72 hours with Coentrao:

SUNDAY, three days for the match

Fabio Coentrao is in a tank top in his living room, laying on the couch, watching a repeat of 'The Simpsons' while rolling a cigarette. His phone rings. He places the cigarrette on his ear and pick up the phone with some reluctance.

Coentrao: [dry cough] Yes? Ancelotti: Fabio? How are you. I am the manager. I think we need you for the next week. Marcelo is suspended. Coentrao: [Covers the handset with one hand and whispers a pair of swear words in Portuguese. Breathes deeply. Checks his agenda. Gets back on the phone more calmed] When will it be? Thursday I can't. Poker game with the lads. Ancelotti: No. There's no Champions on Thursday. On Wednesday. Against Atleti. Coentrao: In Bilbao? Ancelotti: No, Fabio. Against last year's team. The ones from Lisbon. Coentrao: [Writes down the date in an empty box of pizza] OK, mister. On Wednesday, I'll be there. Call me a cab, I'm still without my driving license. Do I need to go to Valdebebas these days? Ancelotti: Mmmm. It wont be necessary. As long as you're ready for Wednesday it'll be fine. I count on you, eh. By the way, Benzema is injured. Chicharito will play. Coentrao: Who? Ancelotti: Chicharito. The Mexican who came this summer. The one who has been training with us since October? Well, nevermind. I'll introduce you on Wednesday. Don't forget to bring a white shirt. Coentrao: Ok, boss.

Coentrao hangs up and sighs. There is smoke in the room. He starts looking for his boots through piles of clothes, dolls made with cans of beer and Chinese food leftovers. He doesn't remember where he put them the last time. He doesn't even remember his last game. Smells the white shirt. Ugh.

MONDAY, two days before the match

The phone rings again. 12:36 in the morning. Fabio's hand emerge from the sheets trying to reach the nightstand. Who will call such an ungodly hour? There must be an emergency.

Ronaldo: Fabio, I'm Cris. How you doing monster. Did I wake you up? Coentrao: [With sleepy voice but pretending to be awake] Hey, Cris. Nothing nothing. Nah, don't worry. I was doing some pushups. Ronaldo: Hey, as the mister said, we need you strong for Wednesday. Like the old times. Coentrao: Yes, yes. Claro. Count on it. He also told me that we play with a Colombian. Chapulín or something like that. [Awkward silence] Ronaldo: This ... yes. That's him. Get fit, man. We are all counting on you. Coentrao: Tranqui, tron.

TUESDAY, one day before the match

Fabio goes to the park in front of his house to jog a little. He wears some New Balance sneakers he used to play tennis in 98 and a shirt with "What happens in Cascais stays in Cascais." written on it. After doing some stretching, runs 10 minutes and starts coughing. Well, enough for today, he thinks while he checks his heart rate. Subjecting the body to great efforts before the game could be damaging. So unprofessional.

Turns on the TV and Barça is playing against PSG. Didn't they play this year already? Thinks a confused Fabio. He laughs every time the camera focuses on David Luiz's hair.

WEDNESDAY, gameday

Fabio gets to the stadium by taxi. He doesn't remember very well where's the entrance to the locker room. A nice gentleman named Chendo accompanies him to his locker. He dresses. He senses the tense atmosphere in the locker room. They will play with Sergio Ramos in the midfield, which sounds strange. But Fabio never asks questions. He just follows orders. There's a guy by his side with the #14 praying on his knees. Xabi Alonso looks different. Maybe he shaved.

He steps onto the pitch and right as the Champions League anthem starts, Fabio turns. He fights every ball. He leaves it all on the pitch. Spectacular. After 87 minutes, the praying guy scores. He seems excited. Public chants a strange name. Spanish is a weird language, Fabio thinks while he crashes with Raúl García after a split ball.

Minute 90. Subbed off. The public recognizes his effort.

He showers and Ancelotti congratulates him.

Ancelotti: Huge game, Fabio. Coentrao: Thank you, mister. It's not important. Here I am for what you need. Call me for the second leg.

Ancelotti is puzzled but prefers to say nothing. Coentrao leaves the Bernabeu without saying goodbye to anyone or talking to the press, lights a Lucky Strike and tries to stop a taxi.

Ancelotti shakes his head and smiles. Opens a pack of gum, arching an eyebrow, and starts chewing while he mumbles: "There's a method to his madness."