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everything a party. Or tried to. Today he had a tough job ahead of him, convincing José to charm the public at a press conference. José planned to make him earn his keep. Let Francisco sweat for a bit.
    He took a right. “ I’m a soccer player, man. I hate interviews. I told you: I’m not a speaker .”
    Francisco ran a hand over his buzzed, blond hair. “ Remember what to say, right? Let’s practice .”
    José grinned. “ In English or Spanish? ”
    â€œ English. Come on, José. Practice .”
    Talking to David and the gang was one thing, but this on-demand interview practice was another. José puffed on his cigar, trying to calm himself. Get him on the field and he didn’t care what stood in his way. But interviews? He’d rather play one-on-eleven than sit with a microphone in his face. “I’m happy to . . . the opportunity . . . be here with all of you, with—”
    Tell me. Where did you learn English? Hooked on Phonics? ” “Francisco rolled his wrist, his own cigar circling its smoke. “ You have to say it with class. Maybe a little tear, a drop of emotion. ‘I am thrilled to be here in this outstanding presence of you beautiful people.’ Then you put on the hat .” He took off his leather cap, placed the team hat on his head, and continued. “ ‘I am . . . eh . . . ecstatic to be here in front of all you beautiful people today. I want to thank my wonderful manager, Francisco, et cetera, et cetera . . . Club Madrid, et cetera, et cetera.’ With great emotion. That’s how you do it .”
    â€œSí,” said José with a grin. “ I’ve got an even better idea. You do the interview .”
    Francisco drummed his fingers on the door, replying in kind. “ You’re right. I should do it. How do I look? ”
    â€œ Like you were born for this .”
    Francisco winked. “ Seriously. ”
    José jabbed his cigar toward the cap. “ That hat represents two million dollars. ”
    â€œ Two point two. We don’t round down. ”
    José could feel the celebration winds that blew around his chest that day, remembering what Francisco said, the words still jabbing him as he worked in his brother’s kitchen.
    Tomorrow, José, you will be in every magazine from Canada “ to Argentina. Your face is going to be everywhere. ”
    Yes, it would. But he needed to get through today, standing before reporters and photographers.
    Are you sure we need to take these shortcuts through the “ neighborhood, Francisco? Can’t we just get on 278? ”
    You’ve come with me this far, brother. Trust me to get you “ where you need to go. ”
    And José drove on. His sleek Italian shoes pressing the gas of his sleek old convertible. He sang with the music, cigar between his teeth. “‘Dance with me, make me sway . . .’ Hey, where’s the opener again? Is it Buenos Aires or Madrid? ”
    Don’t know yet. But I’m hoping it’s in my homeland . . . “ I’m telling you, man, Argentinean women are gorgeous. Can’t ask for more. ”
    José loved this song. “ ‘. . . Only you have that magic technique, when you sway I go weak . . .’ With their accents alone they get me .”
    Look, bro, they aren’t perfect . . . but they are Argentinean .” “Francisco grinned, raising his eyebrows.
    Yeah, too bad. Man, if you love it there so much, why don’t “ you move there?”
    Same reason you don’t move to Mexico .” He ran his thumb “along the tips of his fingers and lifted his eyebrows. It always came down to money.
    José poked his cigar toward the sun. “ Do you know, bro, why Argentineans look up at the sky and smile whenever lightning strikes?”
    â€œ Why ?”
    Because they think God likes them so much that he’s taking “ pictures of them .”
    â€œ