Back in the garden, Mateo returned his wife’s wave as he swung back and forth. Sticking out his tongue, he smiled fondly at her.
Light of my life, let us be together forever.
Beyond her, the ten-year-old twins were playing with their younger brother Paolo. Young Jorge and Maria were attached at the hip, moreso even than he and Frankie had ever been. They were two halves of the same whole, utterly inseparable. They were dark-haired, and olive-skinned, the very picture of health and happiness.
It had not always been thus he mused. Their birth had been a difficult one, the two babies locked in each other’s arms even within their mother’s womb. Francesca had lost a lot of blood during the delivery and the children had been in the ICU for almost a month. But they had all recovered and begun to thrive in the peaceful tranquillity of the house on the hill.
Paolo was very different to the rest of his family. He was freakishly tall, 145cm at age seven, pale and blond like his Spanish great grandfather. But he was extraordinarily graceful and skilled with his hands. His fingers seemed to be wired directly into his imagination. He only had to be shown a task once and he had learned it for life.
He was obsessed with sports and magic tricks. If it involved throwing, catching or prestidigitation, he was an instant expert. His older brother and sister had bought a frisbee in the market that morning and were teaching him how to throw it. After his third toss, Paolo was teaching them. He threw with unerring accuracy and could catch it no matter how poor their return throws ended up.
His thoughts turned to Papa, and how he would have loved this idyllic scene. Until six months before he would have relished such a day. He had been fit and healthy right up until it happened. He was always helping Frankie in the garden or kicking a football with Paolo.
And then one day Jorge hadn’t woken up. By chance, Mateo had stopped off at his father’s house in the village with breakfast and found him comatose in bed.
That had been a year before, Mateo reflected, almost to the day. He turned his gaze to the left, towards the little churchyard across the hill. He was there, Mateo knew, with Mama and Grandma. He would be weeding and tidying as he always had, against doctors’ orders of course.
His liver cancer had been caught early, although there had not been time to search for a donor. So, Mateo had given half of his liver to his father and the transplant had gone remarkably well. Both of them were returning to health, Jorge rather quicker than his son, truth be told.
Mateo didn’t care. His family was safe and secure. They had sold their various businesses when Jorge had gotten sick. He knew that time spent together was far more important than anything material. So now his job was looking after them, as they had looked after him for the past year.
“Daddy?” Carlotta said from her position snuggled in his lap, “I love you the most.”
“We don’t have favourites, little one,” he said, turning her around to face him. “We love everyone in our family equally, just as much as we can.”
“I know that Daddy,” the little girl said before rhyming off each one of them in turn. “I love Papa, and Mummy and Jorge and Maria and Paolo very, very much. But I love you a little bit more. Is that OK?”
“Of course it is darling,” Mateo replied, intrigued by her childish reasoning. “But why do you think that you love me more?”
“Because you’re the world’s best tickler of course. Oh, and your scratchy beard too,” she replied, settling the debate once and for all.
Mateo squeezed her tight, before rubbing his stubbly cheek gently against hers. With a shriek Carlotta began wriggling in his arms, trying to escape. Then with a feather-light touch, he started to tickle her sides and tummy. She squirmed in mock agony, never quite hard enough to get away though. Howling giggles rent the air as she struggled in his arms. But all the time she held on to her father just as tightly as she could.
“I love you too, pumpkin,” Mateo said, a huge grin splitting his face.
Every single one of you.
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Epilogue – July 2026
Jorge António da Silva Martin felt truly old, for the first time in his life. He was almost eighty-three, so he had every right to feel that way, he thought. But he was tired, now. Every moment of every day was a struggle with pain and lately, incontinence. With his stiff joints and wasting muscles, getting to the bathroom was an ordeal. Sometimes he couldn’t quite make it in time and soiled himself. His embarrassment was exacerbated by Francesca’s quiet encouragement. She never berated him or complained, she just cleaned him up and carried on.
But now his youngest granddaughter Carlotta was home from university in Edinburgh. She was helping him too, just to add to his shame and misery. Like her mother, she smiled and joked with him and never got angry, but it hurt him every time. She was only nineteen. A lovely young girl like her didn’t need to be dealing with an old cripple like him. But she did and he loved her for it more every day.
The whole family was together in the house on the hill, all except Paolo. He was in America, playing football. Although they still insisted on calling it soccer over there – Philistines.
The twins, Jorge Jr and Maria were home too. They lived up north with their baby, Hector. Jorge could still remember the day when he had broken the news to Mateo and Frankie. Their faces had been apoplectic with fear and worry. It made Jorge realise that he had done pretty well all by himself when his own children had fallen in love. But they were good kids, always had been.
They were gathered to watch the World Cup Final from Dallas in Texas. The Portuguese national team, shorn of its aging stars had somehow made the final. People said they were lucky, but Jorge didn’t believe in luck. People could have natural gifts or abilities, of course. But it was their responsibility to find and hone them. If you worked hard enough you would be successful. He had done it and so had his children. And now it was his grandson’s turn. Because Paolo was the reserve goalkeeper for the Portuguese team.
He had not been picked to start the final, but no one in his family cared. Just being there was a tremendous achievement. At nine o’clock they gathered before the television. There were ceremonies and anthems and all sorts of razzamatazz. But all it did was build up the tension, for both the players and the spectators.
But eventually, the game began. Their opponents were England, the reigning champions. Their team was much older and packed with experience. It was a classic battle, Ronaldo’s young bulls versus Gerrard’s aging lions.
It was an exciting game with chances at both ends but neither team could score. After ninety minutes of pulsating action, they moved into extra time. The teams had thirty minutes to win the cup before fate would intervene in the form of a penalty shootout. And almost immediately, England’s Harry Kane put his team ahead. There were only twenty minutes left in the game. The eyes of the world fell on the Portugal manager, Cristiano Ronaldo. He was their finest ever player, some said he had been the world’s greatest.
Jorge almost wished that Cristiano would put his boots on for one last hurrah, but it was not to be. Now he was coach and manager, his players would have to perform the feats that he once had.
He gambled, throwing on his youngest, most attack-minded players. It was the sort of gamble that Mateo had made in business. That was his “gift.” Spotting those opportunities before anyone else could, then striking hard and fast. That was why the village had given Jorge the site for the house. Mateo had been the one to open the fish packing plant, securing jobs and livelihoods for decades to come. Jorge hoped that Cristiano had the same instincts.
For the last period of the game, the Portuguese team threw everything they had at England. But their stubborn, defence seemed impregnable. In the dying seconds though, Portugal were finally awarded a hard-won corner kick. Jorge crossed his stiff, arthritic fingers with a grunt of pain.
This is it, one final chance. Come on boys, just this once, let it be us.
The Portuguese goalkeeper raced the length of the pitch, his livid yellow shirt a blur. As the ball flew towards the goal, he met it with his head and powered it into the back of the net. Portugal were level.
But the keeper was injured. While his teammates celebrated wildly, he lay deathly still. The medical experts from both teams tended to him and he was stretchered from the field. He appeared to be conscious but was clearly in tremendous pain.
“Oh my God, Papa,” Francesca shrieked. “It’s Paolo, he’s coming on. My boy, he’s there. Oh, Paolo, my son, be strong. Mama and Grandma will be with you as we all are. Oh no, I can’t watch.”
Jorge chuckled to himself. Maria and his mother wouldn’t have known one end of a football match from the other, he thought. But he loved the idea that they were still present in their lives, so long after they had gone.
But Frankie was right, Paolo was coming on, just as the game was ending.
Oh shit! Fucking penalties!
His thought echoed around the room as everyone else came to the same realisation. The game was over, it was a draw. The World Cup Final was going to be decided on penalty kicks and his grandson was right there at its epicentre. He was going to be the hero or the villain for his country. For the first time in a long time, Jorge closed his eyes and spoke to his wife.
Maria, my darling. I can feel you close tonight. But you must not be here. You must be there, with Paolo. I do not need you now, but he does. He is facing a dreadful ordeal, the greatest of his life. I cannot help him from here, but you can. Give him my strength, my heart, and my love. Give him a chance to succeed in this moment, with the whole world watching. Help him to achieve his destiny. I beg of you my love, this one last time.
The penalty shootout was brutal. Portugal went first and missed. Paolo messed up the first English penalty and they scored easily. Then Portugal scored and England missed. From then on, each team scored four more times.
The English goalie almost saved two of the Portuguese kicks, but Paolo never even laid a glove on theirs.
He looked dreadfully anxious, the television pundits insisting that he was overmatched. By now it was sudden death and Portugal’s youngest player came up to take his kick. Nelson da Silva was a childhood friend of Paolo’s. They had met at age nine at the Sporting Lisbon academy and had been best friends ever since.
“Nelsinho looks so nervous,” Carlotta cried out. He did, but he used his nerves as fuel and smashed his kick home. He ran to Paolo and hugged his friend, urging him to be the hero.
Portugal were in the lead. If the next England player missed, they would win. Many thought that the young team had been outmatched throughout the tournament. But now they somehow had a chance to win.
But England’s Phil Foden was striding up to take his turn. He was their star player, one of the world’s best. He had already scored three penalties during England’s earlier games. This was his stage, and this was his moment. He looked cool, calm, and confident, but so Jorge noted, did his grandson, Paolo.
Now, my love, this is the moment. Help him, please.
The boy looked up, then over his shoulder, as if someone had tapped him there before whispering in his ear. The commentator suggested that he was losing focus. His colleague insisted that Ronaldo had made a terrible error sending him on. He seemed convinced that the young Martin’s inexperience was going to cost his team dear. But Paolo settled into position on the goal line. He stared at the English player, his expression intent.
Foden took a deep breath and ran forward. Paolo was shifting his weight left and right, waving his arms to distract his opponent. It did not work, as Foden smashed the ball high and hard into the top corner of the goal. It was the perfect penalty, it couldn’t miss. England had prevailed, and plucky Portugal’s chance was gone. Everyone in the enormous stadium knew it, as did the billions watching around the world.
But Paolo Martin had other ideas. Like a spawning salmon, he leapt up and to his right, stretching every sinew to its absolute limit.
And then, just a tiny bit more.
The World Cup had been around for almost a century. Thousands of games had been played in that time. Spectacular goals had been scored and embarrassing mistakes made. For a hundred years the unrivalled skill of the sport’s greatest players had been on display. Every one of the game’s stellar talents has had his turn in the spotlight.
But history would record that this would be the single greatest highlight over all that time. The moment when unheralded understudy Paolo Martin managed to float like a butterfly.
And sting like a bee.
He soared through the air, his straining body seeming to hang there as time slowed down around him. In an iconic image that would be enshrined on posters and t-shirts for years to come, Paolo became a legend.
With a superhuman effort, he nudged the speeding ball with a single extended finger. It was just enough, and the perfect shot cannoned onto the crossbar, before flying off into the crowd. He had saved it and Portugal were the world champions.
They had won, and Paolo was the hero. He had achieved something that even the greats like Eusebio and Ronaldo never had.
The house on the hill rang out with shouts of joy, elation, and disbelief. Everyone was hugging and cheering, laughing, and crying. Well, almost everyone.
Because Jorge didn’t hear them. A tiny tear had formed at the corner of his eye, a sly smile creasing his lips. The boy had done it. Maria had given what was left of Jorge’s strength to Paolo, every last ounce of it. And now she was here for him.
Come, Jorge my love. How long I have waited for you, and now I know why. You have done so well with them, all by yourself. They are safe now, it is time for you to rest. Come with me, let us be together once more…
Across the old country, the sounds of celebration rang out. And in the house on the hill, there were celebrations too, albeit tinged with sadness. But mostly they rejoiced, for Paolo, and for Papa.
For his shining example, and for a life well-lived.
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THE END