No Country for Old Goalkeepers

Manuel Neuer and Gigi Buffon couldn’t stop what was coming.

Manuel opened the door, went in, and closed it again. The house was dark, for the most part. A weak light shone from the kitchen. He went and found Gigi there, sitting at a small folding table, a bottle in front of him. Whisky. Two glasses, both empty.

I didn’t like to start without you, said Gigi.

Manuel sat down, and Gigi poured. Did you see— started Manuel, but Gigi interrupted. Not yet. Drink first.

They drank. Gigi filled, and they drank again. Then, after a long wait, he said: Yes. I saw.

I feel old, said Manuel.

You look old, said Gigi. Even though you aren’t. Not yet. Not like —

The ball came over, and I went. Like I always do. Get yourself out, get yourself big. It works. Always, it works. But he was quicker, and he was there, and then he turned. And then he wasn’t there.

Yes. I saw.

They drank again. Manuel asked: You quitting? Somebody said you were quitting.

I don’t know. Not yet. But I feel. I feel overmatched. Sometimes. You saw?

Manuel nodded. I saw.

So small. So stupid. A little bit of dip, a shiver, and suddenly I’m pushing the thing back out in front of me like I’m a teenager again. Like I don’t know how my arms work.

It’s a thing, said Manuel. They train for it, some of them. Ronaldinho did, back when he was Barcelona. Back when he was training. Put it right in front of the keeper. Bit of skid, bit of swerve, land it in front. See what happens. I asked Thomas, once. And he told me that most of the time he tried to do the right thing, the precise thing. The corner. But sometimes, all you can do is look for the chaos.

Gigi rubbed his face. Doesn’t seem fair, somehow, he said. There’s ten of them. Chaos should be on our side.

Manuel shook his head. You ever think about the language? he asked. You know in English, they call strikers “goal poachers.” That makes us gamekeepers. Policemen. I don’t know how I feel about that.

That’s what we do, said Gigi. We stand in their way. We stop their fun. And then we get old. One last game before retirement. One game too far.

You think you’ll ever get it?

Get what?

The medal. You know. The Big Cup.

Oh. Gigi held up his glass in front of him, and gazed into it. No. Probably not. It’s a strange club. So loud, and so nervous. And that’s not what this was all about. Not really. See Paris and die, as the saying goes. He placed the glass back down on the table. Halfway there.

I felt so, so, so, slow, said Manuel. Like I was barely moving. A stick with a tattered goalkeeper shirt hanging off it.

You’re being hard on yourself, said Gigi. It was a cute turn.

I shouldn’t have been out there in the first place. It was predictable.

Maybe. But that’s your thing. Get out, make yourself big.

Too big. Too slow. Manuel ran his hands through his hair, then folded them in his lap. Perhaps that’s what growing old is. You do the thing you’re good at, and you keep doing it, and then one day nobody needs it any more, and so you stop.

Gigi reached for the bottle, poured out two more. This game’s hard on goalkeepers, he said. You can’t stop everything that’s coming. That’s vanity.

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