Arsenal midfield “maestro” Cesc Fabregas and me (I have no intention of ending up on random Fabregas fan sites, thank you).
How to mar a good photo? Put Wayne Rooney's ugly mug in the background.Cesc turns 20 today, and to celebrate the occasion, I will pick up where I last left off in London. I had just finished watching the Arsenal youth team beat Manchester United at the Emirates. My hands smelled faintly of oranges after eating the fruit plucked from a sculpture at Tate Britain.
As soon as the game ended, several kids in track suits ran onto the pitch, only to be trailed by overweight, middle-aged men who struggled to maintain a semblance of a chase. It became more of a suggested jog, as the lanky lads raced around in circles on the green, laughing their heads off and flashing victory signs at the crowd. Out of breath, the “security” waged a war of attrition, eventually cornering the kids, one by one, just in time for the start of the automated sprinkler system (perhaps—one would think—a more effective way of clearing the field).
The next day, I took the Tube to Knightsbridge to do some recon at Harrods. I didn’t believe the clerk’s assessment that arriving an hour early would suffice, so I showed up three hours ahead of schedule. Stepping off the escalator at the fifth floor sporting goods department, I casually walked past a colorful display of trainers and glanced down the football corridor. Not a soul, except for one clerk. What to do for three more hours?
I went to the ground floor food market and took a seat at the charcuterie station. Two years ago, I had had afternoon tea there with a friend. I whiled away an hour reading a book and sipping my tea slowly. I decided to assess the situation upstairs once more.
As I took the escalators up, Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64 filled the large hall, filtered through the elaborate and expensive sound system on display. Suddenly, the music paused. An automated message delivered in a proper, British accent announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, Arsenal and Spain midfield maestro Cesc Fabregas will be upstairs meeting customers and signing merchandise at 3:15.”
I tried to suppress a laugh, glancing around at the other shoppers. Nobody seemed to notice or care. They were either serious female shoppers who hadn’t a clue about football, or tourists snapping photos of garish Egyptian décor.
After another hour of dawdling—examining accoutrements for horseback riding, looking at the Sweaty Betty yoga line, and trying out an £8,000 exercise machine—I wandered back to the football section. Now they had set up a red velvet rope, indicating the queue starting point. And there were several conspicuous lurkers surveying the room, almost daring someone to make the first move.
I decided to try on some hoodies, and then flipped through a massive £3,000 book covering the history of Manchester United (not worth the price). “Whatever you do,” I thought, “you don’t want to be first in line. Give the guy some time to warm up and get comfortable meeting us, but don’t wait too long, either. Eventually, his hand is going to cramp and he’ll become a signing, smiling automaton.”
When I returned, a little boy carrying a poster stood by the red velvet rope with his father. The “midfield maestro” announcement came through the loudspeakers again, and I heard the clerk behind me snigger. “Maestro?” he said incredulously to a coworker. “I’d call him bloody all right, maybe. Not maestro.” Then a young woman inched her way over to the queue. It had begun. I heard one man say in an exasperated tone, “I'm just here for some cricket whites, not to see this footballer!” as a Harrods employee tried to block his passage.
I waited for more people to queue up before joining the line behind a young blonde woman. I would come to regret this placement, for soon thereafter, two men got in line behind me. I couldn’t place their background, but they spoke a language I did not recognize, and had dark, tanned skin. My guess was some sort of south Asian origin.
The two stood about five inches behind me. Each time I moved up a little to maintain my personal space, they followed, as if someone might take advantage of those precious five inches and cut in line. Worse: one stood unbearably close, in prime position to talk to my left ear in acoustic perfection; the other mirrored his stance to my right. They spoke loudly, in guttural tones, so I heard their conversation in stereo. The guy to my right seemed to have no understanding of voice modulation, like that Will Ferrell SNL character, Jacob Silj. And his speech pattern resembled Norm MacDonald imitating Bob Dole. Except it wasn’t funny, and it hurt my ears.
But that’s not all. Both men had the most rank, foul breath imaginable. The kind that becomes its own entity—a third presence, shouting unrelentingly in your face, “I’m HERE and I’m not going away! Aiyayayayaya!” The kind that renders breath mints impotent whilst traveling in all directions across large, airy spaces, undiluted and menacing in its virulent power. It was as if they had been feasting on rotted, maggot-infested carcasses for days, and then nonchalantly said, “Hey, let’s go meet Cesc Fabregas.”
So there I stood, in a line that didn’t move for an hour. What did I do? I dabbed some perfumed lotion on my upper lip. I did the reverse triangle pose to impose distance between us. Whenever a passer-by brought a draft of perfumed air with her movements, I inhaled deeply, grateful for the momentary reprieve. I coughed frequently and loudly, hoping the distant memory of Asians and SARS might raise alarm bells. Nothing worked. Soon, one of the men’s wives joined them, creating a swirling cesspool of smells.
Cesc Fabregas arrived through the main entrance near the display of trainers. A large crowd had gathered by now, including photographers with telephoto lenses (despite the fact that he was only about ten feet away). Everyone strained to look over the person in front of him to catch a glimpse of the Spanish teenager. He waved at the crowd. The Harrods emcee made a few dull remarks. Cesc posed for photographs, and then it was time to meet and greet.
The line started to move briskly. I needed to figure out a plan to get a photograph taken of Cesc and me. The natural and unfortunate option: asking the Death Eaters behind me for a wee favor. I decided to target the woman, seeing as she was the least offensive of the lot.
“Would you mind snapping a quick photo of me with him when we get up there?” I asked politely. The request seemed within reason. I expected no resistance, but the Land of Death Eaters breeds curious creatures. She gave me the once-over, her eyes filled with disdain and impatience. “Well, I’m not sure if that’s possible. The line is moving quickly and I don’t think there’s time.” “Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. She looked away. I laughed out loud, embarrassed for her existence.
Desperate, I made the same request to the blonde in front of me. “Oh, no problem,” she said easily. I then explained quickly what had transpired. Having stood in the same queue, she had intimate knowledge of the grating voices carrying forth noxious fumes behind me. “Really?” she asked. “Some people have no manners.”
Cesc signs away
As we inched closer to the signing table, I noticed one of the Harrods clerks offering to take photos for customers. I walked up to Cesc, who smiled and said hello quietly. I was immediately struck by his accent. I’ve been watching him play for months now, and it never occurred to me what he must sound like. I had almost forgotten his Catalan roots. “How would you like me to sign this?” he asked. “Oh, don’t address it to anyone,” I said. He signed my jersey carefully and then added “C.FAB.” at the bottom, demystifying his looping scrawl. I asked if he would take a photo with me; he nodded. And then it was over.
My impressions? He seemed young—that is, he acted his age. There is a bit of shyness and slight hesitation present in all teenagers that I found endearing in him. When he’s on the pitch, he moves with such speed, agility, and confidence that it’s easy to forget he’s still a young man who has time to develop into a great player. I also noticed that we’re about the same height, and that he has terrible taste in clothes (if he chose that outfit). Look at that shirt. What is that? It’s like Fat Albert jogging or something (although several friends have now inquired as to where they might be able to acquire a Fat Albert shirt). I didn’t notice it until after examining my photos onscreen. It’s like a modern-day version of Antonioni’s Blow-Up, in which the crime committed only becomes apparent when captured through the lens of a camera.
The Blow-Up
Eventually the excitement wore down, and I took the Tube to Green Park for afternoon tea at the Wolseley, amongst adults once again.
Labels: Arsenal, football, travel
