And We're Off!

I just finished my first 2,000 words. I feel amazing. I started right at 12:00, and the words just came pouring out. I missed Olga, I'm glad she's back.

I've decided to post my first chapter, just for fun. I'm kind of happy with it. It isn't very interesting though. I wish that I could have written with you guys (it sounds like Sam and Scott had a good party going on at midnight) but soon enough, I guess.

My writing uniform is my Liverpool Torres jersey and my Liverpool scarf. I forgot to wear them today, though. And my reference book is The Vagina Monologues. I'm very happy about that. Take from that what you will.





“Now you’re mine, my happiness still makes me cry. And in time you’ll understand the reasons why. If I cry it’s not because I’m sad, but you’re the only love I’ve ever had. I can’t believe it’s happened to me. I can’t conceive of any more misery. Ask me why, I’ll say I love you and I’m always thinking of you.”
-The Beatles

What does it mean to be sure? How do we know what’s right? When you really think about it, we’re never really sure of anything. Why do we put such a high premium on it, then? How do we not collapse every day from self-doubt and uncertainty?
I wish I could say that I have never been surer of anything. But really, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing. There is a substantial risk that everything will completely blow up and I will be at the centre of it, wondering what the hell possessed me to make such a tragically poor decision. But I’m not sure if I could bring myself to regret this. I can’t even imagine not taking this massive leap.
If you had asked me a year ago what I would be doing at this moment, I likely would have fallen asleep just considering the possibilities. Punching in for another shift as a barista at Jackie’s Place? Going for a run? Biking with my overly Dutch parents, discussing the merits of total football? Moving to another country against my parents’ wishes to live with my fiancée probably wouldn’t have made the list. But, here I am. Taking the leap. Doing things that I never thought were possible. Yes it’s terrifying, but it is also indescribably amazing.
It all started last summer, in the middle of one of the most boring summers one could ever imagine, before my graduating year at McGill University. My life was static, and my hair was static. Nothing was happening, nothing was moving. That is, until I won $5,000 and decided to use the money to fund a massive Eurotrip, all by myself. That’s when it all began. It was in rainy Liverpool, where I happened to walk in on a Liverpool FC reserve team practice, when we met. Me and Fernando. Fernando and me. It was the beginning of everything, you could say.
He was the star of the team; the Spanish striker with sun in his hair and fire in his soul. I noticed him right away, and as I was plotting ways to get close to him, he noticed me too. Does that every actually happen to anyone? Well, what happens next is almost a complete departure from reality. I couldn’t have even made this up. Our whirlwind romance began on the fields of Anfield Road. Even though we only had two days together, we managed to connect in a way that most people can’t in months, I would guess. Sadly, I had to go off and tour the world, while he stayed in Liverpool scoring goals and setting fire to the pitch. Not literally. We met back up in Valencia Spain, his hometown. We went to la Tomatina, which is essentially a giant annual tomato fight, and realized how in love we were. Then, the most amazing thing happened: he asked me to marry him. And my life has never been the same.
You need to understand this in its context. Before I left for Europe, I was calculating, thoughtful, careful, and scared. I scoffed at anyone that married before the age of twenty-five. Don’t they know about the exceedingly high divorce rate, and how it increases a billion times if you get married before you’re twenty-five? Were they not thinking? I had lived in Montreal for my entire life, with my Dutch parents who passed down to me my height, blonde hair, green eyes, a sense of modesty, and football. Oh, and an extremely depressing name: Olga Vennegoor of Hesselink. To quote Tim Higgins, the American football player that I met in Dublin, “I just lost my erection.” And that described my life. It was erection-free. I did everything I was told to do, I followed every rule, and I was bored. Getting married at a young age and moving away just wasn’t my plan. Granted, I didn’t really have a plan. It likely would have involved marrying a balding dentist while researching groin pulls. And not in the fun way that you’re probably envisioning. As a studious kinesiology major, groin pulls completely lose the humour that most people can enjoy.
Fernando changed everything. Falling in love made me impulsive. In fact, I think it made me live. I’m not saying “you’re nobody ‘til somebody loves you.” No offense Dean Martin, but you’re kind of an asshole. That isn’t the way it works. Fernando doesn’t complete me. He isn’t some magical force that turns me from nobody to somebody. He just makes me so happy that I can complete myself.
I cried when I left him at the airport of Valencia to go back home. But really, it had to happen. I had to finish my undergraduate degree, and he had to go back to Liverpool and make the first team. He doesn’t play football for fame or glory; he plays for his family back in Spain. He plays so that they can have the life that they deserve.
This year away from him has been incredibly strange. I had never been in a serious relationship, let alone a long-distance, secret one. Fernando’s parents knew about our engagement, but my parents didn’t. I’m not exactly sure when I had planned on telling them. As the serious and un-impulsive Dutch people that they are, they would never understand my decision. But I had to tell them. They suspected something was up, as my behaviour had completely changed from pre-Eurotrip to my return. I drank so much Valencia orange juice that I don’t even think I got a cold all year. I just wanted to feel closer to Fernando. And all of a sudden, I followed Liverpool FC’s every move. Even the reserves, wouldn’t you know? This was so much stranger when you consider that I had never even taken an interest in the Premiere League. My parents didn’t approve, as they were staunch supporters of the Dutch Eredivisie. I was on my computer talking to Fernando so much that I think my parents suspected I had some kind of porn addiction. I swear to God I caught them checking my browser history once. I didn’t really plan for the future after graduation, because I knew where I would be going. I probably had a dazed and gormless look on my face every day, inexplicably. Around Christmas they asked me what was going on. I couldn’t lie.
To say that they completely freaked out would be an understatement. They were hysterical. They tried to forbid me to go, but they quickly realized that as a twenty-one year-old there was little that they could do to stop me. They begged and pleaded that I stay. They broke my heart. But I couldn’t give in to them. I feel so sorry to do this to them, but I have to follow my heart, which is going straight to Liverpool right after my last exam.
Fernando and I got to know each other a lot in the year we spent apart. I credit that with the fact that physical contact was impossible. I couldn’t jump him like I always wanted to. Instead of having sex, we talked. A lot. I found out a lot about him. For instance, his favourite season is summer. He likes red. Kids made fun of him in Spain for being blonde and having freckles. He can’t cook to save his own life, and all of his white clothes are a little pink from one of those ill-fated red socks that he didn’t know that he had. To get to soccer practice five times a week, he had to take three different buses for two hours. We didn’t fight; we only planned our future together. I fell in love with him even more.
Fernando has made so much progress this year with the team. He signed a contract with Liverpool FC in March, and has been attending some training sessions with the first team. He even got to dress in the game against Middlesbrough, a team that is destined for relegation if I ever saw one. Even though he didn’t get to play, it meant a lot. He got us a small apartment in downtown Liverpool. He even managed to secure me a job as a physiotherapy assistant at the Melwood Training Ground, where the Liverpool reserves and first team practice. It’s a job that I never would have been able to get without any connections. It’s perfect.
In my year of waiting, I did a lot of research so I would know what to expect once I was suddenly dropped into the football universe. I had to know everything about the Liverpool team members, as well as every other major player in the Premiere League so as not to embarrass myself when meeting them. The Liverpool captain and legendary scouse Steven “Captain Fantastic” Garrison was the heart of the team, and apparently an idol all around Merseyside. The temperamental yet magical Antonio Mourinho apparently had a penchant for five-prostitute orgies and five-goal games. And the coach that brought them all together, the Italian Bernardino Pinturicchio, was famous for hating tardiness, laziness, and WAGs. Oh boy.
I researched the WAGs, just so I could see what my life would be like one day. I concluded quickly that my life would never be like theirs. For some reason, everyone cares about what the WAGs are wearing, who is pregnant, and just how big their bags are. Apparently their bags are too big or something. I don’t know, it was weird. I prayed that I would never get “papped.” No, that isn’t just a gynaecological procedure. Paparazzi follow them around. The main ones, Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham, Coleen Rooney, and Cheryl Cole (of Girls Aloud fame- shoot me) were literally photographed everywhere they went. As if another shopping trip to ‘Cricket’ really matters. Everyone hated them, too. Several England players blamed their failure at the 2006 World Cup on the WAGs. I’m sorry, but I saw them play that year. They sucked, WAGs or not.
I’m ashamed to report that I even read a book that I suspect was written by a WAG about a young girl who is thrust into the WAG spotlight. I thought, “oh, this could be like me.” No. Not only was it the worst book that I have ever read in my life, but the main character was a complete moron. A lot of bad things happened to her, but all of them could have been prevented had she exhibited a modicum of intelligence. She failed to do so for the entire book. I don’t even know how I finished it. But here I am, armed with knowledge of footballers, their wives, and a play-by-play of exactly what not to do.
As my plane leaves the ground, I think about everything that got me here. Luck. Serendipity. A complete disregard for common sense. And love. Do I know that everything will work out? Of course not. Am I sure that this is a good decision? Definitely. There is no other decision. After feeling the way that I feel about Fernando, there is no turning back. I have to live it out; I have to see what happens. Everything can go completely wrong. But what if it doesn’t? What if it works out, just this once? I have to take the chance. I have to know that I did everything I could to keep this love. I am sure. I’m sure that if I don’t do this, I will regret it even more than I ever could if nothing works out.