some balls, let’s see some real balls. The fans over there insulted them when they lowered their guard or didn’t perform, but that was the price of passionate, sometimes brutal, love. Yet they were never cold and expectant like the fans in Madrid. His legs weren’t heavy there like they were now. There he was still just the kid who one day, after practice, was told that a Spaniard was waiting to talk to him.
    The agent was named Solórzano and he wanted exclusive rights to negotiate on his behalf. Let’s not lose our heads, Charlie said to him, but he was