Football singularity-Chapter 690 Puskás
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[23/01/2021 | Ferenc Liszt International Airport, Budapest | 10:00 Local Time]
The Lufthansa flight chartered by the Leverkusen club touched down at Budapest's Ferenc Liszt International Airport under overcast February skies. Through the cabin windows, the flat Hungarian landscape stretched endlessly, grey and cold, winter still clinging stubbornly to Eastern Europe. Rakim unbuckled his seatbelt as the plane taxied toward the private terminal, stretching his neck side to side.
The two-hour flight from Düsseldorf had been quiet—most players sleeping, and some watching films. He'd spent most of it listening to music, occasionally answering texts as he browsed his socials. Since the game was tomorrow, things were quite relaxed, despite facing Pep Guardiola's Man City and that in the Champions League.
"First time in Budapest?" Wirtz asked from the seat beside him, gathering his belongings.
"Yeah. You?"
"Second. Came with the U-19s once. Nice city, but we didn't see much of it."
"Doubt we will either," Rakim replied, slinging his cross bag and his personal bag.
The COVID-19 football area had forced UEFA to designate neutral venues for several Champions League fixtures. It was mainly because countries were banning entry one day and then allowing it the next. Safe to say that people trusted politicians less now than before, especially with scandals of some of them partying breaking out.
Budapest's Puskás Aréna—ironically named after the award Rakim had won just months ago and in memory of one of the most wronged icons of the sport. The game seemed intent on making as much money as possible based on his name rather than honouring him while he was alive. He had heard stories that the man couldn't even afford to get treatment towards the end.
Even then, his ex-team, arguably the richest team ever, decided to host a charity match instead of paying for one of their legends' care. Even then, the family only earned $7,000 while the Galacticos raked in a substantial amount from appearance fees. Thinking of this, Rakim was happy that his family was well off and that no matter what success he achieved in his career, no single organisation would be able to milk his image for free.
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They disembarked into the crisp Hungarian air, the temperature hovering around 4°C. The private terminal was efficient and sterile—passport control was conducted with professional courtesy, and luggage was already being loaded onto the team bus by team staff.
"Welcome to Budapest," a UEFA official greeted them in accented English, shaking hands with coach Bosz. "Your hotel is approximately thirty minutes from here. The Puskás Aréna is another fifteen minutes from the hotel. We've arranged a light training session this evening at 18:00 if you wish to acclimate."
Bosz nodded. "Thank you for your care."
The team bus rolled through Budapest's suburbs, the city gradually revealing itself. Soviet-era apartment blocks gave way to more elegant architecture as they approached the city centre. The Danube River appeared, grey and imposing, the iconic Chain Bridge connecting Buda and Pest across its width.
"Beautiful city," Hradecky observed from his seat near the front.
"Shame we're here for work," Lars Bender replied.
The hotel—a five-star establishment near the city centre—welcomed them with professional efficiency. Check-in was streamlined, and rooms were assigned quickly. Rakim found himself paired with Wirtz again, their usual arrangement for away trips. The club tried to make concessions on these things, letting players rest their heads with people they felt comfortable with.
"How come these hotel rooms look the same no matter where we go?" Wirtz joked as they entered. Two queen beds, a sitting area, and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the city skyline. "At least the views are always nice."
Rakim dropped his bag on the bed nearest to the window, unwilling to sleep close to the door. "Could be worse. Remember that hotel in Ukraine?"
"Don't remind me," Wirtz groaned. "The shower barely worked."
They unpacked quickly, picking out a set of team tracksuits and some toiletries and personal items arranged with the practised efficiency. They took turns hopping into the showers, washing away the travel rust before meeting up with the team. By 11:30, they were downstairs for an early lunch, the team gathering in a private dining room.
The meal was carb-heavy but balanced—pasta, grilled chicken, vegetables, fruit. Bosz circulated between tables, chatting with his players, seemingly checking in on them, doing his best to hide his nervousness. They had been here last year, even going a round beyond it, but couldn't reach the finals.
Tomorrow night would be the biggest match of their season so far, and this year they had to go all the way. The club wouldn't be able to put together a better squad than now, a more balanced squad, but not as talented. Manchester City, the English champions, under the helm of Mr Pep Guardiola, stood in their way.
"Thoughts on City?" Diaby asked, sitting across from Rakim and Wirtz.
Rakim chewed thoughtfully before responding. "They are loaded, the Man U and Madrid of our time, though quite unlikely."
"How so?" Wirtz asked, confused, why a club swimming in oil money was considered unlucky. "They win one or two trophies each season without much trouble."
"They are in the same era as Klopp's Liverpool, and a number of talented coaches receiving bucket loads of money from their clubs. That's not to mention..." He paused for a moment, taking a sip of his water, much to the annoyance of his teammates.
"Spit it out already", Diaby retorted, resisting the urge to throw his napkin.
"Oh, that's simple, they don't have me," he responded with a bright smile, spreading his arms as if asking for praise. Napkins were quickly catapulted at him, showering him before he could even attempt to dodge.
~~~
[18:00 | Puskás Aréna]
The stadium was magnificent, opened in 2019, the Puskás Aréna was a 67,000-seat fortress of modern football architecture—sleek, imposing, built to UEFA's highest standards. Empty now except for essential staff, it felt cavernous, the bowl's vastness making their footsteps echo. Leverkusen emerged from the tunnel for their training session, players spreading across the pitch in small groups.
The surface was immaculate, the grass cut short and firm, perfect for quick passing. "Nice," Bailey muttered in wonderment, looking around at the towering stands.
"Should be," Baumgartlinger replied. "Cost them over half a billion euros."
They ran through light drills—passing sequences, movement patterns, tactical positioning. Bosz walked them through Manchester City's expected setup using positional drills. They practised the scenarios repeatedly—winning the ball in midfield, immediately releasing the wingers into space.
Rakim ran the patterns until his legs burned, ingraining the movements into muscle memory. By 19:30, they were done. The session had been short but intensive, and had been more of a walk-through for the squad than actual training. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎
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[24/02/2021 | Team Hotel, Budapest | 09:00]
Matchday morning began with a recovery session—light stretching, yoga, and swimming for those who wanted it. The hotel's wellness facilities were excellent, allowing players to loosen muscles and calm pre-match nerves. Rakim chose the pool, swimming laps in the heated water, the rhythmic motion meditative.
Hradecky and some of the other guys joined him in doing some light laps to warm up their muscles. Most just relaxed in the water or went to the sauna or steam room to loosen some knots. This only lasted until around noon, when they all returned to their rooms to take a nap.
The pre-match meal at 14:00 was quiet, players eating while the coaches did the pre-match briefing. Most of it had already been discussed, so it wasn't too intensive, so they could eat while they listened. And by 16:00, they were on the bus to the stadium. They journeyed through Budapest, taking twenty minutes, to navigate the city's traffic.
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[19:45 | Puskás Aréna Tunnel]
The tunnel was a cathedral of pre-match tension. Leverkusen players lined up in their red away kits, the iconic Bayer cross emblazoned on their chests. Across from them, Manchester City stood in their sky blue, and friendly chitchat had stopped as they waited to be led out.
Rakim wondered what the point was of doing this every game, with no one in attendance. Surely they could just cut the broadcast with both teams in their formation instead of going through all the hubbub playing pretend. The referee—Clément Turpin from France—checked with both captains before the iconic Champions League anthem played.
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To Be Continued...
