having off days, but this is not like all those times his mind and body weren’t quite on the same page.

This is learning a language that he used to speak fluently, but has all but forgotten, all over again. At

an age that most professional players at his level, however reluctantly, start contemplating how to

slowly wind down their career, he has to start at first principles.

One day, he’ll watch the videos made during dozens of matches and see with his own eyes the

man he used to be, and still the memory of his body will be no more than the words from Daniël’s

mouth, the look in his eyes. He knows he’s the man running there, trying for the net, passing the ball

to a team-mate with better chance of scoring, tackling an opponent, arguing with the ref, going down

and getting up again. That’s in another part of his brain, which has no knowledge of the memory of his

body. It’s like looking at photographs of his first baby steps. He knows it’s him, but it’s just from

hearsay. Daniël will tell him how it was, and those words will have meaning.

Daniël once said, “You have your own special kind of walk. Whenever I see that shuffle, I

know it’s you, even when you’re a tiny moving figure on a TV screen and I can’t see your face or shirt

number.”

Steve also remembers how Daniël, during one of the training sessions, was standing next to a

goalpost, observing him for minutes on end. Not saying anything, not even pretending he wasn’t

watching. When Steve, in the privacy of his home, asked him what he had been doing, the boy smiled

and said, “Enjoying the view.”

He wants to get up, take his beloved by the hand and walk out of the hospital, like nothing bad

ever happened. But if it ever comes to that, them walking out of the hospital, holding hands like a

couple of teenagers in love, it will be exactly because something bad has happened to them. Honestly,

would they have had the courage, the imagination otherwise? Or would they have waited until later,

later, later … only to see their love slip away, with the next transfer window as the deathblow? But he

still wants it, holding Daniël’s hand and walking out of the hospital, and that’s a feeling he’s not

willing to let go of any time soon. It makes him work harder, try one time more than he thinks his

body is capable of.

It also makes him extremely grateful for sitting on his bed again, leaning into the pillows,

sipping on yet another protein- and vitamin-spiked shake.

Daniël opens his laptop. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to write in my blog for a bit. Your

fans have to know how hard you’re working. When you’re a bit less tired and you feel like it, it might

be fun to take a look at some of the things they’ve written about us, and to us. You know they even

made a few songvids? I usually pretend it doesn’t exist, but Ray Portland told me a few days back

there’s some really nice stuff around. Must be, if it’s got you in it. Some are a bit sentimental and

sweet enough to break the enamel of your teeth, but...yeah...they mean well, other people. Perhaps not

all of them, that would be a bit much to ask, but so many more than we feared seem to be genuinely

accepting we are a couple.”

“That’s good to hear. Perhaps, in time, it’ll be a bit easier for others. So a handful of guys can

stop pretending being happy with a trophy wife.”

Steve remembers Anthony’s anger, Daniël’s promise. “And those other pictures? What are

they about? Something from inside the hospital? That’s it, isn’t it? Someone has taken photos of you

right after Degaré called you. When you were in distress. Of me when they brought me in with the

ambulance. How did they even know it was me? Police radio?”

Daniël’s hopeless shrug gives Steve an indication it’s even worse than that. An idea forms

inside his head, but he dismisses it as nearly impossible. “I don’t remember seeing anyone using their

phone to take pictures. They were too busy breaking my bones and...well you know.”

Daniël takes a deep breath. “They did take pictures. A few minutes of video too. At the very

end, when you were no longer able to ...” His voice wavers. “I assume they wanted to watch their

happy memories together and be proud of their hard work. And if they uploaded it on the net, other

people could also enjoy the results of their efforts. Although several of the guys told me there were a

few discussions on message boards and blogs if it might be a very clever hoax. Some elaborate sick

prank.”

The boy pauses for a few seconds before he continues. “After making their masterpiece they

went away, leaving you for dead. I’m trying to understand the way such people think. Did one of them

simply take out his mobile phone and take pictures? Or did someone suggest they all should use their

camera, like, for fun and keepsakes? I’m willing to believe they kept on kicking you out of blind rage,

long after you were down. Because they smelled blood. Pack frenzy, or whatever it’s called. But what

possessed them to look at a suffering human being and take photos, even make a video of it? They’re

good quality pictures too, so there were no shaking hands and they were not in a hurry. The one with

the camera in his hands even took care to make sure not even the nose of one single boot got on a

picture by accident.”

Daniël looks so helpless in his effort to comprehend the incomprehensible. He talks and talks

because he doesn’t seem to know what else to do. But his face betrays that he doesn’t understand his

own words.

Steve reaches out to take his beloved’s hand. “That must have been so hard for you, being

confronted with such images. And poor Anthony. Who else has seen it?”

“You should rather ask who else hasn’t seen it. They tried to get it banned, the Kinbridge Town

lawyers, but it’s impossible. If it had stayed local it might have worked, but the pictures and the video

were spread all over the net before we even realised what was happening.” Daniël pauses again. “The

days after the photos and the video became widely known, the mailboxes of the club crashed. It was

all over the news. Everywhere. There were Dutch and Irish journalists coming over to ask the gaffer

and Matthew about their opinion on what had happened. Mum, dad and Naomi could hardly get a foot

outside home without being pestered. I heard from the others every football forum, fan group and

what-have-you went crazy. As if they finally understood it was real pain happening to a real person,

not some horrible story they could choose to play down. Matthew and Degaré made an appeal to our

fans to please no longer make those pictures available. From what I heard, the fans of most other clubs

spread the word as well. Same goes for the national teams. It worked somewhat, but Anthony saw it

had been uploaded again on yet another site. Server could be anywhere in the world. He got so angry

about that. And you know Anthony Levee when he gets worked up about something ...”

“Can you show me those pictures and video, please?”

Daniël shakes his head, his eyes pleading with Steve. “I don’t want you to look at them. They

will hurt you as much as they hurt me. And I want to keep you from hurting as much as I can. Isn’t it

enough knowing they exist?”

“You shouldn’t have to carry this alone. Besides, what’s the alternative? Never read another

paper or magazine for the rest of my life, because of what they might have published? Not using the

internet ever again because you’ll never know what might be behind the next link? I tried so hard to

stay invisible and you can see what good it did to me, to us.”