Torres: An Intimate Portrait of the Kid Who Became King

one jumping with joy. Paolo Futre declares: ‘Torres is a star player, a phenomenon who will bring a lot of joy to the fans of Atlético and will be fundamental to the future of Spanish football.’ And Cantarero adds: ‘Fernando is going to be this week’s leading figure. He deserves it and let’s hope he’s going to be the leading figure for the next few years.’
    There is no mistaking the following day’s headlines, all of them about him: ‘A Magical Apparition in Albacete,’ said
El Mundo
, while
El País
screams: ‘Fernando Torres Saves Atlético.’ The TV channels call him into the studio to comment on his goal, to talk about himself, the two remaining matches of the league season and the chances for his team. From that Sunday on, little-by-little his life changes. From Albacete he gets to Fuenlabrada around two in the morning and, as his parents remember, ‘he went into his room and about five minutes later he was sleeping. But the morning after and for the following two days, his usual wolf-like hunger at breakfast disappears. His stomach shrinks due to the effects of all the emotion and his new-found fame. But the youngster gets over it easily enough.
    What’s nothing like as easy to get over is the huge disappointment at Getafe two weeks later. In the Coliseo Alfonso Pérez (Getafe’s stadium, to the south of Madrid city centre), Fernando starts in the team for the first time and is the principal figure for the first 45 minutes. He has only matches behind him but he shows a maturity and coolness that some of his team-mates, with much more experience than him, do not display on this occasion. In spite of the numerous errors in front of Atlético’s goal, they chalk up a 1-0 victory but at the end of the match, there aren’t the celebrations many were hoping for. Everyone is quiet on the pitch, in the dugout and in the stands. The news from the radio has already reached the players, technical staff and the 10,000 Atléti supporters that Betis and Tenerife have won, which means Atlético will remain in the second division solely because of an inferior goal difference with the Canary Island team. The fans slowly slip away with heads bowed. Some vent their anger against the stadium, ripping out seats and throwing them towards the pitch. The police escort Jesús Gil and his wife out of the ground. Around 50 of the radical
ultra
fans call for heads to roll, shouting: ‘Gil, you bastard, get out of the Calderón!’ Paolo Futre kicks the wall and throws his ever-present cigarette into the far distance, muttering: ‘It’s been a huge disappointment but this pain is over. We’ve lost the battle.’ Cantarero declares: ‘We’re distraught. I’ve seen a lot of sad things in football but this has been the worst.’ The players depart in silence. It’s a big blow for everyone. And for Fernando Torres in particular. He’s shattered. He just wants things to move on as quickly as possible. He just wants to forget. He is experiencing the disappointment more as a fan than as a player. And it’s massive. What had been a dream has now turned into a nightmare. That night he takes refuge in his room in Fuenlabrada but this time he can’t sleep. He is inconsolable because of all the missed opportunities and the promotion that has now disappeared. The next year Atlético will have to start all over again in the second division. But first, Fernando still has to resolve, once-and-for-all, the strange matter of his phantom transfer.
    It hits the headlines on 11 May. ‘We were coming back in the coach from Sevilla where we had lost the final of the Copa del Rey (King’s Cup). It was night-time and we were about 7 miles from Madrid. Someone was listening to the radio when suddenly one of the sports programmes on the
Cadena Ser
station announced that Valencia had signed Fernando. He knew absolutely nothing about it. No one knew anything about it. It seemed very strange to us given that Jesús Gil had been in the dressing room with the lads before the game and, as always, had sung along with us ‘Atlético 1-2-3 Go get ’em.’ It seemed impossible that they would have sold El Niño but the news spread like wildfire and when we eventually arrived at the Calderón there were loads of media there, all waiting for Fernando but he had got off outside Madrid at the Hotel Los Olivos. Recalling how it all started is Miguel Ángel Gómez Gonzalez, aged 45 and known to everyone as ‘Cirilo’.
    At that time he was