19 again: one more time with Pablo Hernandez - The Square Ball 7/10/22
EL MAGO
Written by: Rob Conlon
When Pablo Hernandez joined Castellon after leaving Leeds
United, his image was draped down the Marathon Tower opposite their ground, the
Estadio Municipal de Castalia. Hernandez was born and raised in Castellon,
watching football for the first time in that stadium with his dad, before
leaving for neighbouring Valencia and a pro career that scaled the heights of
the Champions League, international caps for Spain, and a mural on the side of
the Duck and Drake. In 2017, Hernandez and his dad were part of a consortium
that bought the club, saving Castellon from financial extinction. He returned
as a player three years later, completing his career by finally representing
the community that formed him.
A supporters’ bar a short walk from the tower and stadium
completes The Pablo Triangle in Castellon. It is a bar by definition — beer is
served there — more than appearance. The inside is stark, apart from a few
fridges and what looks like a washing machine. When I send a photo to my dad,
he ignores the Leeds scarves and flags and replies asking if I’m doing my
laundry.
As soon as I walk into the bar with my friend Sam, a member
of staff asks if we’re from Leeds, grinning at our response and bumping our
fists. He follows up his question by asking if we want a beer. By the entrance,
a Castellon badge is painted on the wall, covered in messages scrawled in felt
tip by Leeds fans. There’s the usual assortment of ‘Morley Whites’, ‘Miggy
Whites’, ‘Beeston and Berlin Whites’. I add Rothwell to the collection, Sam
adds LS5. In the top right corner, there’s a collection of messages saying,
‘Thank you Pablo’. The authentic Leeds look is completed by a solitary ‘Bates
Out’.
A small beer costs €1.50, about £1.50. We sit on a step in
the shade outside drinking ours. We’re about to watch Pablo Hernandez play for
Castellon, and life feels good.
The last time I saw Pablo play live was Leeds vs
Huddersfield, March 2020. I was watching from the Kop as he gently rolled a
pass into Jackie Harrison’s path at the opposite end of the pitch. Harrison
crossed to the back post. Luke Ayling detonated the atomic volley. And then we
weren’t allowed to leave our homes.
We knew that day might be the last time we went to Elland
Road for a little while, but we didn’t realise we’d have to wait almost
eighteen months. When football returned during the pandemic, lockdown became a
routine of counting the days between watching Pablo drag Leeds to promotion
from our living rooms. He produced a burst of inspiration to rival any artist,
culminating in his goal at Swansea, and a release from sixteen years of
purgatory.
One of the tragedies of that first season back in the
Premier League was that, while his mates were having the time of their lives
spooking the Super League Six, Pablo was denied the chance to bask in the
reward of his endeavour. A handful of appearances, a tiff with Marcelo Bielsa,
and he was waving goodbye in tears, saying farewell in front of a stadium that
was only allowed to be less than a third full.
Since returning to Elland Road as a fan, I’ll sometimes see
the player wearing the number 19 cleverly turn or play an incisive pass, and
briefly let myself imagine it’s Pablo. But it doesn’t matter if our new number
19, Rodrigo, is in one of his better moods, the magic just isn’t the same.
Travelling with Sam to Valencia, where we were staying
before the game in Castellon, became a pilgrimage to be bewitched by the old
number 19 for one last time. On the first day, we visited Hernandez’s former
stadium, Valencia’s Mestalla, hoping for a glimpse of a photo of Pablo or some
recognition of his contribution. Instead we were greeted by a huge image of
Valencia celebrating winning the 2019 Copa del Rey. Holding the trophy aloft
was our very own Rodrigo Moreno. The wrong 19 again. Around the stadium, a
timeline detailed 100 years of Valencia’s history. The section on reaching two
Champions League finals mentioned their semi-final win over Barcelona in 2000,
but not beating Leeds to reach the final the following year. I left a Holbeck
Moor FC sticker on a lamppost outside so there was at least one small mark of
Leeds, although we later found consolation in spotting a Smiley badge
graffitied on a wall by the cathedral.
That night we watched Barcelona beat Real Mallorca, missing
the only goal because the bar staff didn’t realise they had the channel to
watch the game, subjecting us to two old men commentating on a camera focused
on manager Xavi on BarcaTV. Raphinha came on in the second half, but didn’t do
much. Mallorca should have equalised in stoppage time when their forward
narrowly missed an excellent chance. He was wearing the number 19 shirt. Pablo
would have buried it.
Before getting the train to Castellon we stopped in a square
by the cathedral, testing the city’s signature drink, agua de Valencia, a
concoction of orange juice, champagne, vodka, and gin. It mainly tastes of
orange juice, but by the end of a glass you get a feeling that warns another
will leave you unable to feel your legs. I finished mine off, and realised I’d
not said anything to Sam for twenty minutes. I’d been watching a compilation of
Pablo’s goals for Leeds on my phone, reading his farewell message to
supporters, and trying to hide that I was welling up. I blame the orange juice.
An hour’s train journey took us to Castellon, and the beers
outside the supporters’ bar. The Castellon team bus pulled up outside, and we
tried to spot Pablo among the silhouettes behind the blacked out windows. In
the ground a young fan was sitting a few rows behind us wearing an Argentina
shirt with Messi on the back. Messi wore the number 19 during his early years
at Barcelona. The greatest footballer of all time never scored against West
Brom after seventeen seconds though.
Eventually Castellon start to warm up, and there he is. The
number 19 of my dreams. During a shooting drill, Pablo flicks a ball in the air
and backheels it without looking. It rolls perfectly into the path of a waiting
teammate. Shots are flying off target, until it’s Pablo’s turn. A cross comes
into the box and he side-foots a volley neatly past the goalkeeper into the far
corner of the net. Easy.
Castellon are facing Osasuna B. The two teams have the exact
same record in the league, both sitting just outside the play-offs. Pablo plays
behind the striker Dani Romera, a Carlos Tevez-lite bundle of energy and
aggression, minus the skill. Pablo is calm. He gets the ball in his own half
and lands a pass perfectly onto the head of Romera, who nods it down for a
teammate to volley narrowly over. He almost recreates his volley from the warm
up when a corner is played to him at the edge of the box, but his shot hits the
side netting with the goalie panicking.
The players around him don’t make it easy for Pablo to get
in the game. There are moments he is in a good position to score, but they
can’t find him with a pass. Their winger Fabricio causes problems with his
speed and power, but his touch is abysmal. At half-time, a group of
firefighters are paraded around the pitch for a lap of applause. The second
half kicks off, and Fabricio goes full Steve Morison, slicing a shot towards
the corner flag and hitting a fireman still leaving the pitch.
A corner leads to Castellon’s opener ten minutes into the
second half. They score with a slick counter late on to win 2-0, and Romera
runs off celebrating by shushing Osasuna’s number 19. Pablo has been subbed off
by that point, sitting on the bench right in front of us and spending the final
twenty minutes berating the linesman next to him. Shortly before he gets
substituted, a poor Osasuna touch leaves a loose ball by the nearside
touchline. Pablo is in a fifty-fifty with a defender. On the wall back in the
supporters’ bar, a fan had written ‘Pablo could nutmeg a mermaid’. The defender
clearly hadn’t seen the warning. Pablo puffs out his cheeks, gets to the ball
first, and nudges it through the defender’s legs. El Mago, pure and simple. At
full-time, one of his sons runs onto the pitch to get a hug from his dad.
We’d been told to wait around Gate 0 outside the ground if
we wanted to meet him afterwards. We hang around like two nervous school kids
for half an hour. Pablo walks out on his own holding his wash bag under his arm
and we awkwardly approach. I have never felt so nervous meeting someone. “Are
you guys from Leeds?” he asks, shaking our hands, thanking us for making the
trip, and immediately asking whether Leeds beat Aston Villa.
I remember reading Mike Skinner’s autobiography, and his
advice that if you meet someone you admire, you should ask them a really
specific question. Seeing Pablo lead Leeds out as captain to a guard of honour
from Wayne Rooney and Derby — HA! — after promotion had been secured was one of
my proudest days as a Leeds fan, so I ask him how hungover he was that day.
Straightaway I wish I’d have thought of something better. Pablo looks confused
why I’ve just asked him that, then tells me they expected to lose that game
because they’d been drinking for the previous two days, but he still felt
better than Mateusz Klich. Leeds won anyway, because he scored a belter. He
signs a print for Sam, and we both get photos with him. As I put my arm around him,
I can feel myself shaking. I look across to Sam, and notice his hand holding
his phone is also shaking. Pablo definitely notices too, but he’s a complete
gent. He chats with us a little longer, then shakes our hands and thanks us one
more time before we say our goodbyes.
We start walking back to Castellon station, past the
supporters’ bar, the stadium and tower behind us. We’re speechless, eventually
breaking the silence at the same time, both exhaling in what can only be
described as swoons, followed by fits of giggling. “There’s no topping that,”
Sam laughs. “Might as well die now.”
