The unbearable sadness of being CR7

It was nothing compared to the hurt inside… (Photo by Gonzalo Arroyo Moreno/Getty Images)

He awoke in a grey room on a grey morning with grey thoughts. He had spent his life on the football pitch getting kicked around and each time he got back on his feet. This morning, he felt like there was a weight on his chest. He couldn’t move. His limbs dangled limply off a bed too small for him. The place smelled of dampness and he was covered in sweat. He heaved himself onto his side and stared at the stained carpet below him. He caught a glimpse of a near empty flagon of whiskey on his bedside table. His stomach churned at the sight of it. He felt like his nerves were trying to beat their way out of the prison of his body through his temple. The toilet flushed in his bathroom. His bathroom? He tried to edge his eyeballs around to take in his surroundings. This wasn’t his room. And he had no idea who was in the bathroom.

He heard footsteps cushioned by the bacteria-haven of a carpet. His body refused to roll over as it tried to maintain the delicate balance that was keeping the content of his stomach in place. He exhaled deeply as a smoky voice behind him announced:

“That’s me darlin’. I wouldn’t set foot in there though for a few minutes sweet cheeks. Let it settle. But eh, I’ll just be takin’ my moneys and be on my way.”

Ronaldo moaned softly as the blur with bad hair sifted through his wallet and made off with what she found. He gradually nursed his head around to watch her leave. The door slammed causing him to wince. He slithered up to his pillow, flipping it over to feel the refreshing coolness of the other side against his cheek. He could see the outline of a face in cheap makeup on the pillow beside him. He shivered, unsure of whether it was caused by his hangover or the blurry woman’s blurry outline on the pillow.

He awoke again this time to the drill of his mobile on his bedside locker. He fumbled at his phone but it rang out. He rolled over aching. The clock was unkindly pointing out that it was past noon. He sat up and found that the mirror was even harsher in what it showed. His skin looked like wet newspaper and his hair delinquently sprawled itself across his head. The Portuguese rolled out of bed and found two odd socks on the floor. They passed the sniff test, as did a plain beige t-shirt so he got dressed, brushed his teeth (wretching only once) and left.

An hour later, his trusty Fiat Punto pulled into the Ciudad Real Madrid. He grabbed his gear bag from the back and headed for the entrance. He stopped at the door and took a look around. He sneaked off around the corner and sat on the path pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Placing one in his mouth, he flicked impotently at the lighter. His hands were shaking badly. He flexed his right hand attempting to regain some power in it and tried again. This time he managed to light up but his lips quivered as he puffed out a stream of smoke directly above his head. It lingered for a moment before falling back down upon him, twisting and curling. He blinked hard trying to keep back the tears but they were always close to the surface when he was here these days.

“Not today” he told himself. “Please not today…”

He heard voices around the corner. They were almost upon him so he furiously stamped out the cigarette and tucked himself in against the brickwork wall. He heard Sergio Ramos and Marcelo laughing. Marcelo’s laugh was easy to tell because he sounded like a hyena. They were planning some prank together and from what he could hear, it seemed like Di Maria was going to be arriving back in today to scraps of cloth in place of his clothes. As he listened to the pair sniggering, he began to long for the days when he was so carefree and happy in the dressing room. That was long ago though. Before this mess.

The defensive duo moved off after a couple more minutes still discussing where they could find unas tijeras with which to inflict damage on Angel’s threads. Ronaldo picked up his gear bag and ambled towards the door, his heart accelerating with each step. Dread loomed over him and he wasn’t helped by his still queasy stomach. He entered the building and there it was, in the reception area, standing on a podium. He didn’t know if he could stand it. His knees had gone to jelly. He leaned against the wall trying to get himself together. Mourinho passed through the reception area and noticed his struggling striker. He rushed over and sat him against the wall. Ronaldo’s forehead was shining with sweat. The manager shouted over to the receptionist to get some water. Ronaldo broke down, wailing.

“What?! What is it Cristiano?”

The forward couldn’t get a word out, just sobs. His throat felt as if it had collapsed. The receptionist came running with a cup of water. Mourinho tilted it gently into Ronaldo’s mouth managing to get a dribble in between the shuddering sobs. Finally, the marksman stopped. Mourinho spotted the opportunity to finally sort this issue out during the moment of calm. Tentatively, he began:

“Look Cristiano…you know…you know we’re all here for you. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I’m not a mind reader. I need to know what the problem is so we can sort it…”

Ronaldo looked up, his eyes raw and red. He sniffled into a tissue.

“Well it’s…”

“Yes…”

“Well…I…I just wanted to lift the Super Cup first”, he cried looking over at the trophy on its podium.

Mourinho got up silently and walked away, shooting back one dirty look as he shook his head and entered the dressing room.