Leo, Don't Go! Poem by Anirudh Nair

An eventful morning in the month that marches,
Potential to add to the comeback belt's notches,
Saw shortly an hour and a half very stressful,
For Remontada 2.0 unsuccessful.

Lionel netted in what was to prove a lost cause,
A little before the inevitable pause,
Which, to this story, only served to append;
Speculation is rife that an era is to end.

Straight off the bridge our protagonist will now drive,
Every source, reliable and otherwise, contrives,
To poorly impersonate Nostradamus now,
With a flourish of epic proportions, and how!

To spout that he will now be trading capitals,
End of season, like a migrating animal,
A step back, if ever there was one, a bummer,
France, for Catalunya, with the winds of summer.

Apparently, parlez vous-ing Francais next year,
High up his agenda, to further his career,
And lay his hands on, like he used to before,
Europe's premier club competition just once more.

They've plenty in their coffers to sanction this move,
They might well throw in an exhibit in the Louvre,
Titled the Greatest Of All Time, to play the game,
Duh, or the Eiffel after Lionel chance rename.

No strangers to moving hell and earth with some cash,
Heaven hath picked another anthem to dubsmash,
'Allez Paris-Saint-Germain! ' getting a big no,
For he'll dance to the 'Cant del Barca' the Tango.

Leo and Barca, verily inseparable,
Though we may just delay the inevitable,
Sans whom the team would scarcely be competitive,
An issue addressing which is imperative.

On the off chance that you love the beautiful game,
I know I do, if to you it is all the same,
Then subscribe to Jonathan Wilson's view; I do,
And perhaps it's high time you all do so, too.

He postulates that football lovers will, with zeal,
Decidedly love Argentina, not Brazil,
Selfsame tagline of ‘Angels with Dirty Faces',
The game's beauty derives from one of those places.

The name does begin and end with the same letter,
With Hungarian influence, which made it better,
As beauty and football were set to be conjoined,
Long before the phrase 'Jogo Bonito' was coined.

One of those famous Angels with Dirty Faces,
Confirmed the truth by saying it to our faces,
That Leo is the best to ever kick a football,
Yet you won't see pride leading him toward a fall.

It's well known that lions do not heed the words of sheep,
But my silence I shall refuse to further keep;
Visca Barca, I shall bleat on nevertheless,
Without him, there's no way for the club to progress.

Barcelona was the spot where we saw the best,
Of trios blaze through Europe, stand out from the rest;
Skipper, Kowalski and Rico, told their stories,
At new field, Private yet to hatch in the quarry.

Octopus the Dave, as my friend wrongly called him,
Wore all-white and seven, swayed to another hymn,
‘Til an adventure in Art Nouveau beckoned to,
And called him away for same work but pasture new.

I shall give credit where it is due, after all,
For though their progress was derailed by order tall,
‘Twas a game in which our lads showed plenty of fight,
Sporting Senyera colours in City of Light.

Lady Luck did smile sheepish, not from ear to ear,
Skipper's European adventure ending right here,
With Blaugrana emblem above his heart, they said;
Culers disagree, even if they be misled.

Regardless of the result, I could only feel pride,
As luck alone did ensure no change in the tide,
And so I shall maintain till the end of my days;
The lads played only to win then, not to save face.

Breaking Xavi's record is just the beginning,
Prayer to which every Culer heart is pinning,
Itself to; A European triumph is called for,
Afore Skipper leaves, to add to his medals four.

Not that they are owed it, I shall cut you off there,
For every penny shelled out he earned fair and square,
And then some, since Rexach's paper napkin was signed;
A fact, even if he leaves for free by design.

Now, at the risk of sounding like a hypocrite,
It's a painful one, sure, but I must take this risk,
My first idol in the sport was a different 10,
Doing much the same but on other flank, Amen.

From Porto Alegre, a smiling assassin,
Nearly always made, in full flow, something happen,
Whose mantle as creative fulcrum was soon taken,
By Skipper, whose genius would later awaken.

My favourite, though, always does La Croqueta,
And goes by the nombre El Illusionista;
(Skipper's way better as a player, no question,)
He's still lighting up the Land of the Rising Sun.

Biggest moment, if one I'd have to pick, for sure,
One that paved the way for joy, via agony pure,
A dozen years ago, in minute 93,
A superb goal that led to eruption of glee.

A strange night it proved to be at the Bridge, London,
A season's worth of hard work so nearly undone,
But the tale had in it just one more little twist,
And it was Skipper who provided the assist.

Watching Barca was what made me love football, yes,
And all stories have to end sometime, I confess;
Kowalski's moved further west to wear red and white,
While Rico's currently in the City of Light.

Rico has gone on record as saying he wants,
(It is as though he wants, nay desires, all the taunts,)
To pull on the same jersey as Skipper, again,
But will not move back to make that event happen.

Since the signing of a new contract that's binding,
Rico picked Dave as his team's new marquee signing;
They share birthdays, true, but he's surely gone cuckoo,
Destined to captain a surely sinking ship, too.

Skipper's footwork was reason enough to admire,
Bang at the centre of a team built to inspire;
Much later I would, those tomes that explained, unearth,
Why the club mattered much, a la Hunter and Burns.

Let's reference the Pythagorean triplet,
La Masia triangle, famous worldwide, you bet,
Born and bred to adorn the esteemed halls,
Mestres titellaires de mig CAMP, el NOU fals.

The 2010 Ballon D'Or is a case in point,
Each as deserving as the other to anoint,
As the monarch of football for that very year,
Making History a nice side-effect right there.

To see that team revolutionize football was,
A happy accident, result of all the fuss,
On the training ground, Tiki-Taka in full flow;
Record after record tumbled in a stone's throw.

Skipper will leave at some point in the future, true,
Hopefully that's light years away, and not a few;
But in a perfect world, he'd only wear all-white,
For La Albiceleste, that would be some sight.

Speaking of, Copa America will be here,
Soon enough, if Gente de Zona you'd just hear;
That's the best way for Skipper to pay his tribute,
To El Diego's legend further contribute.

All decisions can wait until its conclusion,
But if he must depart amid this confusion,
Let it be to, a deep inner longing, give voice,
Win the Libertadores with Newell's Old Boys.

Maybe La Liga will agree with us on this,
If to retire the 10 at Barca be our wish,
Should that deeply saddening day soon enough dawn;
The club's History might well have to be redrawn.

'The night is darkest before the dawn' - Harvey Dent;
The dawn hath finally arrived there, heaven-sent,
The team now has a much younger spine, that is,
And know that means no more of 'It is what it is.'

All we ask of Skipper is a little patience,
Delay the inevitable coming cadence;
Swansong years may be here, but every Culer beams,
Thinking of the next all-conquering Barca team.

If we now paraphrase Jim Gordon to calm nerves,
Leo is the Captain that Barca sure deserves;
But we've all forgotten to act like so, of late,
Being taken for granted, sadly, too was his fate.

GOAT or not, we asked of him far too much, truly,
As the team he was tasked with carrying, cruelly;
We showed no concern for his poor overworked spine,
Hoping every touch Midas, else screaming decline.

Things are finally changing for the better, yes,
A reality once more, Mes Que Un Club, is;
Maybe UNICEF will now come back to the front,
A move I pray does not cause anyone affront.

Ultimately, the final say will soon be said,
By Leo himself and not by anyone else;
Whichever stadium to call home he will choose,
For us, he's one who always bleeds Garnet and Blue.

All the best for Brazil, and Qatar to follow,
With our best wishes and prayers to soon follow,
You, wherever and whenever you choose to go;
But this much I hope you'll always know, ‘fore you go.

Highest of highs and some other lows that we've shared,
You gave us nothing but the very best for years,
So whatever your choice, we all wish you the best,
For you deserve maybe more, but surely not less.

A humble plea I will at the end insert, sure,
Asking you, one last time, to stay longer, endure,
Though it is not my place to ask you to do so,
Leo, I beg of you, please, please, please, please, don't go!