The silence of the hospital room was a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the Westfalenstadion. The smell of antiseptic had replaced the scent of freshly cut grass. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was a poor substitute for the thunderous roar of the Yellow Wall. For Mateo Alvarez, this sterile, soulless room was a prison, a world away from the heaven and hell he had experienced just a few hours earlier.
The physical pain in his ankle was a dull, throbbing ache, a constant reminder of Sergio Ramos's cynical, dream-shattering tackle. But it was nothing compared to the emotional agony that consumed him. The two goals, the heroic performance, the miracle that had been so tantalizingly close, it had all been for nothing. He had given everything, and it had not been enough. The game he loved had never felt so cruel, so unjust.
