August 2083 - Sagarejo, Georgia.
We were once young men together, Matsil and I.
Now, I am just an old man, filled with regret. Waiting to die alone.
I have not seen or spoken to Matsil – or Mat, as he preferred – in years.
I've never told our story before, and I doubt I will ever tell it again.
In some ways, it began when I first heard his voice at the fields – twinning, mixing with my own. His voice was like a portrait of his soul – wild as a fire, sharp as shattered glass. Though I did not know Mat then and would not come to know him for many years, in hindsight I recognize a piece of myself in the echoes of his barbed voice.
No. It began later, at Telleus’ Academie, where I went to learn football of the sort they talk about in stories. Yet still Mat was as distant from me then as an estranged lover…
But what would my father say if he heard me telling a story this way? “Begin at the beginning.”
Very well, if we are to have a telling, let’s make it a proper one.
Let us pass over innumerable boring stories, the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love.
Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance.
Mine.
My name is Rezo Gorlami, pronounced nearly the same as "salami."
Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. An elderly woman in Ushguli once called me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's spoken, can mean “the Flame,” “the Thunder,” or “the Broken Tree.”
"The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire.
"The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of shouting. At the opposition, referees and my own players, in equal measure.
I've never thought of "the Broken Tree" as very significant. Although in retrospect, I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic.
My first mentor called me a **** because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Galileo Humpkins because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Ovaltine “Smallpox” Jenkins, Squirts MacIntosh, and Trapezious Milkington. I have been called Gorlami the Bloodless, Rezo the Earnest, and Reezy G. I have earned those names.
Bought and paid for them.
But I was brought up as Rezo. My father once told me it meant “wealthy” or “successful.”
I have, of course, been called many other things – most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned.
I have stolen titles from complacent footballing kings. I burned down the town of Oostende. I engaged in a week-long rap battle with Antoine Griezmann and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from Telleus’ Academie at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have danced the tango with urCristiano, loved beautiful women, and claimed victories that made grown men weep.
You may have heard of me.
August 2083 - Sagarejo, Georgia. We were once young men together, Matsil and I. Now, I am just an old man, filled with regret. Waiting to die alone. I have not seen or spoken to Matsil – or Mat, as he preferred – in years. I've never told our story before, and I doubt I will ever tell it again. In some ways, it began when I first heard his voice at the fields – twinning, mixing with my own. His voice was like a portrait of his soul – wild as a fire, sharp as shattered glass. Though I did not know Mat then and would not come to know him for many years, in hindsight I recognize a piece of myself in the echoes of his barbed voice. No. It began later, at Telleus’ Academie, where I went to learn football of the sort they talk about in stories. Yet still Mat was as distant from me then as an estranged lover… But what would my father say if he heard me telling a story this way? “Begin at the beginning.” Very well, if we are to have a telling, let’s make it a proper one. Let us pass over innumerable boring stories, the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love. Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance. Mine. My name is Rezo Gorlami, pronounced nearly the same as "salami." Names are important as they tell you a great deal about a person. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. An elderly woman in Ushguli once called me Maedre. Which, depending on how it's spoken, can mean “the Flame,” “the Thunder,” or “the Broken Tree.” "The Flame" is obvious if you've ever seen me. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. "The Thunder" I attribute to a strong baritone and a great deal of shouting. At the opposition, referees and my own players, in equal measure. I've never thought of "the Broken Tree" as very significant. Although in retrospect, I suppose it could be considered at least partially prophetic. My first mentor called me a **** because I was clever and I knew it. My first real lover called me Galileo Humpkins because she liked the sound of it. I have been called Ovaltine “Smallpox” Jenkins, Squirts MacIntosh, and Trapezious Milkington. I have been called Gorlami the Bloodless, Rezo the Earnest, and Reezy G. I have earned those names. Bought and paid for them. But I was brought up as Rezo. My father once told me it meant “wealthy” or “successful.” I have, of course, been called many other things – most of them uncouth, although very few were unearned. I have stolen titles from complacent footballing kings. I burned down the town of Oostende. I engaged in a week-long rap battle with Antoine Griezmann and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from Telleus’ Academie at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have danced the tango with urCristiano, loved beautiful women, and claimed victories that made grown men weep. You may have heard of me.