There was a time when fútbol was mi un gran amor, but that was before I met Tim.

But I get ahead of myself.

I am a Spaniard, born and raised in Vilreal. Mi padre, Alonso, worked his life in the manufacture of tile. Mi madre Maria Elena raised my brothers and sisters and I. There were five of us. Mariangela, Cristobal, Rafael, Dorotea and myself, el bebé.

Mi padre took me to fútbol games as soon as I was old enough to walk. One’s sons must follow in their father’s footsteps. We supported Villareal and it was a happy day when I could tell him that I would play with them. This took time, escuela teams, lower leagues, but to play in La Liga, that was the dream, and the dream attained.

Mi padre was not so happy when I tell him that I go to Liverpool. But he understood. Dinero, oportunidad, el mundo. Mi un gran amor. And I would still play for Spain. Of course, I am Spaniard.

That is where that love ended. Harshly. Cleats into my knee, my leg twisted, torn. I knew, lying there. The red card was not just for him. Mi vida había terminado.

I heal. I travel. See the places I had been with time to explore. It was lonely. There were at times men to share things with. Un vaso de vino, una cama. But none that could be more. None since Eamon and he did not stay because I could not be as he wished. I understood.

Perhaps, after, I should have called him. I did not. Our roads separated.

I did not look, not even that day. Un hermoso hombre con una bella sonrisa. A man with whom to pass the hours. I did not think where it would go. Where it has gone. Tim es mi corazón, mi alma, mi amor sin él no soy su conjunto.