The Number Nine
Apr. 6th, 2011 08:59 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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tr_ficTitle: The Number Nine
Characters: Fernando Torres; various Liverpool
Rating: PG-13
Words: 763
A/N: this just came to me when I was thinking about his Liverpool song. I hope you like it. And yes, I’ll have more requests posted soon. :-)
We bought the lad from Sunny Spain
He remembers the summer he joined them. Nervous at leaving Spain, he’d been afraid he wouldn’t like rainy Northern England. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be received by the Scouse fans. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to understand not only English, but their Scouse English. He’d been afraid of being away from home, his family, and everything he’d known.
He had been afraid. At first.
He gets the ball, he scores again
The first goal had come a few weeks after he’d arrived, the nineteenth of August. They had played Chelsea then and drawn. It was a fact that he looked at now with a simple shrug of his shoulder. There was nothing he could change of that, not that he would want to. He had helped the Reds then as he would help the Blues now. It would all be just a matter of time.
They had beat Reading with help from him in his very first hat trick that September. He’d even scored in the Champions League against Porto.
He’d blossomed under Rafa’s hands and had succeeded at helping Liverpool win. The four-one against United was his personal favorite.
For years he was a goal machine that kept sending the ball past outstretched keeper’s hands to hit the net and send the thousands upon thousands of Kopites screaming in joy. He was proud to wear his red shirt with the Liverpool badge on the chest just above his heart. His fears were gone and he loved the city, the people, but especially the team. He loved it and he would have laid his heart bare for that team.
He did lay his heart bare.
His armband proved he was a Red
The shirt was more than just something to wear in a match. That badge meant something; he understood that. For the first time he thought he knew what Stevie or Jamie felt when they wore it. He felt the connection to the squad and was angry when he saw other players disrespect the shirt.
That badge was something special, something that was meant to be cherished above all others. The Liverbird should have been higher than any lion, devil, cannon, or hammer. The crest should have been treated as if it were a prized jewel instead of several threads tightly woven together. That crest was as good as gold.
It still was, but now it wasn’t red. It was blue.
You’ll Never Walk Alone it said
Things had changed somewhere. He’d been injured and the goals had stopped. The team had begun to flounder and soon they were no longer with the elite but sliding down. They continued to slide past United, Chelsea, Arsenal, even Everton. They sank to the bottom and stuck. It was as if they were in mud but instead of slowly working it out, they continued to slide further.
The long-dormant fears began to creep up again. What if he never scored again? What if he was booed for having a bad touch? What if the glory of old faded and couldn’t be brought up again? What if he was done? What if his career ended with a relegated team and he never scored again? What if Liverpool was as done as he was?
He was afraid.
He remembered the tales of others that had worn the same crest, the same shirt. He remembered them. For once, it seemed that he could relate.
Redknapp had gone years before. Owen had followed soon after. Even the Scouser’s precious Garcia had left, traded for him. Even Steven—Steven had wanted out once, to Chelsea even. He had been tempted, very tempted, by the blue fibers of London.
He had stayed. But why? And did he regret it?
Fernando entertained the idea more than he wanted, but every night when he was alone, just before he fell asleep, he would think about Steven. Steven had stayed, but he had wanted out once.
Did he still want to stay with the sinking ship of Liverpool?
Fernando Torres
Nino had decided and had finalized his decision.
London called and he was going to go.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love Liverpool anymore. He did. But the love had changed. It had turned from passion to respectful cordiality. He would respect the Scousers, but he would not continue to be one. He just hoped that the others could understand that.
He still didn’t tell Steven to his face; he didn’t want to see that look on his face.
Chelsea’s number nine
Characters: Fernando Torres; various Liverpool
Rating: PG-13
Words: 763
A/N: this just came to me when I was thinking about his Liverpool song. I hope you like it. And yes, I’ll have more requests posted soon. :-)
We bought the lad from Sunny Spain
He remembers the summer he joined them. Nervous at leaving Spain, he’d been afraid he wouldn’t like rainy Northern England. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be received by the Scouse fans. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to understand not only English, but their Scouse English. He’d been afraid of being away from home, his family, and everything he’d known.
He had been afraid. At first.
He gets the ball, he scores again
The first goal had come a few weeks after he’d arrived, the nineteenth of August. They had played Chelsea then and drawn. It was a fact that he looked at now with a simple shrug of his shoulder. There was nothing he could change of that, not that he would want to. He had helped the Reds then as he would help the Blues now. It would all be just a matter of time.
They had beat Reading with help from him in his very first hat trick that September. He’d even scored in the Champions League against Porto.
He’d blossomed under Rafa’s hands and had succeeded at helping Liverpool win. The four-one against United was his personal favorite.
For years he was a goal machine that kept sending the ball past outstretched keeper’s hands to hit the net and send the thousands upon thousands of Kopites screaming in joy. He was proud to wear his red shirt with the Liverpool badge on the chest just above his heart. His fears were gone and he loved the city, the people, but especially the team. He loved it and he would have laid his heart bare for that team.
He did lay his heart bare.
His armband proved he was a Red
The shirt was more than just something to wear in a match. That badge meant something; he understood that. For the first time he thought he knew what Stevie or Jamie felt when they wore it. He felt the connection to the squad and was angry when he saw other players disrespect the shirt.
That badge was something special, something that was meant to be cherished above all others. The Liverbird should have been higher than any lion, devil, cannon, or hammer. The crest should have been treated as if it were a prized jewel instead of several threads tightly woven together. That crest was as good as gold.
It still was, but now it wasn’t red. It was blue.
You’ll Never Walk Alone it said
Things had changed somewhere. He’d been injured and the goals had stopped. The team had begun to flounder and soon they were no longer with the elite but sliding down. They continued to slide past United, Chelsea, Arsenal, even Everton. They sank to the bottom and stuck. It was as if they were in mud but instead of slowly working it out, they continued to slide further.
The long-dormant fears began to creep up again. What if he never scored again? What if he was booed for having a bad touch? What if the glory of old faded and couldn’t be brought up again? What if he was done? What if his career ended with a relegated team and he never scored again? What if Liverpool was as done as he was?
He was afraid.
He remembered the tales of others that had worn the same crest, the same shirt. He remembered them. For once, it seemed that he could relate.
Redknapp had gone years before. Owen had followed soon after. Even the Scouser’s precious Garcia had left, traded for him. Even Steven—Steven had wanted out once, to Chelsea even. He had been tempted, very tempted, by the blue fibers of London.
He had stayed. But why? And did he regret it?
Fernando entertained the idea more than he wanted, but every night when he was alone, just before he fell asleep, he would think about Steven. Steven had stayed, but he had wanted out once.
Did he still want to stay with the sinking ship of Liverpool?
Fernando Torres
Nino had decided and had finalized his decision.
London called and he was going to go.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love Liverpool anymore. He did. But the love had changed. It had turned from passion to respectful cordiality. He would respect the Scousers, but he would not continue to be one. He just hoped that the others could understand that.
He still didn’t tell Steven to his face; he didn’t want to see that look on his face.
Chelsea’s number nine
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