Autofiction in the Cervantina

"Run, Galder, dammit!"

The one who yells at me is the journalist Nacho Carretero.

He wears a bow tie and is dressed in the full suit of the Spanish soccer team with the number 6 on the chest and on the back.

I answer him with a look that he understands to be hostile, but is actually incredulous: what am I doing here?

We are on the outskirts of Frankfurt, on a football field that is 90 meters long and 45 meters wide, playing an 11v11 match against some huge guys dressed in Germany who are running as if they are running away from something and have been playing together for 15 years. years.

We must be around minute 40 of the second half.

We lose 3 to 1.

The ball goes from one side to another, anarchic and elusive.

Companions pass by me fleeting and in a hurry, with their tongues hanging out: Gabi Martínez, Marta San Miguel, Álex Prada, Pablo García Casado.

All well uniformed with dark blue socks and pants and a red shirt, except for me, who wears fluorescent orange socks and black shorts with advertising.

In the background, behind the fence, I can make out Elisabeth Duval and Rosa Montero, who are having fun, laughing and clapping their hands and cheering us on.

Standing on the bench, the editor Miguel Aguilar yells “go for them” and “to the ankle” and “come on, come on”.

There are moments in life when one must stop and reflect on what is happening.

Damn me if this isn't one of those.

I take a breath.

I look around.

But Carretero yells again: “Put the pressure on, Galder!”

I run, but to the best of my ability.

Are you sure I'm awake?

How many times have I dreamed that I try to run and my legs do not respond to me?

I remember: Miguel Aguilar called me a few months ago to play a football match with the Spanish writers' team at the Frankfurt Fair.

The plan sounded like a lot of fun and I agreed.

I asked who else was selected.

"For now, just you," he replied.

We got to work locating players.

We put together something similar to a team that was baptized as La Cervantina.

And here we are.

A while before, in the locker room, we all joined hands to sing a war cry to the sound of our captain: "Don Miguel de... CER-VAN-TES!".

When they asked me what I played for, I joked that I was a substitute goalkeeper.

That's why I'm not in uniform, because they brought me a goalkeeper's kit, with the 22 on the back.

The starter is Álex Grijelmo, a sixty-odd-year-old cat who saves better than many First Division goalkeepers.

Enrique Ballester has been injured and I play with his shirt, left back.

Upon entering the green he has begged me: “Behave yourself, please, you have my name on your back”.

I watch Carlos Marañón, our captain, who puts his heart into every move, runs up and down, jumps, hits the ball furiously, encourages our players.

I deeply envy his delivery and I think, embarrassed, that when I jumped onto the field I reminded myself that my goal was not to hurt myself.

Infected by his enthusiasm, I attempt one last run with my marker.

It doesn't give me the body.

I opt for another strategy.

We are writers, plot shot: I try to convince the opposing defender to let me score a goal, just one.

I put on the face of a scared child and tell him: “Sometimes I write autofictions”.

I point out the time, I remind him that they are going to win anyway and that a more or less goal against will not tarnish his performance and, however, it would make me happy and allow me to write something great.

“The important thing is literature, not football!” he exclaimed.

He shakes his head and, in perfect English, asks me to leave him alone.

I don't do it until the referee blows the final whistle.

As I leave the field, I wonder if when I write about this, because I will anyway, they will accuse me of having too much imagination.

Will anyone believe that one day I was international and that everything was as I tell it here?

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