Prologue: Part Thirty

The sun rose early over Urbieta this morning – the kind of soft, orange light that settles low between the stands and paints the dew on the grass gold. Pre-season, and yet the town already feels alive again. After everything that’s happened – departures, uncertainty, reflection – football has returned to our small Basque corner, and with it, something close to peace.

Today was the first day I met the new signings. The group feels different now – younger in spirit, hungrier, less burdened by the fear of expectation. But there’s experience too. None more so than Rubén Pardo. When he arrived, there was an immediate stillness in the dressing room. Everyone knows who he is – the midfielder who once dictated rhythm at Anoeta, who wore the blue and white of Real Sociedad with quiet authority. He greeted each player one by one, firm handshake, easy smile.

He spoke about wanting to belong again – not just play, but belong. About the simplicity of Gernika, about being part of something pure after years in bigger, noisier places. It struck me how alike our journeys felt: both of us searching for something rooted, something that still made sense in a football world that changes too quickly.

That evening, we played our first friendly of the summer – Eibar B, under the warm haze of late daylight. A modest game, nothing that would echo beyond Bizkaia, but for us, it was a marker. The kind of small, silent test that tells you what your team might become. 6-1 winners. A rout. Domination. Afterwards, as the players walked off, I stayed behind for a moment, watching the sunset melt into the trees behind the stand. The crowd wasn’t large – maybe a few hundred – but they clapped with the kind of warmth that comes from knowing what effort looks like. I felt proud. Proud not because of the scoreline, but because I could sense the culture taking root. The unity we’d spoken about all winter was finally visible, alive on the pitch. Back in my office, Pardo stopped by again before leaving. He said,

“Mister, hoy fue diferente. Se siente como un principio.”
Today felt different. It feels like a beginning.

I nodded. Maybe it was.

I drove home that night with the windows open, the air thick with summer. The road from Gernika to Zarautz felt endless and free – one of those rare evenings when everything aligns just enough for you to believe you’re where you’re meant to be. Looking back now, I didn’t know what was waiting for me on the horizon. But that night, beneath the soft Basque sky, I felt something rare – clarity.

—-

It came in the early hours, the kind of hour when bad news always seems to arrive.

The phone rang three times before I answered, still half-dreaming, half-listening to the sea outside my window. The voice on the other end was trembling, uncertain, searching for words. My brother Iker, four years my senior, had been visiting our uncle Xabier in Graubünden. They’d spent the afternoon driving along the Oberalp Pass, the kind of journey they’d both made a dozen times before. There had been an accident – a collision in the rain, somewhere between Disentis and Trun.

Iker was gone.

The words sat there in the dark, incomprehensible at first. I remember the sound of my own breathing more than the voice delivering the news. A dull, rhythmic sound. Like the sea pulling at the rocks, over and over again. When I finally hung up, the room was silent – utterly, impossibly still. My first thought was for Ane, my mother. Then for Xabier, who had somehow survived with minor injuries. And then, inevitably, for Gernika – for the team, the players, the plans waiting for me that week. It was ridiculous, maybe, but the brain tries to cling to normality when the heart collapses.

I don’t remember much of that day except the phone calls. The first was to Juan José Pradas, the president. He answered almost immediately. “Iñaki, buenos días. How are you?” My voice caught in my throat before I could respond. I told him everything as best I could – the accident, the call, my need to travel to Switzerland. There was a long silence. Then, softly:

“No pienses en el club ahora. Tienes que irte. La familia siempre primero.”
“Don’t think about the club now. You must go. Family always comes first.”

He didn’t press, didn’t ask when I’d return. He simply said that Gernika would wait – that whatever time I needed, I could take it. I thanked him, though the words felt hollow. The journey north blurred into one long strip of grey – sea to mountains, sorrow to numbness. Crossing the Swiss border felt like walking into a memory I’d forgotten I’d ever owned. The air smelled of pine and rain, the peaks still capped with snow even in July. Iker and I had spent summers here as boys, running through the pastures behind Xabier’s old house, kicking a ball that would always roll downhill faster than we could chase it. When I arrived in Chur, I went straight to the hospital. Xabier was there, bruised but alive, his eyes heavy with a grief that words couldn’t ease. He kept repeating the same thing:

“He wanted to see the mountains one more time.”

The funeral was small – just family, a few of Iker’s friends, and the stillness of the valley. I stood by the grave and felt the strange collision of two worlds – the Basque fire that shaped me, and the Swiss calm that always steadied me. It was only days later, after the silence had stretched too long, that I made the second call to Pradas. He answered again on the first ring.

“President,” I began, but my voice broke almost immediately. “I can’t do this anymore.”

I explained that I couldn’t lead the team, not now – not with my mother unwell, not with my uncle needing care, not with my brother’s voice still echoing through every quiet moment. He didn’t interrupt. Just listened. When I finally ran out of words, he exhaled – the kind of long, resigned breath that carries understanding.

“Iñaki,” he said, “you’ve given this club more than results. You gave it dignity. You leave with our respect – and our door open.”

I thanked him, though it barely felt enough. After I hung up, I sat by the window of Xabier’s home, watching the evening light settle over the mountains. The world felt both vast and impossibly small. That night, I walked outside and let the mountain air fill my lungs. For the first time in months, I felt something like purpose flicker again – faint, uncertain, but alive. Gernika had been my forge. But now, perhaps, Switzerland would be my reflection. Not an escape, but a continuation – the next step in a story that began long before football ever did. I don’t know what comes next. But I know I’m not finished.

And I know that somewhere, on a quiet Basque street or a winding Alpine road, Iker is still walking beside me.