The Night Before One of Scariest Days on my Calendar

"Five years. Five years of anguish" I whisper to myself as I lay wide awake at 2 am, 12 hours and 45 minutes away from kickoff. All is silent except for the faint noise of the Champions League anthem rattling around in the back of my head. As I turn onto my side, I come to terms that sleeping was never really an option on a night like tonight. I sit up over the side of my bed in the dark, loiter with my hands over my face and elbows rested on my knees. I reach for the lamp. As the light bursts around the room, I squint until my eyes find focus. Everywhere I look, I see the crest that his defined my life since I was 10. It's a small room, decorated with two large flags, a small flag, four jerseys, two scarves, 1 pennant and a poster of the great Zizou looking over the head of the bed, all hanging on the wall, all Real Madrid. My friends call it the "Mini Bernabeu." I count the Real Madrid logos out of boredom and curiosity. Thirteen.

"We can't afford any more bad luck, not this season" I mutter as a stumble out of bed nearly tripping over a football that lay in the middle of the room after a lacklustre juggling demo I put on in my room to entertain myself earlier that night. I find a wooden drawer next to my desk and slowly pull open the cool brass handle to find a tiny Real Madrid pennant with a suction cup to stick to a pane of glass next to a couple pencils and an old cell phone charger. I pick up the tiny crest, blow some dust off it, grasp it in my palm, and drag my tired body over to the window. I wet the suction cup and press the pennant to the cold glass. "Fourteen." I say to myself with half a smirk on my face. I peer out the window. "All white." The pretty snowfall covers the roof tops, tree branches, cars, and streets. I push my nose against the glass to get a better look. All white. "Todo Blanco" I repeat as my breath fogs up the glass. Only to remember in a few hours, Lyon would probably be the ones wearing white in the Stade Gerland.

The glass chills my body and runs a shiver up my spine. The same shiver you get when you remember Benayoun scoring at the Bernabeu, or Henry cutting through the center of the Madrid back line, or David Trezeguet thumping home and acrobatic volley 5 years ago now. I crack open the squeeky closet door and reach in for the 2007/2008 Real Madrid training top, the one with the thumb holes. I quickly poke my head through the neck hole and pull the 15th crest in the room over my heart and sit back on the end of my bed where a black IMB laptop lays awkwardly on top of the latest FourFourTwo close by on the floor. I pick up the computer to reveal Torres on the cover of the issue. I think twice about spitting on his face but elect to kick the magazine into a pile of dirty clothes, swearing at him quietly.

It's just Lyon. I thought to myself. Flash backs start to occur. "It's just Juve..., It's Arsenal, not Brazil..., It's only Bayern..., It's Roma we're talkin' about..., We can beat Liverpool..." I tell myself to shut up before I'm tormented by my own thoughts and memories anymore while the pictures of every goal scored against Real Madrid in the round of 16 for the last 5 years flash across my pupils. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head rapidly. I try to block everything out of my mind but I can't help but analyze the match over and over in my head. The expectations are always high for Real Madrid in the this competition, but to be thumped out of the Champions League now, with all the bags of cash we put out this summer would be looked at as one of the most monumental failures in club history. I shutter at the thought. and lay back on to the bed stretching open the closed the laptop. A picture of Sergio Ramos, arms stretched at full wingspan, taking off to the corner flag occupies as the current desktop background. "Go on, Ramos!" I say it almost every time I see the picture. I pull up a minimized Youtube window. ZIDANE 2002 CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL reads the title. For roughly the 20th time of the day I press play and the Zidane poster and I watch his breathtaking volley 3 or 4 more times.

I look up the wall and ask him sarcastically if he wants to come out of retirement for tomorrow. No answer. "Ahh, you've done enough I suppose." I click on Microsoft Outlook. Some random school emails, some prematch banter from friends and a Uefa.com email for being good at the Predictor game or something. I click "New" and begin to type.

"Dear Dr *********

This is Bobby from your 2:30 Media Literacy class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'm afraid I won't be attending class tomorrow. I have a very important appointment that I have no control over rescheduling. I apologize for the inconvenience but there was simply nothing I can do. I'll catch up on the missed lecture notes from a classmate.

(deleted "HALA MADRID!!!!!" then added) Thank you for understanding,
Bobby Mohr"

"Uhhh that should work" as the conversation with myself continues. I flick off the lamp. Throughout the night, my own memory haunts me. Confident but scared I lay in motionless in bed staring wide-eyed at a blank ceiling, occasionally and half-heartedly checking my phone for missed text messages only to discover the time hasn't changed. I say a quick prayer, one of many of the last couple weeks regarding Los Blancos, drag the comforter up to my shoulders and wait for my alarm to remind me to pull on the white shirt, drape a scarf over my shoulders and proudly head off listening to Hala Madrid on my ipod on my route to Spanish class where I seem to be pretty popular and factor "la decima" into all my sentences.

It may not sound like fun, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. The night is over... It's Match Day...

¡Así! ¡Así! ¡Así gana Real Madrid! ¡Así! ¡Así! ¡Así gana Real Madrid!

Bobby