There is no such phrase as the early bird catches the worm in Spanish and Jamie received his first lesson in his new culture at training the next morning.

Barcelona were gearing up for their first league match of the season – away at Athletic Bilbao – on Sunday night and Godal had told him that training began at ten a.m. Eager to impress, Jamie made sure he arrived at the training complex for nine a.m. and immediately began his warm-up routine.

In fact, it was almost eleven-thirty by the time Jamie’s new teammates rolled into town.

They were hugging and talking about the game the night before, so happy to see one another that they barely registered the presence of their small, pale new teammate in the corner. Jamie felt invisible. In fact, he felt completely ordinary. All of his new teammates looked as much like models as they did footballers.

The ponytails, the immaculately groomed goatee beards, the tight white T-shirts, the necklaces and the overwhelming aroma of fresh aftershave. This was half dressing room, half catwalk.

Finally, it was the Brazilian magician, Rodinaldo, who strolled over to welcome Jamie. While Jamie aspired to become universally recognized as one of the best players in the world, Rodinaldo had already reached that level and, as he approached, Jamie could not help but notice the amazing physical condition the player was in.

The man was built like a prize fighter, muscles rippling everywhere. There was not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body.

Jamie had himself come a long way since the days of being a skinny ginger kid at school. He had done hours and hours of weights to build himself up and even tried yoga to loosen and stretch his muscles, but he would never look like Rodinaldo. The man was the perfect physical specimen.

“Buenos dias!” said Rodinaldo, his gleaming white teeth sparkling as he reached out his fist for Jamie to touch. “I ask Barça to bring you here to play with me! And you here! We make party together on football pitch!

Now, as if following Rodinaldo’s lead, the other Barça players came to introduce themselves too. High fives, pats on the back and hugs were coming from all directions.

There was Steffen Effenhegel, the tall, aristocratic-looking German centre-half who captained the team, offering Jamie the firmest of handshakes and a piercing look in the eye. And last to greet Jamie, the most mysterious and intriguing of all the Barcelona players: Major – short and squat in stature, with black hair and big childlike eyes. The story of Major was now almost mythical.

He had been an orphan brought up on the streets of Barcelona, kicking only rolled-up socks around the backstreets and alleyways of the city until, one day, the president of the club – on a goodwill visit to one of the centres for the homeless – had himself caught sight of this dirty boy with beautiful skills.

He had invited the young Major to join the rest of the Barcelona recruits at the famous La Massia Academy, where, along with perfecting his football, he had learnt to read and write.

Major, Jamie guessed, was the personification of what Godal had meant when he talked about Barça being more than just a club. Major had waited until the other players had gone out to training and now, wordlessly, he was taking Jamie’s clenched fist and tapping it softly against his chest.

“Welcome to the family,” he said in accented but clear English. “Now you are one of us.”