Chapter Eight #4
The emcee intervenes and makes a feeble attempt at salvaging the situation.
‘Now, now, Aejeong-ssi, do give others a chance. You can’t be hogging the mic!’ He signs off with a weak laugh.
‘Miss, you asked if it could be because of a woman? I can tell you it definitely is not a man! Does that satisfy your curiosity?’ Rodrigo’s shoulders look tight and his spine is upright. His body is tense but the lopsided smirk he’s wearing gives off an impression of quick recovery.
Flashes everywhere. The clicking sound of camera shutters fills up the room. The photographers are in a frenzy. Reporters are relaying the quote to the news desk where editors are punching in the latest newsbreak and scrambling to be the first to go on the air with it.
‘Is this the real reason you sacrificed practically an entire season? You could have played the season in India and then come here. What was the hurry?’ somebody wants to know.
‘Actually, no. The ISL wraps up in April and the league here begins in February-March. Have you not been doing your homework, young man?’ Rodrigo asks the journalist teasingly.
‘But, you still do miss out on crucial playing time. At your age, that’s a huge price to pay! Did you not want to play this season? There’s still two months …’ the reporter continues defiantly.
‘But, according to you, I’m an old guy. You think I’d have been fit to keep up with Minkyu, Oberdan, my friend Jesse?
Would you have forgiven me if the club gave me a crack at the league this season and I flopped?
Mr President here would send me back to where I came from!
Look, I have nothing to prove to the world anymore.
I’m here because I want to prove to myself that I’m not done and out yet.
That I still have more to give. That I deserve the chance to prove to her that … ’
‘Her?’ the journalist cuts in, his voice high-pitched with excitement.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You said her, Rodrigo-ssi. That you deserve the chance to prove to her … prove what, sir? And, to whom?’
The president clears his throat and doesn’t look too pleased.
Throw them a bone and they want the whole damn carcass. These aren’t reporters, they are hyenas!
‘Oh. Her.’ Rodrigo pats his chest and then points at the roof.
‘Her, up there. God Almighty! I believe God is a woman. Everything good in the universe is because of women, won’t you agree?
So, I’m here for her, to prove to her that I deserve another chance!
’ Rodrigo smiles and hopes the earnestness in his voice and words will help salvage the situation.
A few members in the audience applaud, but most look unconvinced.
The way he said her, it sounded like he was referring to a human woman and not God, don’t you think?
Word travels back to news desks and portals in nanoseconds. Stories are live in minutes.
‘Brazilian international and Seoul Stealer FC’s newest No. 9, Asian hero and former Aston Villa striker Rodrigo makes cryptic remarks and vaguely hints at the possibility of love leading him to Korea. ’
Tickers follow.
H e says his heart has led him here . C ould a woman be the reason?
R odrigo says G od is a woman .
A nd, he’s here for her. W ho is she?
R odrigo—devotee or devoted lover?
Desk producers rush to their video libraries to pull out tapes of old stories.
Scripts are being written about the timeline of Rodrigo’s past relationships.
A brief story on his cloudy childhood is also pulgged in.
Quick phone calls are made to former flames and football pundits for reactions.
Every sports desk at every news and celebrity media organization has its hands full.
Rodrigo looks set to grab headlines and trend across social media for the next few days, if not weeks.
Pleased as a punch about the quick turnaround despite wrinkling his orthodox nose at Rodrigo’s god-is-a-woman statement, the club president looks chuffed and his tan, wrinkled face spreads into a smile as wide as the Han River.
As Rodrigo laps up the attention and smiles for the flashbulbs, he looks on like a seasoned businessman who can already see his high-risk-high-return investment paying off.
He fishes out his phone and punches in a quick text.
‘Mina-ya , gomawo uri tal [thank you, my daughter]! You’ve done well, jarhaesseo [well done]!’
Figuring this is as good a time as any to draw curtains on the open house, the emcee starts to speak when, out of the blue, a gruff male voice interrupts the gentle hum of light laughter and loud smiles.
‘What about the rumours of racism and violence from your time in Japan? Do they have anything to do with why you have avoided coming here?’
True, rumours have swirled in footballing circles across the world about Rodrigo’s past that is till date mostly shrouded in mystery.
His parents are unnamed and have never been identified in public; his publicists have always insisted on questions about his family being removed during interviews.
Sketchy details are known about how he caused trouble at home in Japan and found his way to Brazil, eventually giving up his Japanese citizenship to represent Brazil internationally.
His rise through the ranks has been meteoric and the stuff of dreams. His rags-to-riches story is the sort of spin on Cinderella that young boys fantasize about.
But nobody knows what triggered all of this.
Nobody knows who Rodrigo was before he captured the imagination of fans across the world as a nineteen-year-old playing his first season with the senior team of Santos and emerging as the Brasileir?o’s top scorer.
The journalist, his face weathered and his voice reeking of an accusatory tone, presses on.
‘Were you possibly involved in any incident with a Korean?’ All chatter stops. There’s only silence.
Looking ashen-faced, Rodrigo can only gape with lifeless eyes.
What is he talking about? Nobody is supposed to know about this! Why does it even matter anymore? Maybe this is a good time to clarify and end it right here. I’m tired of hiding a stupid kid’s mistake. But what if it backfires? I need to stay here and win her back!
Rodrigo’s thoughts are haphazard. He’s gobsmacked by the suddenness of the question and taken aback by the wiry-looking journalist’s brazenness.
He tries hard to remember if it is a known face, but is unable to place him.
He has had to face brutal attacks from journalists the world over, but none have brought up this incident from a past he has long forgotten.
He recoils at the recollection of that past, of that person he had run away from and long believed to have been dead, at least on the inside.
How wrong he is. The memory of that awful evening is still fresh like it were only yesterday.
All of it—the cursing, the violence, the blood, the siren of the ambulance, the distinct smell of disinfectant, the stitches on his hairline that had scarred him forever, the questioning at the police station, being sent away to juvenile detention, all those anger management classes and countless therapy sessions, running away from home, not speaking with his father for five years, meeting his mother and her family—all of it comes rushing back to him.
The president looks at the emcee and urges him to settle the matter.
‘Ah, I’m afraid this is all we have time for. As you all know, Rodrigo-ssi has just arrived in Korea and he has a busy schedule. He is already late for his next appointment. Let us excuse him for today. We look forward to your support through the season!’
Journalists rush towards the dais, all speaking at the same time. Loudly and over one another’s voices, so it’s impossible to understand a word. But it isn’t difficult to guess what they want to know.
‘Do stay back for lunch. And don’t forget to pick up the press kits we have so lovingly organized for all of you. Rodrigo-ssi has very kindly personally signed jerseys for everyone!’
Journalists and photographers jostle for a better look and attempt to get one last word in as Rodrigo bows, spine curved like a hairpin bend as if he were doing the ragdoll stretch.
With a final, shockingly beatific smile, Rodrigo waves at the crowd and exits through the wings, one arm wrapped around the president’s neck.
Whether it is for the latter’s support or his own or just a show of support for each other is anybody’s guess.
He takes his arm off as soon as they are away from prying eyes.
‘My apologies, Mr President. It must have been embarrassing for you. I’m not sure what happened …’
The old man impatiently cuts him off.
‘Save it, son. Looking at your face, there probably is some truth to it. I’m not one to pry and, frankly, I don’t care. You and I are both professionals. We have an understanding and we best get on with the job.’
Rodrigo, now hiding behind his dark Gentle Monster sunglasses, gulps silently and cusses under his breath.
‘Lay low after your medicals until training starts. I will have the legal team check in with you. Whatever the dirt, they’ll clean it for you.’
Rodrigo can only stare at the plain-looking man whose words are cold and demeanour ruthless. A far cry from the proud, almost smug man that he’d looked like only a brief few minutes ago. The stories he had heard about the Soul Reaper of Seoul Stealers FC seemed to be entirely true.
‘I’m really sorry, Mr President …’
‘You needn’t call me Mr President when it’s just us, Rod. You can call me Mr Ri or Eungchan-ssi.’
‘Sure, Mr Pres … I mean Mr Ri. I just hope the media won’t be too harsh.
I’m just really concerned about the club’s image …
’ ‘Don’t worry about it. This is Korea. We’re a step ahead of the rest of the world.
There’s a hack for everything. Our team is already on it.
You just focus on staying healthy and winning us the league next season! ’