Here comes that sinking feeling

Lying on my bed, been looking into the white void of my ceiling part of the day. When I felt I couldn't stand looking into the white void of my ceiling any longer, I sat at the computer and started writing. About what happened yesterday, about Figueira's wake. I decide to open it all. Share it with those who happen to read me. Who knows I wouldn't feel so lost and lonely doing it.

Today's newspapers come with a tedious account on how a teenager died of a heart attack at a wrestling competition yesterday in São Bernardo. The bureaucratic tone of the report, in light of all the intensity of the feelings last night, made me cringe. How come people can be that insensitive.

All Corporal was there. No tears, but the sinking feeling nothing would be the same again. The feeling nothing would be. Strange how sad it was to see them like that, triumphant and defeated at the same time. In light of what I saw, maybe not even Figueira had an idea of the price to pay. To lose everything to be able to win. Now I have no idea if he cared about it at all. I just had a vague notion of what his wounded pride could lead him to do. In light of everything I know now and the clock of time I can't set back in time to Sunday, I see how vague and tiny this notion was. Almost military practice for one who perhaps saw it so differently, one who could possibly see through all this. If he could really see it, it's something Figueira took with him when he went away. If he had the final conscience of having pinned the Column and if it still appealed to him on that threshold, it's another thing we'll never know.

The Column was at Figueira's wake too. I saw him, together with his mother at Santa Casa's cafeteria. Saw him point at me, say something to his mother and come my way. A shoe-gazing Column then approached, head first, scarcely looking at me, "can I talk to you for a minute?", I told him it was alright.
"I didn't want to kill him, he beat me, you saw it", he was almost crying. I had him sit down like on Sunday at the cafeteria.
"I know, Martins. I know you went there for a fair game. Figueira spoke so much and so well about you; he admired your wrestling style very much."
He lowered his head, desolated.
"Me too. I told you on Sunday. He wrestled like hell", he spoke, but his focus seemed to be receding to a distant point, as if there was something he wanted to say that had been a thorn in his side since that bout.
"What's going on?"
The Column looked at me, hesitant.
"Come on, Martins. What's going on?"
"You won't tell anybody I said all that to him, will you?"

Decided not to tell anyone. It'll be a secret among me, Figueira, the Column and all those who happen to read Monday's post at Radio Universal that is, no one. Dropped by Corporal after the funeral, left my farewell letter to the team. Coach Rodrigo was there, looked at me in the same spirit of desolation. I went away without looking back. Maybe one day I can even call them, but I didn't look back when I left.


A brilliant season | Figueira's last stand

Radio Universal: The Making Of A Thousand Gods.