Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Aug. 15th, 2010 05:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluetears07Title: Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: As the name implies: Part One: World Cup 1990. A twelve-year-old Miroslav just wants to watch the world cup final in peace.
Rating: Part One: G
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: Enjoy, these get stranger and stranger as the list goes on so I hope you like...
Miroslav hates the way his father gets when watching football. He knows his old man used to play, but it doesn’t mean that Miroslav can forgive the way he acts. All the shouting, the constant stream of criticism, and the anxious pacing are too much for the boy to handle. It cheapens the serenity of the game. Or at least the beautiful game Miroslav wishes it to be—the type of game he would play given the chance. His mother is a little easier to deal with, not as vocal but twice as tense, she too had been deeply entrenched in national sports back in Poland. He can’t watch another match with them, especially an important one. So, after hours of endless negotiating, hands on his hips as he continually states ‘I’m old enough, I did just turn twelve, Mom’, Miroslav is given permission to go out and watch the World Cup final on his own.
The minute he steps outside his family’s flat he realizes it’s almost time and that the pubs will already be packed. Luckily, the shop below is an electronics showroom with a whole wall of televisions in the display window out front. When he turns the corner, he finds the shop is scheduled to be open late for the occasion with each screen displaying the match on beautiful colour screens. They are bigger and clearer than any television Miroslav has ever seen before, almost three times the size of the old black and white TV his father is currently hunched over at home. He finds an empty spot behind some of the other kids who live on the block. Eventually, a few adults walking back from the shops or work join the children huddled around the storefront, all completely transfixed as the German national anthem begins to blare from the multitude of speakers.
He knows the entire nation is watching, waiting, hoping. He understands that they all need this, more so now than ever before. He thinks it may be their turn.
After the first smack of contact rings out, everything else seems to go silent. No one is yelling or criticizing every pass, just the occasional gasp or groan as the announcer beings his spiel in rapid-fire German. Miroslav struggles to understand every sixth word but is able to pick out the names and matches them to the numbers. With each passing minute, he can feel his stomach clenching tighter and tighter, palms sweating as he twists them in the slick fabric of his track shorts. Anxiously, his pushes a pink tongue slowly out over his thin lips before rolling it back inside his mouth, swallowing several times. He feels himself swaying back and forth ever so slightly, mimicking the motions of the players dashing across the pitch.
For the first time, he understands why his father yells. Miroslav can feel that jittering pressure in the pit of his stomach waiting to burst at any second. He knows he can control it, he can react differently, channel it, turn it into composure, but he is nevertheless able to finally empathise.
He quietly wants the feeling to last forever.
At half time Miroslav pays the kid who lives next door to run into the market next door and buy him a cold coke. He promises to save the kid’s spot. Barely moving an inch, Miroslav excitedly listens to the commentary of the sports announcers as they analyse the goalless first half. He wipes his palms off on his t-shirt before folding his arms over his chest, long fingers wrapped around his thin biceps. With a small smile, Miroslav wonders what it must be like to sit in that locker room at half time during the World Cup. He tries to imagine how he would operate; would he be calm and fastidious, would he be the first or the last one out, would he joke with his teammates, would he pray like his father? The vibrant fantasy quickly scatters when the kid returns, brandishing the pop can before hopping back into his place. Miroslav thanks him and quickly pops the top during a commercial. When play resumes, he clutches the can and starts to worry his lower lip, patiently waiting for the first goal.
After seventy-five minutes of play, Miroslav is suddenly aware of the world beyond the match and the small crowd of fellow football fans. The young boy slowly drags his attention away from the wall of televisions, looking over his shoulder. A little blond boy is turning bright red, crying and screaming in the middle of the street. His poor mother is practically carrying him, though he attempts to no avail to escape from her arms. Miroslav tries to focus on the game but glances back when the wailing abruptly stops. The little boy’s bright blue eyes are wide and glassy, lit up with the reflection of the green grass and white kits. The child is instantly calm. He must have broken free of his mother’s grip and made a beeline for the televisions, standing right beside Miroslav. The older boy furrows his brow, staring down at the child. It seems as if the boy is dressed in a football uniform. Miroslav recognises the local kids’ league crest on the T-shirt and athletic shorts. He smiles to himself when he sees the kid’s too big shin guards poking out from the top of too small socks pulled as high as they can go.
Of course. He’s a pint size football fanatic.
“Lukasz.” Miroslav glances up, recognizing the accent immediately. The mother rushes over to kneel before the little boy, taking his thin shoulders in hand. She shakes him gently before repeating, “Lukasz.” He’s totally catatonic. When he does not respond, the woman attempts to tug him in the direction of the market. As soon as his mother pulls him a step away from the televisions he all teeth and tears as he begins to wail. Miroslav feels a gut instinct to grab the boy’s arm and keep him there by his side—she doesn’t understand. “Lukasz, you have to come with me,” the mother is whispering frantically in Polish to the little boy. “I can’t leave you out here by yourself.”
“I’ll watch him.” Miroslav speaks before he thinks; it comes out in a confused rush of Polish and German. The woman stares at him sceptically for a moment before glancing back down at Lukas. The boy is enraptured by the match, totally oblivious to his mother’s worry. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere for a while.” Miroslav tries to console her, speaking quietly in Polish as he nods toward the shop front. She glances at her little boy again, considering Miroslav’s proposal.
“Thank you, I’ll just be a couple minutes.” She kneels down and grabs the boy’s upper arms, turning his entire body toward her. “Okay sweetie, I’ll be back soon.” The boy’s eyes are glued to the screen, neck tilted away from her in order to get a better view. “Don’t move.” She steers his chin away from the televisions, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You hear me?” Lukas’ blue eyes are unfocused as he stares blankly at his mother’s face. “Here.” She places her son’s hand in Miroslav’s open palm. “Hold onto this nice boy’s hand.”
“It’s Miro,” he offers as a brief introduction.
The kid’s fingers are sticky and warm. They seem to compliment his own sweaty palm.
“You stay with Miro, okay, Lukas? Understand?” She tries to sound positive, attempting to smooth down the blond cowlick at the crown of the little boy’s head. It refuses to be tamed, resiliently bouncing back in full form. Lukas remains unresponsive. “I swear, Lukas.” Her voice is stern but resigned; clearly this kid is a little firebrand. She presses a kiss to his forehead when the little boy finally nods.
“Thank you,” the mother says again to Miroslav before slipping away into the market.
“Hey, Lukasz.” Miroslav shakes the boy’s hand; the motion wiggles his whole arm. The kid doesn’t notice, shuffling back and forth trying to see around a taller boy standing directly in his way. Miroslav tries again, leaning down to the boy’s level. “Hey, can you see down there?” He asks him in Polish, the boy frantically shakes his head finally looking up at the older boy with a deep crease between his brows. “Here,” Miroslav says as he grabs the little boy under his arms and hoists him above his head. He places Lukas on his shoulders, holding onto his dangling ankles. “Better?”
“Thanks,” a tiny voice whispers in Miroslav’s ear. Miroslav smiles when he hears the child’s peculiar pronunciation, the familiar blend of Polish and German colouring the small word. It sounds just like his own twisted accent when he was still learning the difference between the two. Oddly, it makes him smile though he knows the amount of cruel teasing the little boy will have to endure when school starts. Something tells him that Lukas, though, will be able to make it through unscathed. Miroslav feels a sharp tug as little fingers wrap around a few clumps of his hair, holding on tight. The anxiety and raw bottled energy radiating off of the child begins to balance out his own—he is surprised when he starts to feel genuinely calm. He wonders how a kid this young is so tense, is aware enough to get this impossibly worked up over a football match.
In the back of his mind he notes the sound of a harsh whistle and an uproar. There are another three sharp tugs on his hair and Miroslav is pulled from his thoughts. The voice up top calls down to him eagerly, “Miro, Miro, Miro!”
Miroslav isn’t sure, but perhaps it is one of the most incredible sights he has ever seen in his twelve years of life. The penalty is set up, and Brehme takes the kick. As soon as the man’s foot connects with the ball he knows, and so does Lukas—with only six minutes left in regulation time, their adopted home will score the first goal of the 1990 World Cup Final. Lukas’ sticky hands press against his pale cheeks as Miroslav grips the boy’s legs pressed against his chest. The children and adults around them are not as sure as the two Polish-born boys. They collectively hold their breath, eyes wide, as the ball appears to be curving a fraction of an inch wide of the goal.
It slips past the keeper, just barely inside the post, neatly finding the back of the net.
Lukas’ arms wrap around Miroslav’s head as the older boy starts jumping up and down. Both boys are vibrating with excitement, cheering as loud as they can in German, right along with the rest of the crowd. The television channel replays footage of the penalty shot as the team continues to celebrate.
When play continues, they all fall silent. Arms still wound about Miroslav’s head, Lukas huddles closer as Miroslav hold on tightly to his knees. He can feel the sharp point of Lukas’ chin digging into his scalp when they watch as an Argentinean player takes down Kohler.
The final whistles blows and people start pouring out into the street, singing and cheering. Miroslav places Lukas back on the ground, clasping his tiny hand in his own as they both join in the cheers. The little boy is bouncing around him, spinning him in a tight circle, all of his pent up energy pouring out in one sudden burst. He stops and catapults himself into Miroslav side, practically knocking him over as his arms wrap around the older boy’s thin waist. Miroslav flattens Lukas’ hair down before cradling the boy’s head as he looks back at the television screen.
1-0.
Someone in he crowd begins to hum the German national anthem. Miroslav is unsure of all the words but he knows the tune and it’s enough. The small hands clutching his shirt pull at the fabric as boy clings tighter to him. He smiles when Lukas looks up at him from where the boy’s face was buried against his hipbone.
“Miro, Miro, they won the world!” Lukas is beaming, pointing to the screens as fireworks start going off. The little boy has the biggest grin on his face, it’s all baby teeth, pink gums and smiling eyes and Miroslav is sure he has never seen this brand of joy on anyone’s face before.
“Yes, they did.” Miroslav laughs, ruffling Lukas’ short blond hair, tinted red and yellow from the bursts of light above. He takes the boy's hand and they push forward in the chaos of the crowd until they reach the storefront. Kneeling, Miroslav wraps an arm around Lukas’ waist, pulling him against his side as they press their faces to the glass. Lukas slings his arms around Miroslav’s neck, hugging him tightly. They watch together as the golden trophy is presented to the new World Champions.
Miroslav will never forget this moment, the pure joy, the pride and exhilaration—the community, the foreign feeling of belonging.
Sixteen years later the two boys will stand on a lush pitch in Germany while a host nation holds its breath. They will listen to their adopted national anthem, hand in hand once again—waiting to reclaim that feeling as their own, waiting for Lukas to turn to Miroslav and say, “We won the world.”
++++++++++++++++++++++
Part Two: Euro Cup 2008: Germany vs. Poland: Klose vs. Podolski. Lukas chose Poland over Germany.
Pairing: Miroslav Klose/Lukas Podolski
Summary: As the name implies: Part One: World Cup 1990. A twelve-year-old Miroslav just wants to watch the world cup final in peace.
Rating: Part One: G
Disclaimer: Don't know them.
AN: Enjoy, these get stranger and stranger as the list goes on so I hope you like...
Five Times Miroslav and Lukas Never Met
Part One: World Cup 1990
Part One: World Cup 1990
Miroslav hates the way his father gets when watching football. He knows his old man used to play, but it doesn’t mean that Miroslav can forgive the way he acts. All the shouting, the constant stream of criticism, and the anxious pacing are too much for the boy to handle. It cheapens the serenity of the game. Or at least the beautiful game Miroslav wishes it to be—the type of game he would play given the chance. His mother is a little easier to deal with, not as vocal but twice as tense, she too had been deeply entrenched in national sports back in Poland. He can’t watch another match with them, especially an important one. So, after hours of endless negotiating, hands on his hips as he continually states ‘I’m old enough, I did just turn twelve, Mom’, Miroslav is given permission to go out and watch the World Cup final on his own.
The minute he steps outside his family’s flat he realizes it’s almost time and that the pubs will already be packed. Luckily, the shop below is an electronics showroom with a whole wall of televisions in the display window out front. When he turns the corner, he finds the shop is scheduled to be open late for the occasion with each screen displaying the match on beautiful colour screens. They are bigger and clearer than any television Miroslav has ever seen before, almost three times the size of the old black and white TV his father is currently hunched over at home. He finds an empty spot behind some of the other kids who live on the block. Eventually, a few adults walking back from the shops or work join the children huddled around the storefront, all completely transfixed as the German national anthem begins to blare from the multitude of speakers.
He knows the entire nation is watching, waiting, hoping. He understands that they all need this, more so now than ever before. He thinks it may be their turn.
After the first smack of contact rings out, everything else seems to go silent. No one is yelling or criticizing every pass, just the occasional gasp or groan as the announcer beings his spiel in rapid-fire German. Miroslav struggles to understand every sixth word but is able to pick out the names and matches them to the numbers. With each passing minute, he can feel his stomach clenching tighter and tighter, palms sweating as he twists them in the slick fabric of his track shorts. Anxiously, his pushes a pink tongue slowly out over his thin lips before rolling it back inside his mouth, swallowing several times. He feels himself swaying back and forth ever so slightly, mimicking the motions of the players dashing across the pitch.
For the first time, he understands why his father yells. Miroslav can feel that jittering pressure in the pit of his stomach waiting to burst at any second. He knows he can control it, he can react differently, channel it, turn it into composure, but he is nevertheless able to finally empathise.
He quietly wants the feeling to last forever.
At half time Miroslav pays the kid who lives next door to run into the market next door and buy him a cold coke. He promises to save the kid’s spot. Barely moving an inch, Miroslav excitedly listens to the commentary of the sports announcers as they analyse the goalless first half. He wipes his palms off on his t-shirt before folding his arms over his chest, long fingers wrapped around his thin biceps. With a small smile, Miroslav wonders what it must be like to sit in that locker room at half time during the World Cup. He tries to imagine how he would operate; would he be calm and fastidious, would he be the first or the last one out, would he joke with his teammates, would he pray like his father? The vibrant fantasy quickly scatters when the kid returns, brandishing the pop can before hopping back into his place. Miroslav thanks him and quickly pops the top during a commercial. When play resumes, he clutches the can and starts to worry his lower lip, patiently waiting for the first goal.
After seventy-five minutes of play, Miroslav is suddenly aware of the world beyond the match and the small crowd of fellow football fans. The young boy slowly drags his attention away from the wall of televisions, looking over his shoulder. A little blond boy is turning bright red, crying and screaming in the middle of the street. His poor mother is practically carrying him, though he attempts to no avail to escape from her arms. Miroslav tries to focus on the game but glances back when the wailing abruptly stops. The little boy’s bright blue eyes are wide and glassy, lit up with the reflection of the green grass and white kits. The child is instantly calm. He must have broken free of his mother’s grip and made a beeline for the televisions, standing right beside Miroslav. The older boy furrows his brow, staring down at the child. It seems as if the boy is dressed in a football uniform. Miroslav recognises the local kids’ league crest on the T-shirt and athletic shorts. He smiles to himself when he sees the kid’s too big shin guards poking out from the top of too small socks pulled as high as they can go.
Of course. He’s a pint size football fanatic.
“Lukasz.” Miroslav glances up, recognizing the accent immediately. The mother rushes over to kneel before the little boy, taking his thin shoulders in hand. She shakes him gently before repeating, “Lukasz.” He’s totally catatonic. When he does not respond, the woman attempts to tug him in the direction of the market. As soon as his mother pulls him a step away from the televisions he all teeth and tears as he begins to wail. Miroslav feels a gut instinct to grab the boy’s arm and keep him there by his side—she doesn’t understand. “Lukasz, you have to come with me,” the mother is whispering frantically in Polish to the little boy. “I can’t leave you out here by yourself.”
“I’ll watch him.” Miroslav speaks before he thinks; it comes out in a confused rush of Polish and German. The woman stares at him sceptically for a moment before glancing back down at Lukas. The boy is enraptured by the match, totally oblivious to his mother’s worry. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere for a while.” Miroslav tries to console her, speaking quietly in Polish as he nods toward the shop front. She glances at her little boy again, considering Miroslav’s proposal.
“Thank you, I’ll just be a couple minutes.” She kneels down and grabs the boy’s upper arms, turning his entire body toward her. “Okay sweetie, I’ll be back soon.” The boy’s eyes are glued to the screen, neck tilted away from her in order to get a better view. “Don’t move.” She steers his chin away from the televisions, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You hear me?” Lukas’ blue eyes are unfocused as he stares blankly at his mother’s face. “Here.” She places her son’s hand in Miroslav’s open palm. “Hold onto this nice boy’s hand.”
“It’s Miro,” he offers as a brief introduction.
The kid’s fingers are sticky and warm. They seem to compliment his own sweaty palm.
“You stay with Miro, okay, Lukas? Understand?” She tries to sound positive, attempting to smooth down the blond cowlick at the crown of the little boy’s head. It refuses to be tamed, resiliently bouncing back in full form. Lukas remains unresponsive. “I swear, Lukas.” Her voice is stern but resigned; clearly this kid is a little firebrand. She presses a kiss to his forehead when the little boy finally nods.
“Thank you,” the mother says again to Miroslav before slipping away into the market.
“Hey, Lukasz.” Miroslav shakes the boy’s hand; the motion wiggles his whole arm. The kid doesn’t notice, shuffling back and forth trying to see around a taller boy standing directly in his way. Miroslav tries again, leaning down to the boy’s level. “Hey, can you see down there?” He asks him in Polish, the boy frantically shakes his head finally looking up at the older boy with a deep crease between his brows. “Here,” Miroslav says as he grabs the little boy under his arms and hoists him above his head. He places Lukas on his shoulders, holding onto his dangling ankles. “Better?”
“Thanks,” a tiny voice whispers in Miroslav’s ear. Miroslav smiles when he hears the child’s peculiar pronunciation, the familiar blend of Polish and German colouring the small word. It sounds just like his own twisted accent when he was still learning the difference between the two. Oddly, it makes him smile though he knows the amount of cruel teasing the little boy will have to endure when school starts. Something tells him that Lukas, though, will be able to make it through unscathed. Miroslav feels a sharp tug as little fingers wrap around a few clumps of his hair, holding on tight. The anxiety and raw bottled energy radiating off of the child begins to balance out his own—he is surprised when he starts to feel genuinely calm. He wonders how a kid this young is so tense, is aware enough to get this impossibly worked up over a football match.
In the back of his mind he notes the sound of a harsh whistle and an uproar. There are another three sharp tugs on his hair and Miroslav is pulled from his thoughts. The voice up top calls down to him eagerly, “Miro, Miro, Miro!”
Miroslav isn’t sure, but perhaps it is one of the most incredible sights he has ever seen in his twelve years of life. The penalty is set up, and Brehme takes the kick. As soon as the man’s foot connects with the ball he knows, and so does Lukas—with only six minutes left in regulation time, their adopted home will score the first goal of the 1990 World Cup Final. Lukas’ sticky hands press against his pale cheeks as Miroslav grips the boy’s legs pressed against his chest. The children and adults around them are not as sure as the two Polish-born boys. They collectively hold their breath, eyes wide, as the ball appears to be curving a fraction of an inch wide of the goal.
It slips past the keeper, just barely inside the post, neatly finding the back of the net.
Lukas’ arms wrap around Miroslav’s head as the older boy starts jumping up and down. Both boys are vibrating with excitement, cheering as loud as they can in German, right along with the rest of the crowd. The television channel replays footage of the penalty shot as the team continues to celebrate.
When play continues, they all fall silent. Arms still wound about Miroslav’s head, Lukas huddles closer as Miroslav hold on tightly to his knees. He can feel the sharp point of Lukas’ chin digging into his scalp when they watch as an Argentinean player takes down Kohler.
The final whistles blows and people start pouring out into the street, singing and cheering. Miroslav places Lukas back on the ground, clasping his tiny hand in his own as they both join in the cheers. The little boy is bouncing around him, spinning him in a tight circle, all of his pent up energy pouring out in one sudden burst. He stops and catapults himself into Miroslav side, practically knocking him over as his arms wrap around the older boy’s thin waist. Miroslav flattens Lukas’ hair down before cradling the boy’s head as he looks back at the television screen.
1-0.
Someone in he crowd begins to hum the German national anthem. Miroslav is unsure of all the words but he knows the tune and it’s enough. The small hands clutching his shirt pull at the fabric as boy clings tighter to him. He smiles when Lukas looks up at him from where the boy’s face was buried against his hipbone.
“Miro, Miro, they won the world!” Lukas is beaming, pointing to the screens as fireworks start going off. The little boy has the biggest grin on his face, it’s all baby teeth, pink gums and smiling eyes and Miroslav is sure he has never seen this brand of joy on anyone’s face before.
“Yes, they did.” Miroslav laughs, ruffling Lukas’ short blond hair, tinted red and yellow from the bursts of light above. He takes the boy's hand and they push forward in the chaos of the crowd until they reach the storefront. Kneeling, Miroslav wraps an arm around Lukas’ waist, pulling him against his side as they press their faces to the glass. Lukas slings his arms around Miroslav’s neck, hugging him tightly. They watch together as the golden trophy is presented to the new World Champions.
Miroslav will never forget this moment, the pure joy, the pride and exhilaration—the community, the foreign feeling of belonging.
Sixteen years later the two boys will stand on a lush pitch in Germany while a host nation holds its breath. They will listen to their adopted national anthem, hand in hand once again—waiting to reclaim that feeling as their own, waiting for Lukas to turn to Miroslav and say, “We won the world.”
++++++++++++++++++++++
Part Two: Euro Cup 2008: Germany vs. Poland: Klose vs. Podolski. Lukas chose Poland over Germany.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-08-16 04:32 am (UTC)Poland vs. Germany sounds fascinating; can't wait for more!
no subject
Date: 2010-08-17 02:27 am (UTC)Yeah, I'm finishing it up tonight. The rating will be a bit higher...hehe...thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-14 08:13 am (UTC)They won the world.
Together.
It just took a little longer than we expected.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-17 09:33 pm (UTC)They did it. Miro and Lukasz lifted the World Cup. They are World Champions. It really hasn't sunk in, but it's true. Unglaublich. :)
no subject
Date: 2014-07-19 05:13 am (UTC)Yeah, I know! It was so wonderful in 2010 to have everyone together! I was primarily on Tumblr this time around, which had a nice group of kids but I missed the old group...
I still can't believe it!!! I'm so proud. Weltmeister! And the celebration in Berlin! Oh man. Plus, all the inspiration for new stories. :D :D :D