Capítulo 97: Old soldiers never die;they just fade away
The next day, Aldrich casually approached a doctor in the hospital, paid for a hospital room, and then gently carried Melanie, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder at dawn, inside. He laid her on the bed and covered her with a blanket. Stepping out of the hospital, he leaned against a wall outside and lit a cigarette.
Before long, Melanie dashed out of the hospital, and upon seeing Aldrich smoking outside, she slowed her pace and approached him, saying softly, "I'm going to buy breakfast."
"No, let me handle it. You don't speak the language," Aldrich replied, turning to head toward a nearby restaurant. But just then, he noticed Puskás's wife, Elizabeth, walking toward him, gripping her handbag tightly and looking very anxious.
From her expression, Aldrich sensed that she was wary of thieves or muggers. Budapest's safety was notoriously chaotic, being a hub of diverse characters and the largest black market in Europe.
Aldrich stepped closer to her, and she visibly relaxed.
"Elizabeth, there's money in your bag, right?" Aldrich asked candidly.
Elizabeth nodded.
"Keep the money. I'll take care of Ferenc's medical expenses," Aldrich insisted firmly.
Puskás's condition was untreatable, requiring constant care, and medication only slowed the progression of the illness.
However, Elizabeth shook her head resolutely.
A pained look crossed Aldrich's face as he said, "Elizabeth, please don't refuse. Really, your health isn't good either. If you see me as your child, just accept my help. Do you want me to watch you both suffer?"
Elizabeth, who had diabetes, hesitated, her voice strained. "Aldrich, you're such a good kid, but we can't accept your help."
"Remember what Ferenc said? That I'm a stubborn person? Just let me be stubborn this once," Aldrich pressed.
Seeing the bloodshot eyes of Aldrich, who hadn't slept all night, Elizabeth sighed heavily and finally stopped resisting.
She entered the hospital to visit Puskás, while Aldrich took Melanie to a nearby diner for breakfast.
As they sat in the ordinary diner, Melanie curiously remarked, "Puskás used to be a superstar."
Aldrich understood her underlying implication and replied flatly, "In those days, playing football could make you famous, but it didn't make you rich. They earned as much as miners."
Realization crossed Melanie's face. "What if we tell Real Madrid about this…"
Aldrich suddenly said with disdain, "Don't mention Real Madrid!"
Realizing he had lost his temper, he closed his eyes and said softly, "I'm sorry, I'm just in a bad mood. It's not directed at you."
Aldrich had long harbored a deep resentment for Millwall, as he had witnessed football hooligans beating rival fans in the chaotic '80s. With Real Madrid, aside from his relationship with Puskás, he felt indifferent—neither particularly fond nor disliking.
But in this moment, because of Puskás, Aldrich felt a surge of aversion towards Real Madrid.
He vividly remembered that in the original timeline, ten years later, when Puskás, now impoverished due to medical expenses, was forced to sell his trophies, Real Madrid learned of this and promptly came to offer condolences, even organizing a charity match for him.
The star-studded Galácticos arrived in Budapest, where Real Madrid's stars gained immense popularity, and then gracefully departed.
Using Puskás's name, the charity match raised nearly $100,000, yet less than a tenth of that ever reached Puskás's family!
The following year, Puskás passed away.
Without a doubt, Real Madrid was merely there for show; otherwise, how could they leave without even confirming Puskás's most urgent medical expenses?
Year after year, they spend tens or even hundreds of millions in transfer fees to build the "Galaxy", but are stingy and unwilling to provide meager medical expenses for the club's glorious legend.
It seemed Real Madrid had forgotten who had made them so noble in the first place!
Before the 1950s, although Real Madrid was born into privilege and noble blood, their record didn't make them particularly distinguished. It wasn't until the '50s, with five consecutive European Cup victories, that they could stand proud as giants in Europe. During that glorious five-year stretch, Puskás was crucial for the last two championships, leading the team to five league titles and four consecutive top scorer awards. He remains the fourth-highest scorer in Real Madrid history, with only three players ahead of him: Di Stéfano, Santillana, and Sánchez.
As it stands, during the 95-96 season, Real Madrid fans could count with their fingers; thirty years had passed since they last claimed the Champions League trophy!
Thirty years ago, when that glorious era ended, Puskás was still on the team.
All Real Madrid could show off now was that past glory.
But even so, Puskás was merely a pawn in their global commercialization a decade later.
While boasting about their history, they would still mention Puskás's name.
With the years before his rebirth, Aldrich has nearly lived fifty years, witnessing the ebb and flow of the world. He has come to understand that football is far from perfect, filled with betrayal, indifference, and hatred, and that turning enemies into friends happens faster than flipping a page. Yet he is not a saint; knowing all this, he still finds it hard to remain unperturbed.
Even with his presence preventing history from repeating itself, a flame of anger still simmered inside him. It took much time for him to quell that fire, deeming it unnecessary and unworthy!
He wanted Puskás to receive the best treatment, to ensure his family lived more comfortably; that was far more meaningful than endless hatred.
After breakfast, when Aldrich returned to the hospital, he spotted a thin young man outside the ward. The man looked around twenty-five or twenty-six, sporty yet scholarly, wearing glasses that made him appear somewhat dazed.
"Nagy!" Aldrich called softly from outside.
Naji-Sandur turned around in astonishment to face Aldrich, then approached him, reached out his hand, and said sincerely, "I didn't think you'd actually show up."
The international letter had been sent to Aldrich by Nagy, who was part of the Hungarian national team coaching staff and had worked alongside Aldrich for six months—his only friend in Hungary aside from Puskás.
Instead of shaking Nagy's hand, Aldrich hugged him indignantly and said, "Why would you say that? Do you think I'm heartless?"
Nagy sighed and replied honestly, "No, it's just that you're very busy. I thought if you came, it would be around mid-September."
Aldrich grasped the implication of the statement: mid-September was the time for FIFA match days.
The two conversed in the corridor about Puskás's illness before the discussion shifted back to football.
"The issues are deeply rooted; we need to rebuild the youth training infrastructure. Hungary has completely faded from the football map. Our generation was the last to experience glory," Nagy said sadly.
Hungarian football had declined. It was nearly impossible to produce a strong team as in the past fifty years. The world was changing, and football had become more scientific; it wasn't simply about assembling rugged players from the military.
Aldrich gently patted his shoulder and said, "You can't change much, really. Football is a bottom-up game. Without a solid foundation, there's no strong structure above it. Come back to London with me; honestly, you understand my football philosophy better than anyone else. Together, we can build something astonishing."
Although Nagy appeared to be a bookworm, he seemed to carry the essence of half a century's worth of Hungarian café football culture; he was a tactical enthusiast. He could study tactics with Aldrich tirelessly throughout the night. However, his personality made him unsuitable for managing an adult team. He was serious and could articulate tactics well, but he lacked what was most important in football: passion.
"I'll decide next month," Nagy said softly.
After pondering briefly, Aldrich understood.
Nagy was still holding onto a glimmer of hope to remain in Hungary.
As the Euro '96 qualifiers reached their climax, Hungary faced Switzerland, Sweden, Iceland, and Turkey in their group, finding themselves in a precarious position. There was only a theoretical chance of qualification; if they didn't win their next match against Turkey, their hopes would be dashed.
Aldrich nodded, "Alright, I'll wait for your response next month."
If Nagy could help him, it would be a significant advantage. Although Nagy lacked the talent to manage an adult team, his training abilities and implementation of football philosophy were commendable. His patience and insight in nurturing young players were admirable, something Aldrich felt he lacked. After all, he wasn't patient enough to correct players' bad habits; to him, players showcased their abilities, and if they had flaws, he simply didn't have the time for individual corrections. The first-team coach's role wasn't about teaching how to play but enabling skilled players to contribute to team play.
After spending another day in Budapest, Aldrich paid Puskás's medical expenses and began contacting the best hospitals in the UK. He would do everything he could to ensure the senior received top-level medical care.
Upon returning to London on Wednesday, he hurried northeast to the town of Cleethorpes in Lincolnshire, where Millwall was set to face Grimsby in the League Cup.
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