Chapter Text
June 2024.
Playing twelve years on a team was enough to get to know your teammates, learn everything from them, get used to their voices, only to watch someone else eventually take their place. Twelve years was enough to see almost everyone you love leave. When the Dortmund team told him they had a surprise prepared for him, he thanked them and mentally braced himself for another round of nice faces saying nice things. Throughout that week, he understood that there were a limited number of ways to react to a goodbye: nod while smiling if it was someone special, lower your head and let out a laugh if it was too sentimental, run your hand over your face, press your lips together. But by that point, he had used practically every reaction he had on his list.
Marco settled into his chair, legs spread. A huge Dortmund production, everything meticulously arranged; he knew this was more for the fans than for him. He could hear the production crew muttering nonsense and moving things around; there were people all around him, close enough that he remained aware of them even when he wasn’t looking. By this point, he was getting a little distracted when suddenly the screen in front of him lit up. And the goodbyes began.
People from his life kept appearing on the screen. Teammates. One after another. People with whom he had shared locker rooms, hotels, training camps, victories, draws, defeats, leagues, even rivals, years ago. People he hadn't seen in years, and people he had seen that very morning. It felt a little strange to see twelve years of his life summarized and organized in that way.
The screen kept changing. Erling Haaland. A smile crept across his face before he could stop it. The video disappeared, another face. Moritz Leitner. Marco laughed again, a smile still on his face as he thought how cruel this was, running into someone from that era on that very day. For a few seconds, he also saw the boy he'd met when he himself had just arrived in Dortmund. With Haaland, it was different, for example. At that time, he was already a legend. But with Leitner, he was twenty-three years old. It seemed absurd. Marco put a hand to his jaw and scratched his sparse beard as he listened.
Another goodbye, another cut. Mats Hummels. He was already a little more thoughtful about the concept of this. Marco crossed one leg over the other and put his hands on his knee. Mats started talking; he knew him too well. Mats was always one of the few constants. He could look from the other end of the locker room and understand exactly what he was thinking without him needing to say a word. One of the few constants… even when he hadn't been. Marco swallowed.
Marco was already tired, and it had only been three minutes. He'd been tired for days in a way that sleeping and eating healthy didn't fix. So much time spent having conversations that ended with hugs and maybe tears, and hearing "last," "last time," "twelve years," "legend," "thank you"...
The next image appears. It took him a second to recognize the face in front of him. Perhaps it was the light or the framing. Perhaps because he simply hadn't considered it a possibility. When you avoid seeing someone for so long, you don't arrive at your own farewell thinking about seeing their face.
"Thank you for your amazing work, your commitment, and your passion."
Marco didn't change position. He didn't startle, didn't open his eyes, didn't drop anything, didn't do any of the things that, in a movie, would have immediately informed the audience that something important had just happened. He just stared with a goofy grin, and that was it. Robert Lewandowski was on the screen, and Marco knew exactly what Robert Lewandowski looked like. It would be hard not to. He'd seen him lift trophies with him, lift trophies he'd won against him, score goals, celebrate with Dortmund, celebrate against Dortmund, wearing yellow, wearing red, wearing red and blue, with his children, smiling. He could imagine him in at least 100 situations, and unlike the many farewell reactions he had listed, he never knew how to react when he was in front of him.
"You always showed what it means to be passionate about something, and I will admire you forever."
Robert kept talking. The words entered his head and arranged themselves correctly. Normal things, exactly the things he needed to say in public, and there was nothing strange about the message. Nothing to justify the exaggerated pressure Marco suddenly felt in his head. He shifted in his chair, feeling his own smile respond automatically. For a moment, he didn't see the man who had been recording the video in his house in Barcelona, but someone else. Shorter hair, dressed in yellow, with an arm around his shoulders.
"Thank you with all my heart for all the amazing moments we had together."
Marco blinked, the image settled back into focus. Robert was still talking. Thirty-five years, in Barcelona, a lifetime apart. Marco ran his tongue over his lips. When was the last time they had spoken? Actually spoken. The answer should have come immediately, but it didn't, which caused him a different kind of discomfort.
"Thank you for your support, and again, thank you for every moment I got to enjoy with you."
The screen went black again, and the change occurred. Then Jule Brandt appeared. With the same smile, he looked at him. He heard the words individually, but struggled to hold them together long enough for them to mean anything. And there were still about 20 minutes of videos left. What the hell had that been? Literally nothing happened. And that was precisely his problem. The guy showed up after years and said congratulations. The end. It wasn't like he was a ghost or someone dead, or even someone Marco had completely lost touch with. And yet, the echo of hearing him say, "I will admire you forever," crushed him.
Now Piszczu appeared. Finally, a warm feeling cut through the noise in his head. Someone who had truly always been there. He started talking, and Marco felt he could hold on to something again. Piszczek was easy; he belonged to Dortmund as much as he did, in a way that needed no explanation. He smiled with a tenderness he didn't need to fake, but as he looked at Lukasz, he kept seeing the previous face intermittently. The Polish accent didn't help. Marco realized he was comparing the two messages and forced himself to stop. Now Marco didn't even know his phone number. Did he still have the same one now that he was in Barcelona? No, surely not. Why was he thinking about his phone number? Someone from Dortmund must have contacted him to ask for the video. Called him, maybe. Or texted him.
Lukasz Piszczek finished his message, and the farewell continued. Of course it continued.