let me hold your crown.
Jan. 29th, 2011 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
levitySo instead of finishing my papers or studying for embryology or archaeology or biochem I am writing what is turning out to be the Cristiano Ronaldo Dream Sequence Series. My excuse is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cornerflag; my reason is that dreams don't have to make sense, and can be as blatant as hell.
---
Sometimes they're playing Barcelona at the Bernabeu and the game is tied 5-5 with Pipita scoring all of Madrid's goals and they're four minutes into the five minutes of injury time. Xabi wins the ball from the air and sends it to Mesut, who passes it to Angel, who passes it to him. It's a perfect run to the goal and Barcelona's defenders are left lumbering in his wake and Victor Valdes is, impossibly, leaning on one of the posts and whistling. He moves to shoot the ball in but his legs aren't listening to him. When he looks down he finds that they've turned into gold.
What the hell are you doing, eighty thousand people are yelling, sounding strangely like Jose Mourinho when someone on his squad is being stupid. That's a sure goal right there, we thought you were the best in the world, the ball is right in front of you, kick the goddamn ball.
I can't, he says, throwing his hands up in the air. My legs are made of gold.
You're not that fucking special, what the hell are we paying you for, kick the fucking ball, they scream.
No, I'm not, that's Mourinho, he says, but tries anyway. He ends up on the ground, his face to the stands and the sky.
Ronaldo's diving again, they yell, but this time they're speaking English.
For God's sake, he says, feeling calmer than he would be if this were happening in real Real life. You're all idiots. Can't you see that my legs are made of gold?
You're not worth the eighty million, they chorus. Even Benzema could have scored that.
Sorry I've gotten three goals every game except for now, he says. The sun's in his eyes. At least his arms are working.
Then the ref blows for full-time and the wire-mesh fences that keep the projectiles out (do we even have those in the Bernabeu, he thinks) disappear and the faceless crowd pour out onto the field. They head for him, sinking fingernails and teeth into his legs, then his torso and neck and head. They leave his arms alone.
You signed up for this, they say, mouths full and dribbling.
And where in my contract does it state that in the absence of goals when given clear goalscoring opportunities the Bernabeu can eat me alive? he asks.
That's what we do, they say. You're the best in the world. That's what we do.
There's a faint note of apology in their collective voices. Cristiano thinks he can be forgiven for ignoring it.
cornerflag; my reason is that dreams don't have to make sense, and can be as blatant as hell.---
Sometimes they're playing Barcelona at the Bernabeu and the game is tied 5-5 with Pipita scoring all of Madrid's goals and they're four minutes into the five minutes of injury time. Xabi wins the ball from the air and sends it to Mesut, who passes it to Angel, who passes it to him. It's a perfect run to the goal and Barcelona's defenders are left lumbering in his wake and Victor Valdes is, impossibly, leaning on one of the posts and whistling. He moves to shoot the ball in but his legs aren't listening to him. When he looks down he finds that they've turned into gold.
What the hell are you doing, eighty thousand people are yelling, sounding strangely like Jose Mourinho when someone on his squad is being stupid. That's a sure goal right there, we thought you were the best in the world, the ball is right in front of you, kick the goddamn ball.
I can't, he says, throwing his hands up in the air. My legs are made of gold.
You're not that fucking special, what the hell are we paying you for, kick the fucking ball, they scream.
No, I'm not, that's Mourinho, he says, but tries anyway. He ends up on the ground, his face to the stands and the sky.
Ronaldo's diving again, they yell, but this time they're speaking English.
For God's sake, he says, feeling calmer than he would be if this were happening in real Real life. You're all idiots. Can't you see that my legs are made of gold?
You're not worth the eighty million, they chorus. Even Benzema could have scored that.
Sorry I've gotten three goals every game except for now, he says. The sun's in his eyes. At least his arms are working.
Then the ref blows for full-time and the wire-mesh fences that keep the projectiles out (do we even have those in the Bernabeu, he thinks) disappear and the faceless crowd pour out onto the field. They head for him, sinking fingernails and teeth into his legs, then his torso and neck and head. They leave his arms alone.
You signed up for this, they say, mouths full and dribbling.
And where in my contract does it state that in the absence of goals when given clear goalscoring opportunities the Bernabeu can eat me alive? he asks.
That's what we do, they say. You're the best in the world. That's what we do.
There's a faint note of apology in their collective voices. Cristiano thinks he can be forgiven for ignoring it.
