It began with being on a football pitch as a Liverpool 1st-team player during a game.  I remember just feeling honored to be there, feeling positive about Klopp’s decision to select me for the squad.  The focus quickly turned to the live action.  I was positioned on the right, in more of a midfield location than where I’d likely be as an outright attacker.  I tried to move closer toward the center of the pitch because the ball was on the other side, and I wanted to be a potential outlet option for the defense, but the opponent marking me had a firm grip on my wrist, which more than hindered my movement– it totally prohibited me from moving.  I considered ways to handle it; I could have tried some flinging of my arm to break free, but I felt like my exaggerated move would probably be used against me.  He’d probably make a meal of it, make it seem like I was swinging deliberately with the intent to harm him, which would run the risk of getting myself ejected from the game.  So I decided to vocally make a plea in order to get the referee’s attention; at least that way what was occurring would be less ambiguous to an impartial observer.  I shouted “Let go of me!” as I tried to move away again.  He held the grip, but then I shouted it again and I suppose he feared closer scrutiny from the refs, so he released.

While we were in this bit of a tie-up, the play had moved from our defensive area up to our attack, and we apparently had threatened the opponent’s goal, yet hadn’t scored.  I ran up to get more involved, but the ball had gone out of bounds so the play was dead.  I then went behind the goal where I found two water bottles leaned up against the side of a building.  I got a quick drink, then went back onto the field but everyone was gone.  I quickly zoomed up into an upper indoor facility in this complex; it was dimly lit, somewhat orangish, had low ceilings, and a few internal off-white rectangular columns.  The room felt like it was somewhat centrally located in the building, insofar as there were probably offices and various adjacent spaces in the distance behind where I was.

Play resumed.  Whereas before I had been somewhat ‘behind’ the action, first due to being tied up, then from my pause for refreshment– this time I was totally in sync and involved.  With a few really skillful one-touch passes and some subsequent movement into the half-spaces, some link-up play with two or three other players, around the columns and down some gradual steps, some passes on the floor and others through the air, we got the ball moved from the top-back-left part of the room to the lower-right side.  The room basically had three levels separated by a single step, and now the ball was at my feet on the lowest tier.  The focus became about trying to get the ball through the doorway on the right side– it was probably about two or three normal door-widths, and about four players were either inside of it or pretty much directly in front of it.  Among the guys was Sadio Mane, by the way, and there was at least one opponent marking him there.  Because the space was congested I decided to ‘go for power’ in my kick, hoping to ‘fizz’ it past any standing players before they could move to block it.  That managed to work so the ball had effectively ‘punched through’ the doorway and the play subsequently moved back outside.

Once on the other side of the doorway, the play soon became a ‘break-away’ situation.  We raced down the field all the way and scored!  We had a team huddled celebration, but it was strange because a few guys on the other team also wanted to be mixed into our huddle.  They weren’t cheering and congratulating us, but they weren’t picking fights either– almost like you’d expect a ‘neutral’ to behave in the situation.  I was curious about what these opponents were hoping to achieve with this unordinary conduct– I focused on one guy in particular, didn’t recognize him immediately, but he reminded me of Manchester United and Irish National team legend, Roy Keane, as he looked perhaps at 20 years old.

Then there was a quick transition back inside the facility from earlier, and this time it was empty, except for Jürgen Klopp.  He and I shook hands in that ‘bro-shake’ manner with the hands above the elbows.  It was firm and held for an extended duration, which signified to me it wasn’t just a casual greeting; it was more meaningful.  I noticed Klopp’s glasses were different than his typical pair these days; they were black, more square, thicker-rimmed and had a larger total lens area.  I don’t know if the prescription was different but these were definitely more overtly stylish, more avant garde than than his current frames– maybe it was just his ‘party’ look rather than his ‘work’ look.  Anyway, so briefly after the bro-shake I went with him in the space where I’d been part of that great Tiki-Taka style build-up play with the other guys that preceded the breakaway, just recreating the individual movements, passes, touches, and game-time situational awareness decisions that had occurred.  

Then suddenly I was inside of a smaller room that was adjacent to that main central space, now with the whole team, plus others who I assumed were family and close friends of the team.  There was a toast to celebrate the culminating victory for us.  “To the Champions!”  I was definitely one of the people being celebrated, in conjunction with the whole thing as an event.  The lingering eyes and big smiles of some cute girls made it appear that I had acquired a few admirers.

About