I sent everyone to the showers. The score stood at two all, and Bensaid protested, convinced that his team could still win. He was clearly the only one.
In the meantime, Léonard had shut himself in the car. I walked around the hood, sat down at the wheel, and set off. Léonard had put his head against the window and was looking sideways at the road as it drifted past. I had no intention of asking him what he’d thought of the training session. He’d already given me his answer by falling asleep in the stands. We were halfway home, and not a single word had been uttered. I stopped at a grocery to buy something to go with pasta, and when I got back to the car Léonard hadn’t changed position. I assumed he was asleep. We weren’t very far from the house. The first street lamps came on.
“I don’t like soccer,” Léonard said. “It’s too simplistic.”
I heard again that odd, affected tone of voice, which was hard to believe came from a boy of thirteen.
“You say that because you haven’t seen a real match.”
“One of my mother’s friends used to watch soccer on Sunday evenings.”
“That was the French championship. It isn’t a good example.”
He’d sat up and was staring at the dotted line in the middle of the road, as if hypnotized by it.
I parked outside the house. Léonard got out first and stood by the door, waiting for me to open it. Before he could go to his room, I pointed to the couch facing the television.
“Sit down. I have something to show you.”
I went down into the basement and opened the door of the windowless room that contained Robert Herbach’s “treasure.” Robert had been my chief instructor when I was training to be a coach. He’d been like a father to me, sometimes surly but always close, and since his retirement had coincided with the end of my course, he’d given me this priceless gift, by way of farewell: his collection of videocassettes.
I switched on the fluorescent light and walked down the narrow aisle. In his thirty-year career, Robert had built up a collection of videos that traced the history of soccer, no more no less, through the greatest matches. Some of these records were known to everyone, others were very rare. There were the finest feats, the most dramatic situations, the moments of grace, and the fiercest altercations, everything the game can produce when it rises above mediocrity. And quite apart from the fact that, for anyone who loved soccer, seeing those images was a source of intense emotion, the collection was a first-class teaching tool. I’d inherited that treasure and felt responsible for it. I’d been worried about the age of some of the cassettes and had converted them to DVD. I’d also categorized the matches by theme, in order to make it easier to access the information. Robert Herbach had died of cirrhosis two years after hanging up his boots, and I’d tried to make that heritage of his bear fruit. I might forget about the treasure for weeks on end, but I always went back to glean something from it. To be honest, my relationship with the collection varied. Sometimes I felt Robert’s benevolent presence in it. But sometimes I found these wonders too overpowering, because they represented a superior form of the game that I’d never have access to.
I stood in front of the wall of DVDs. Ever since Léonard had uttered the word “simplistic” on the way back, to describe the kind of sport that soccer was, I’d had a match in mind. One that seemed an appropriate response to his verdict.
I moved the little stool closer. The Champions’ League matches were on the top. There it was, the one I was looking for. I checked the label. Manchester United vs. Real Madrid. Champions’ League quarter-final. 2003.
Léonard was waiting in the living room, sitting on the couch. He was doing some kind of relaxation exercise with his hands, but at high speed. I loaded the DVD in the player, switched on the TV and pressed Play.
“Watch this while I make us something to eat. Especially the first half.”
I didn’t try to catch his eye. By now I was getting used to his ways and knew he would pay attention. His hands had stopped moving.
I went into the kitchen and washed the leeks. I diced and blanched them for my favorite pasta dish. I heard the sounds of the match coming from the living room. I knew it by heart. I had time to take a shower. Through the wall, I could hear the drone of the commentator. The second half had just started. Zidane was about to pass to Roberto Carlos, who was running forward at top speed, and Carlos would cross it back to Ronaldo, who just had to knock the ball into the goal. I slipped on a clean sweat suit and put the water to boil. I laid two places, facing each other. While I was throwing the pasta into the boiling water, I realized that the game had finished and that Léonard had paused the DVD player.
I heard a slight noise behind me and turned. My nephew was sitting at the table. He had moved his plate in order not to sit directly opposite me.
“There are more combinations in this match,” Léonard admitted. “They’re executed with greater speed and precision too, but they’re still quite predictable. It’s like I said. Number 5 moves like the bishop and Number 11 like the knight. When 11 moves diagonally, 5 moves into the middle and always passes back to 11. 11 shoots, or else he again relies on 5 to get closer to the line and then shoots. Four times out of five, he shoots into the left-hand side of the goal but when the ball is given to him on his right foot.”
I preferred to say nothing. I drained and served the pasta, and Léonard started wolfing it down in a way that contrasted with his affected way of speaking.
“But I want to see other matches. Do you have any more?”
“Quite a few, yes. But why continue if it’s such a limited game?”
“I learned chess in a café where Ma often left me. There were lots of players. I used to watch. They weren’t very good, but it was interesting all the same. I like to use my brain. It’s what I like best.”
He finished his portion of pasta in three mouthfuls. Then he stood up without asking me anything and went back to the living room to watch the second half.
I calmly finished my dish and looked at the time on the clock in the hall. It was nine o’clock. I went back to the video library and selected other matches, all from different World Cups. I brought back a pile of DVDs, at least six boxes, which I placed on the low table in the living room, while Léonard still had his eyes riveted to the screen.
“Don’t go to bed too late.”
“When I’m tired, I sleep.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”