Why, Román?
I can't recall the two dreams more clearly, even after all these eight messy months. The second one was telling. I screamed if without Roman what am I up here for why on earth did I come to watch the game I came to watch him but no he is not here he is not playing. The presence of hundreds of solid shadows, it doesn't weigh as much as the emptiness from one man's absence. That bitter dream, it was bitterly prophetic.
What if a hero is cornered. What if he is the equivalent of solitude, of, perhaps, aloofness, of not following the trend, of reminiscing the ageing elegance.
Nowhere to find a shelter. Can't return, because they simply can't afford to buy him. Well, how cheap it sounds. Those giants can't afford because his presence means a complete change to the team's core strategy, or even style. You can't expect a well-known well-built team to compromise this way. And for those clubs in his hometown, he is overly costly. No way. He simply can't return.
It was true that for the second half of last season he was totally absent, back in Argentina. But I wasn't uncomfortable with it. What's more soothing than knowing that he leads HIS team to victory?
And now.
I have imagined myself taking a picture with a Roman clod in the red-white stripped jersey. I don't care if he is from the rival team. And well, that's a perfect illusion, a complete imagination. It has come to September and he remains in the monotonous yellowish Villarreal. What can I say now.
Only this.
Buena suerte, querido Roman.