'I'm busy! What do you want?'
Miguel
asks me angrily.
'I've brought you an orange from uncle's orchard.'
I reply,
holding
out a large juicy orange.
'I don't need an orange. Why are you giving me an orange?' he asks,
looking embarrassed. 'Go away, and stop watching me.'
'But I like watching you practise,' I tell him. 'You're going to be
a famous footballer one day.
When you play in the black and white shirt of Club Libertad,
I want to
tell people how I
watched you practise your skills.'
'You're an idiot,
go away! Let me practise. I need to practise. You
don't understand.'
Miguel is the best footballer
in my village, and he is strong and good-looking. At twelve years old,
he is three years older than me. He is also my brother and I
am so proud of him. One day he will play for Paraguay and win the World
Cup. Sadly, I am not like him. I am no good at football, nor
any other sport.
I am feeling sick again today and I am in my bedroom. Looking down into the garden from my window, I can see my mother is talking with Miguel. Perhaps they are talking about the football scout from Libertad who came to watch him play last weekend. I think the scout was impressed and is going to tell the team manager to sign Miguel to the club. But as I watch them talking, I can see that Miguel is not happy. He looks up at my window and looks sad about something. Maybe the scout said something bad. I don't know. I can see Miguel running out of the garden and towards the village. I feel tired. I need to go back to bed. I'll ask mother what has happened about it when she brings my dinner and medicine.
Later, my mother comes to my
room. She seems quiet.'Mother, what
is the matter with
Miguel? Why is
he sad? Did the scout reject
him?'
'Everything is fine. The scout thinks Miguel is good enough to join the
youth
team. But he can't make any
decisions; he needs to speak to the manager.'
'So why is my brother unhappy?'
My mother sighs
and puts my food and medicine on the bedside
table.
'I
have to tell you the truth... It's you, Paco. The doctors say
you need an expensive operation.
And you need it soon. They want you to
go to The United States, to a hospital in New York.'
I don't know what to say. 'God will help us,' I tell my mother, 'God
loves me. You told me that, didn't you?'
'Paco. We are not rich people. We do not have the money to pay the
flight
or the hospital.'
'I know that, but is there anything we can do? Please, mother.'
My mother sits on the side of the bed and holds my hand.
'Your
brother', she says, 'has said he will pay.'
'Miguel? Pay? How can he pay?' I ask.
'Paco. I know sometimes your brother is bad to you. But the reason he
practises football so often and so hard is because he wants to help
you. When he was five years old and
you were only two, the doctors told us about your condition.
Your brother
promised to help. For eight years he has improved
his football skills
because he wants to play for Club Libertad and earn enough money to pay
for your operation.'
'Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't you tell me about this?'
'We didn't know if he was good enough to join the team and become a
professional player.'
I feel shocked.
'But this morning', my mother continues, 'we received a phone call from
the hospital. You need to have the operation within two months or you
will...' She can't say the word.
'Am I going to die?' I ask.
She doesn't answer, but says, 'We are waiting for another
phone call. We are waiting for a call from
the football club owner. If the club signs you, then they will pay us
enough money to keep you alive.'
'When will they phone?' I ask.
'This evening at seven o'clock,' my mother tells me.
I look at the clock. It is six-thirty. In half an hour Miguel will find
out his future, and I will find out if I have a future.
'I'm busy! What do you want?'
Miguel
asks me angrily.
'I've brought you an orange from uncle's orchard.' I reply,
holding out a large juicy orange.
'I don't need an orange. Why are you giving me an orange? Go
away, and stop embarrassing me.'
'But I like watching you play,' I tell him.
'You're a famous footballer.
When you play in the black and white shirt of Club Libertad, I tell
people how I
watched you practise your skills when we were young.'
'You're an idiot, go away! The game starts in twenty minutes.'
Miguel is the best footballer
in the team, and he is strong and good-looking. At twenty years old,
he is three years older than me. He is also my brother and I
am so proud of him. This year, he will play for Paraguay and hopefully
win the World
Cup. Sadly, I am not like him. I am no good at football, nor
any other sport. But I am alive. I am alive because
my brother Miguel loves me.
Miguel smiles and takes the orange from my
hand. 'It looks very juicy,' he says.