Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
"Look," she went on, a determined tone in her voice. "People feel disappointed right now. If rightfully so or not, that I can't tell you. Your whole country is so obsessed with and passionate about football, I guess that was to be expected as soon as things didn't go smoothly."
----
It could have been worse, he thought. He could've gotten a nasty hit in the back, been carried off the pitch with pain shooting through his body – except his legs, because he wouldn't have felt them at the time – and gone to the hospital with the fear of being permanently paralyzed looming over his head. It would've spared him from personal involvement in the humiliation that were going to be the following events of the tournament.
Oh wait, that had already happened once. What were the odds of that happening again?
He sighed heavily. At least they'd mourned him like a fallen hero back then. Not that he'd had deserved that at the time. Not that he deserved it now. Especially not now.
Because – when it came down to it – he pretty much sucked right now.
Admitting to that was even worse than going through the motions on the pitch. His stomach clenched and there was a very annoying pounding ache going on is his head. Had it really come so far that his mind conjured up memories of the world cup? That's what Leo must have felt not too long ago, he mused.
"I still don't get it, you know?" a woman's voice called through the haze of his dark thoughts. "They wanted you to roll over the other teams and shoot them out of the country. No, that's not even it," she went on, agitated. "They pretty much demanded you carry the team to glory." She shook her head vehemently, so that her blonde strands bounced to and fro with the motion. He could tell she was seriously aggravated by the situation. "And then they turn their backs on you because – newsflash – things aren't sometimes as easy as they want them to be? I don't get it! You're not a one-man-show that'll lead them to the gold medal as if it's nothing."
Neymar tilted his head and gave her an exasperated look. "Meu amor, that's exactly what I'm supposed to be doing right now. Considering I'm the captain. That's actually my job description."
She scoffed. "You better read the small prints then! Everyone should, in fact. Because here I thought this was a team sport. And that the fans stand behind the team, no matter what. And not throw insult to injury." He flinched at her words, feeling the truth in them. "I stand by my phrase from before. That's not very team-spirity. And lacking sportsmanship. And disrespectful. And don't get me started on these Marta comparisons! Now I don't have any idea who that is, but I'm sure neither you nor her deserve these kind of treatments. You're you and she is she and both of you have made your own imprints in the world of football. Right? People should just–" She huffed indignantly. "They should get their asses off their mighty horses and respect that at least."
The corner of his mouth went up out of his own volition, feeling a bit better after her words. That was his girlfriend of two years: she was not a fan of football – and she would most likely never be –, but at the least she respected his profession. And sometimes even kicked the ball around with him and his son Davi and their dogs in the backyard; which was no small miracle, if you knew her backstory.
