Summer has arrived quietly, but it has carried more weight than any I can remember.

Two weeks ago, the call came from home. The kind of call you always know is coming, yet still aren’t prepared for when it finally arrives. The care home told me to hurry. As the eldest remaining child, the torchbearer since my father Jon passed, since my brother Iker left us far too early, there was no question. I had to go. I left Chur in the hands of Mikel Martija, trusting him as I always have, knowing that some decisions might still need my sign-off, but also knowing that football, in moments like this, must wait its turn.

Two days later, I was in Zarautz, sitting by my mother’s side. Ane. Fragile, drifting in and out, her memory fractured but her presence still unmistakably hers. We spoke in pieces – stories half-finished, names sometimes misplaced – but somewhere in between, we reconnected fully. She told me she was proud. Of the man, of the father, of the coach. I don’t know if she knew how much I needed to hear that, but I told her what I had carried for years: thank you. For the upbringing. For the sacrifices. For the quiet strength that shaped everything I am. It felt like a closing of a circle, gentle and dignified, the way she always was.

On the day she died, I woke in Zarautz to another phone call. Different. Unexpected.

“Boss, are you free?”

It was Zidan Tairi.

I had spent five years with him. Five years of conversations, of work, of growth. Before I could even reply, he told me he was at the airport. He wanted to come. To pay his respects. He didn’t need to say more. I knew. This was his goodbye, even if neither of us was ready to name it as such.

Slovan Bratislava had been circling for weeks. I knew the numbers. A package worth six times what he earned here. The promise of being the first name on the team sheet. Certainty, after two difficult seasons in which football had sometimes come hard to him. Our second highest goal contributor in modern Chur history was preparing to move on. But that wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have.

He stayed in a small local hotel and came to the funeral with me. He stood quietly, respectfully, never intrusive, always present. He gave me space when I needed it and words when I didn’t know how to find my own. In that moment, he wasn’t a player, and I wasn’t a manager. We were two men navigating loss, bound by years of shared trust. I didn’t tell him outright that I believed the move was right for him. That idea more football, more responsibility, a new challenge, was what he deserved. I didn’t need to. I think he knew. Zidan always did.

He wasn’t born in Graubünden. He didn’t grow up with its mountains or its dialects. But he embodied everything I’ve tried to build here: humility, professionalism, emotional intelligence, and courage. He represented Chur in the truest sense – through his work, his respect, and his humanity. And yes, he was a very good footballer too.

We leave things behind – people, places, versions of ourselves. But we carry others with us. Always.