Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Farfán called from Lima right at seven in the morning.

Mateo caught the call on the second ring. He had already been awake for two hours, midway through his shooting drills in the garage, wiping sweat from his forehead with the collar of his shirt.

”How is he?” Mateo asked immediately, before Farfán could even greet him.

”Mateo... he is walking,” Farfán blurted out. His voice was a breathless, chaotic mix of total shock, disbelief, and sheer elation, like a man trying to explain a magic trick he had just watched with his own eyes. ”I swear to you, he is actually on his feet.”

Mateo froze mid-step. He let the ball roll off his foot, tapping it to a stop against the garage wall.

”Wait, what?” Mateo blinked, his own voice cracking with genuine surprise. ”You just said walking? Are you serious?”

”I am completely serious! He called me an hour ago, practically shouting down the phone. He wanted to know what on earth was in that bottle. He said the throbbing completely stopped three days ago, and yesterday morning he stood flat on his foot without feeling a single pinch of pain. He is not sprinting around obviously, but he is strolling through his kitchen with no crutches at all. His housekeeper thought he had lost his mind and started praying.” Farfán paused, taking a breath. ”He told me to thank you. Properly.”

Mateo let out a slow, stunned breath. The system description had claimed the recovery was gradual. It had definitely failed to mention that gradual for a compound joint fracture in a thirty-three-year-old meant standing up inside a week.

”Did you tell him what was in it?”

”I told him exactly what you told me, obviously. That your mother sent some traditional herbal drops from Brazil. He asked me three times if you were certain about that, and I told him that was your story and I was sticking to it. Then he just laughed.”

”Right. That is good.”

”He isn’t trying to interrogate anyone, Mateo. Three days ago the man thought his entire career was finished in a hospital room, and today he is making his own breakfast. He is not going to question a miracle.”

”How did he sound? Besides the shock?”

”Relieved. Overwhelmed, honestly. I could hear him choking up a bit, even though he tried to clear his throat and pretend he had allergies,” Farfán’s voice softened warmly. ”He said he wants to test the ankle for a full week without any pain before making any public statements about playing again.”

”That makes total sense.”

”I told him you would agree.”

A brief pause hung over the line, punctuated by the faint murmur of Spanish voices shouting in the background on Farfán’s end.

”Look, I have to run,” Farfán said quickly. ”Tactical meeting with the manager. Go smash Valencia tomorrow, yeah? Give the boys a proper win.”

”Will do. Safe flight back after your match.”

Mateo ended the call and lowered his phone, staring at the painted target grid on the concrete wall. A little amber bottle of liquid sitting in Gelsenkirchen had just rebuilt a legendary ankle in four days.

He took a quiet breath, tapped the ball back to his right foot, and resumed his drill.

The squad boarded the charter flight to Valencia at eleven sharp.

Vardy ended up in the aisle seat next to Mateo, spending most of the flight glued to the window, watching the clouds with wide, nervous eyes. The sheer speed of his life was finally catching up to him. In less than a month, he had gone from non-league semi-pro football to scoring a Bundesliga debut brace, handling national press conferences, and now flying out for a Champions League knockout fixture.

”Have you been to Spain before?” Mateo asked, breaking the silence.

”Blackpool,” Vardy muttered, turning with a deadpan look. ”Once. For a mate’s stag do.”

”I don’t think Blackpool counts as Spain.”

”Well, no, but it’s the closest I’ve been to somewhere Mediterranean.” Vardy turned from the window. ”You?”

”Never.”

”Not even with the club?”

”Since I signed for Schalke. Away trips have all been in Germany or the Netherlands or England. Or France, for Lyon.” Mateo shrugged. ”It’s my first time in Spain too.”

”Huh.” Vardy looked back at the clouds. ”That makes me feel better.”

”Why?”

”Because if you can walk into the Mestalla having never been to Spain and dismantle Valencia, then I don’t have to feel like the least prepared person on the plane.”

Mateo laughed. ”Vardy. You are absolutely the least prepared person on the plane.”

”Cheers for that.”

”Don’t overthink it. Same as the Cologne match. Just faster and more physical.”

”How much faster?”

”Considerably.”

Vardy swallowed hard, nodded quietly, and went back to staring out the window.

Magath gathered the squad in the hotel conference room by four in the afternoon.

The tactical board was already mapped out with Valencia’s projected starting lineup: César Sánchez in goal; Bruno Saltor and Jérémy Mathieu flanking Ricardo Costa and David Navarro; David Albelda and Mehmet Topal holding the midfield; Juan Mata drifting off the right, Éver Banega pulling strings through the middle, Pablo Hernández on the left, and Roberto Soldado leading the line.

”They will try to control possession for the opening fifteen minutes,” Magath said, his voice firm and even. ”Emery has studied our counter-attacking speed. He wants to lure our midfield into pressing too high, draw our lines apart, and release Soldado into the open space behind our center-backs. If you lose your tactical discipline and rush out of position, Soldado will score and we will be chasing the game.”

The players listened in absolute silence.

”We maintain our shape,” Magath continued. ”Jones stays glued to Banega. Rakitić covers the second ball whenever Topal pushes forward. Silva commands the space between their midfield and defense. Annan starts on the right flank in place of Farfán. Silva, link up with Annan with the same timing you use with Jefferson.” Magath paused, turning his eyes across the room. ”Vardy leads the line up front. Huntelaar will come on to finish the match in the second half.”

Vardy sat bolt upright in his chair.

”Wait... I’m starting?”

”You are starting,” Magath repeated without a hint of hesitation.

”At the Mestalla. In the Champions League.”

”Away from home. In the Round of Sixteen. Yes.” Magath held his gaze with a cool, unyielding stare. ”Do you have an issue with that?”

Vardy’s throat moved as he swallowed, his face turning a shade paler. ”No, boss. No issues.”

”Good.” Magath gave the whiteboard a sharp tap with his marker. ”Get some rest. Team dinner at seven. Curfew is ten sharp. Silva, hang back for a minute.”

The chairs scraped against the floor as the team filed out. Vardy walked past the doorway looking visibly green around the edges.

Magath waited until the door clicked shut.

”Raúl rang me this morning,” Magath said quietly, crossing his arms.

Mateo kept his posture relaxed. ”Did he?”

”He told me he put full weight on his ankle yesterday without feeling pain. He also mentioned that he might actually be available to play before our season wraps up.” Magath took a step closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. ”He said you gave him some remedy.”

”Ah yes, I gave him some herbal drops my mother made from a family recipe,” Mateo replied smoothly.

Magath stared at him in complete silence. Mateo met his gaze without flinching.

”Herbal drops?”

”Yes.”

”A family recipe from Brazil.”

”That is what she calls it.”

”And you use it for repairing shattered bones?”

”I- I mean, she uses it for joint inflammation and deep sprains,” Mateo said, clearing his throat slightly. ”The fracture must have just looked worse on the initial scans than it actually was.”

Magath held the stare for five long seconds. He was one of the very few people who knew Mateo’s rapid recovery from Michael Ballack’s horror challenge had defied all medical logic. He was clearly connecting the dots in his own head, realizing that whatever kept his young star impervious to injuries was now apparently healing other players too.

He didn’t ask about it. He was too experienced a manager to ask questions whose answers he couldn’t use.

”You make sure to tell your mother,” Magath said in a low, measured voice, ”that if we end this year lifting a trophy, I will personally book a flight to Brazil to thank her.”

”She would appreciate that.”

”I am sure she would.” Magath turned back toward the whiteboard. ”Go get some sleep. Tomorrow night, the entire creative burden of our attack is on your shoulders.”

”Understood, coach.”

Mateo turned away, leaving Magath to his tactics. Ahead near the elevators, Vardy was still pacing back and forth in the quiet corridor, muttering runs and pressing angles under his breath. The steep, roaring stands of the Mestalla were waiting for both of them.

You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!

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