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Tether
noun
1. a rope, chain, or the like, by which an animal is fastened to a fixed object so as to limit its range of movement.
2. the utmost length to which one can go in action; the utmost extent or limit of ability or resources.
verb (used with object)
3. to fasten or confine with or as if with a tether.
Idioms
4. at the end of one's tether, at the end of one's resources, patience, or strength.
1. Iker Casillas
It didn't start out as a conscious thought. As the league title slipped away while Xavi sat on the bench, helplessly watching, the cold pit in his stomach growing bigger with each passing minute, it simply felt inevitable. His body was battered and tired; he was no longer useful, and so he should go.
The worst part was that playing the last 10 minutes didn't change that feeling one bit.
He sat on it for a few weeks, some part of him hoping that a change of scenery would dislodge whatever it was. The more distance he got from Barcelona, though, the more leaving seemed like the sensible choice. All the noises coming from the club spoke of huge changes, a revolution, and what would a revolution be without throwing out the old to make room for the new? Xavi had done enough. It was time to try something else. Another way of living football might even be good for him.
It all sounded perfectly logical in his head, so he hadn't expected the horrified look on Iker's face.
"You're what? I thought it was the press just making shit up, like they do."
Xavi had to suppress the urge to laugh at the utter disdain colouring Iker's voice. "No. I think it's time."
"Xavi," Iker said on a shocked exhale. He opened his mouth and closed it again with a snap. The idea had apparently so outraged him that he couldn't quite find the words to express it.
The last time Xavi did that to him, they'd been arguing about the relative merits of Kubala and Di Stefano. The memory made the corners of Xavi's mouth turn up.
He could count the number of times he'd smiled in the past two weeks on one hand.
"What? It's ugly to linger on when you're not needed."
Iker narrowed his eyes. "That's not - Xavi, come on. You were the one who told me we had to stick around if we wanted to make things right."
"What's the point? Puyi's gone. So's Victor. They got rid of Abi. We wore Pep out. And Tito - " Xavi stopped talking so his voice wouldn't break. He swallowed. "Tito's gone. I'm so tired."
Iker wound his arm around Xavi's shoulder, carefully at first as if he wasn't sure of his welcome, and then almost painfully tight when Xavi tucked himself closer.
"At least no one's out to get you," Iker said. There was a self-mocking laugh in his voice.
Xavi flicked him a surprised look. Iker's problems at Madrid were usually off-limits between them. God knew Iker would do what he had to do - they both learned that lesson early - but complaining to a Cule apparently ranked even higher on the disloyalty scale than briefing members of the media. At least until he needed something to stop Xavi from having a minor breakdown, anyway. It was strangely touching.
"No one's out to get you either. Not anymore."
Iker shrugged. "The damage is done. Anyway, we're not talking about me. Have you thought about what they're going to do without you?"
"They'll be fine. They did without me this season."
"Sometimes. Badly. You know Cesc is gone."
"That's got nothing to do with me," Xavi said sharply.
Iker held up his hands. "Not what I meant. It looks to me like they're making changes. You sure you're not going to regret this?"
Xavi opened his mouth to give an emphatic answer and found that he couldn't. Iker read the answer on his face instead. Satisfied, he nodded sagely. "You should talk to one of yours."
"When did you get so wise?"
"What do you mean 'when'?"
"I meant what I said," Xavi said, grinning now.
Iker shook his head. "Almost twenty years and you never change. I don't know what we'd all do if you did."
2. Andres Iniesta
Iker wasn't the political operator Raul was, and he wasn't as bloody-minded as Hierro, but he had a better instinct for navigating relationships than almost anyone Xavi had met, so Xavi' followed his advice and told Andres.
It was the right thing to do, anyway. If anyone deserved to find out from him, it had to be Andres. Even if the look on his face made Xavi feel like the worst person in the world.
"You can't," Andres eventually said, his voice even softer than usual. "Not after - not you too."
His hands were hanging limply at his sides. They were cold when Xavi took them in his, and they gripped him like a lifeline.
"I'm sorry. I know the timing's not the best."
"All of you in one go. It's just - it's a lot."
"A fresh start might be what we need," Xavi said, with less conviction than he wanted to have.
Andres' head snapped up. His eyes were almost glowing. "You said 'we'. Did you tell me because you want me to talk you out of it?"
Five minutes ago, Xavi would have said no.
"I don't know. Maybe."
Andres took a deep breath. "You should do what's best for you. But it won't be the same without you, and you should know that too."
"Andres," Xavi started. He drew breath to continue, only to realise that he didn't know what came next. Andres expected an argument; that was obvious from the tense set of his shoulders and the defiant slash of his mouth. He knew what he was saying, and how it would cut Xavi, and he had done it anyway, because he too had learned the lesson about doing what was necessary.
The hurt Xavi expected didn't come. Pride took its place. Everybody knew Andres was a brilliant footballer. But so few appreciated the strength it took, and the steel.
He let all of it onto his face and saw Andres relax. As always, they understood each other perfectly, with or without words.
"You know you're better than me. No, don't interrupt. You're amazing. You don't need me anymore, if you ever did."
Andres dropped his hands and grasped Xavi by the shoulders instead. His sudden smile was radiant. "Forget need. I want you to stay, because it's always better with you. That's all. I'm sorry if that's selfish."
Xavi had to swallow past a lump in his throat before he could speak. "Not at all."
3. Andoni Zubizarreta
It had taken Xavi years to reconcile the Zubizarreta who wore suits and somehow managed to be a quiet presence despite his size with the one who effortlessly dominated the goalmouth of the Camp Nou. Somehow, more than any of the other ex-Dream Team pros who still worked around Barca, he seemed a changed man. When Pep had been around, the contrast was especially been stark.
Without Pep, a lot of things were different.
Xavi took Zubizarreta's call very, very cautiously.
"I'm sorry," Zubizarreta said, with his usual gift of bone-deep sincerity. Xavi had thought he was sick of hearing it, but somehow Zubizarreta made it mean something. "Spain deserved more."
"Thank you. We've had a good run."
"An amazing run. That game against the Dutch had no bearing on your true level. I hope you won't let one bad game affect your decision-making."
Xavi laughed, wincing at how harshly it came out. "It's not just one game, Zubi."
"I always thought you had a lot of self-awareness. You must know you still have something to contribute."
"Maybe. That depends, doesn't it?"
He could stay and be useful and content himself with only occasional starts. But not if everything else was going wrong.
There was a long silence. When Zubizarreta spoke again, it was with slow, deliberate care. "I admit that some things haven't been done with enough care in the past few years. You're not alone in having concerns. But I hope you can still speak openly to me."
"Sure."
"Please try to understand my position," Zubizarreta said, betraying a hint of frustration for the first time. Xavi was strangely reassured.
"Pep trusted you. So I think I should too, but...too much has happened, Zubi."
"Tell me what you're worried about. I'll see what I can do."
"All right. What happened with Corbella?"
"Xavi, I swear to you I had nothing to do with that - "
"I've heard all these rumours, but they can't be true. Tell me he wasn't fired because he was too close to the players."
His voice rose towards the end and he had to modulate it into something closer to polite.
"I can't tell you because I don't know," Zubizarreta said, finally. Xavi had never heard him sound so defeated. "This is why we need you."
"What?"
"Hear me out. Without you, there's just Andres. Pique's too young and brash, and Messi's disillusioned. No one else has the support. Who's going to stand up for the players?"
With a start, Xavi remembered that Zubizarreta had been the only player who survived the Hesperia Mutiny.
"I never wanted to be Pep."
"That's nothing anyone should have to deal with," Zubizarreta agreed. "But there it is. Think about it."
After Xavi hung up, he laughed until he ran out of air.
4. Luis Enrique
When Lucho went into coaching, Xavi had been surprised. He couldn't quite make it work in his head - Lucho was a smart guy, but he was also a firecracker, and stubborn as a mule. His honesty got him in trouble plenty of times as a player. All the good managers Xavi knew could lie flawlessly, to themselves most of all.
On the other hand, he had only heard good things about the man since he'd been appointed, and looked forward to his call, if only out of curiosity.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm on holiday. I think I should be asking you that."
"You know how it is. Crazy. Exciting. Ready to tear my remaining hair out."
Xavi grinned. "You need to be careful. Remember how Pep looked his first year?"
"I remember. He's still a handsome bastard, though. I wouldn't do so well bald," Luis said dryly.
"Keep a sane man's schedule. That'll help."
"You could help me with that."
"You think so?"
"I know you probably don't trust them anymore, but you trust me, don't you?"
"Do I," Xavi said. It came out a little colder than he intended, and he winced. "You know, Zubi asked me the same thing."
"Xavi. I played with you."
Xavi smiled. Sometimes it was hard to remember he'd ever been so young. He couldn't even bring himself to speak to some of the senior players, at first. "I was very different back then."
"God, what's Pep done to you?"
From Lucho's exasperated tone, he was at least half joking. Xavi decided to answer the serious half. Lucho deserved that much, at least.
"He didn't do this. He just made me believe I was strong enough."
Silence. Lucho sighed. "Okay. I'm just going to lay it out, then."
"Please."
"Here it is. I want you to stay. But if you do, you start from scratch, just like everyone else. Don't get angry and say I promised you a start in every game, because I'm not promising that to anyone. You'll have to convince me you're worth a place. How about it?"
Xavi felt himself straighten. His heart was beating a little faster, and he felt the first stirrings of something that had been buried for a while.
"I'll think it over. Thank you."
5. Maria Merce Creus (Mother)
There were offers - America, Qatar - and he could justify it to himself as a new challenge. But it would also be admitting defeat, telling the world that they were right to shove him to one side. It felt wrong, after a lifetime of stubbornly sticking it out when the sane option would have been to give up and go try his luck somewhere else.
In the end, he took the problem to the person who'd always given him the best career advice.
"I thought your mind was made up?"
"I'm not so sure anymore," he admitted, and saw his mother smile.
She reached across the table and took his hand. "A lot of things seem clear in the heat of the moment. You were upset."
"You didn't say anything when I was ranting down the phone a few months ago."
"I didn't want to influence your decision," she said carefully.
"I want you to. You know I always want you guys to."
Xavi had been a Cule for as long as he could remember, and all of that was bound up in memories of his family - crying because his father wouldn't let him go to Wembley with his brothers, buying his mother a toaster with his first La Masia paycheck, countless nights screaming at the TV with his mother and Ariadna.
"Then I think you should stay, not just because you'd be close by." Her smile turned mischievous. "I'm a Cule, and I want the best for my team."
"So do I. But it's hard to know what that is."
"Players who think of Barca before anything else? That's what I'd want."
Maybe it really was that simple.
"That's easy."
She smiled at him like he was 10 years old again and lying badly about how the window broke. Or 18 years old and trying to convince himself he'd be happy in Milan or Manchester. "Don't be silly. You know that's not true."
Xavi thought of Pep's voice, tired but unwavering, on the night before he announced he was going. Players only leave Barca for two reasons. Either they're pushed out, or they want to play more than they want to be there. He hadn't realized how true it was until now.
"I thought I couldn't bear to stay, after last season. But..."
"It's not in you to give up."
She was always the stubborn one. She'd given him that, too, tempered with the prudence of his father. But the stubbornness won out more and more as he got older.
"Not on this. I thought I could. But it's too much a part of me."
Maybe in time he could. If he put enough distance between it and himself, eventually the bond might get thin enough that it would stop trying to draw him back. That would be easier, but he'd still be hanging on every result, every scrap of tabloid rumour. It's the life he chose, even if he had no idea what it would be like when he chose it, and he's never wanted anything else.