To the People Who Carried Me

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Last February, I had to watch the most depressing PowerPoint of my life. 

I was in an office at the training ground, wearing a protective boot. The club doctor and the chief physio were going slide by slide. 

“As this picture shows, it’s a stress fracture in your right foot….”

Click.

“This scan shows that it’s pretty bad.”

Click.

The title race was on. The World Cup was close. My wife was pregnant. 

“And this slide shows….”

I was thinking, OK, I get it. How long?

The doctor said, “Six months.”

I was too shocked to even feel sad. I just did the math in my head. The World Cup was four months away. 

I said, “Are you sure???”

He said, “Mikel, I’m sorry. It’s impossible.”

The situation was even worse, because the specialist who did the scan had never seen a stress fracture in that part of the foot. He’d been doing this for 30 years. He had called five of the best specialists in the world, and none of them had seen it either. Nobody knew how my foot would recover, or if it would recover at all. Part of me feared that I would never play football again. 

I drove home in silence. 

When I told my wife, Lola, what the doctor said, that’s when I broke down. My brain already understood, but my heart needed me to say it out loud. 

The next few days were some of the hardest of my life. First I thought, I can’t believe I’ll miss another one. 

In 2022, I played in the qualifiers, but I did not make the final squad. My mom says I’m crazy, because as a kid I told everyone that I was going to win the World Cup. My dad was a player and a coach, but even he said, “Son, that’s a very difficult dream.” By the 2030 World Cup, I’d be nearly 34. I was in the form of my life. This one might be my last chance.

When the fog had cleared a little, I thought, Wait, this must have happened for a reason. 

I think I have an angel on my shoulder. I’m actually fortunate to be alive at all. I was 20 and playing for Dortmund when three pipe bombs went off right next to our bus on the way to a Champions League match. A lot of young people probably would not even believe that it happened, or how bad it was, but it marked us all. There was a deafening noise, and then I remember the bus nearly tipping over. I looked behind me and saw blood on the floor. Smoke, screams. I remember being at the hospital later that night, waiting for Marc Bartra, who had his wrist badly cut up. The next day, someone told me that a huge piece of shrapnel was lodged in the headrest of the seat next to Marc. My usual seat. 

That day, the seat was empty. 

My legs were feeling a bit tight, and the seats in the front reclined. So I sat up there instead, and it may have saved my life.

So yeah, I just have this belief that things happen for a reason.

And then finally, I thought....

Nah. 

Nah, I have to play. 

I will be at the World Cup, no matter what.

I put all the meat on the barbecue, as we say in Spain. They told me they could drill two screws into my foot to give it support. I was like, Vamos, put ’em in. 

The morning after the operation, I’m in bed at home. As you can imagine, I’m all numb and shattered. My body is pumped with anaesthesia. Suddenly…. 

DING DONG.

Lola goes downstairs. 

“Mikel, there are three people here, and they want to do a test.”

I look at the clock. 

07.03

I’m half asleep going, “What? Where? Who?”

Doping control. 

Man … I was like, I understand you have to do your jobs, but I’m half dead here, I can’t even walk on my own! And you guys decide to show up at 7 am?? I had to limp out of the bedroom on crutches, still kind of high. 

I was not happy.

That’s why we call them vampires. They want your blood, and they show up when you least expect it. 

The boss had been briefed about my injury, but I had to call Luis de la Fuente. I told him everything the doctors had said, minus the “impossible” part. Luis could have ruled me out on the spot, but he said, “Good luck. I’ll keep an eye on you. Take care of yourself, and your wife.”

That’s Luis. 

He would name the squad in late May.

I had less than four months.

I was on crutches for the first two months. I missed the team. Lola and I love London, but in winter it gets dark at like 3 pm. As Spaniards, it’s hard. I was dealing with the worst injury of my career. She was around six months into her pregnancy, and she was getting bigger every day.

I should have been doing everything for her, but she even had to help me walk up the stairs. I’ll never forget those moments. My arm around her shoulder, trying not to fall, waiting for her to help me up. 

“Left foot up, cariño….”

I couldn’t go to the supermarket. Couldn’t even get myself a glass of water. 

“Ayyy, honey, I forgot the book downstairs. Could you get it, please?”

Honestly, it got to a point where I was ashamed to ask her. 

She had to walk the dog, too, but one day I said, “Enough.” I had to do something. I bought a red mobility scooter. The next morning, I was cruising down the street with the dog on a leash. She had her tongue out, ears flapping, looking at me all the time, maybe to see if I would increase the speed. 

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I was so slow!! You could walk past me. It was actually hilarious. Sometimes I hid behind sunglasses and a cap, but other days I couldn’t be bothered, and my neighbours spotted me. 

“Blimey, Mikel has really lost it, hasn’t he?” 

I’m just happy they didn’t film it and put it online, hahahaha. I can’t even imagine the memes.

What wasn’t so funny was Wolves.

One slip, and all we heard was “same old Arsenal.” To be honest, there were doubts inside the team too. Giving away a 2–0 lead should never happen. But the day after the game, the players had a meeting inside the dressing room, without the boss. Everyone spoke up. Nobody talked about tactics. This was about how a group of human beings handle adversity together. I spoke about how I saw the team from the outside, and I said that this was something we as players had to handle, because the boss couldn’t do everything for us. When one person has so many tasks at one club, you need leaders who can figure things out on their own. 

Well, at this club, we do.

In my view, that was the day we won the title.

Even when we lost to Bournemouth and City, that meeting kept us together. We decided to use all the criticism as fuel, and thanks to social media we saw everything. 

We were bottlers. Runners-up. Second, second, second. Boring. Set-piece team. Couldn’t score from open play. Couldn’t handle the pressure. When they questioned our professionalism, we grew even closer. 

The guy with the bottle on TV? We just laughed.

“Bantah,” like the English say.

The boss was on fire. Every team talk, he reached into our hearts. He spoke about looking out for one another, like a family. The culture we have is thanks to him. Even when the world expected us to collapse, I felt confident that the title would be ours.

But it’s funny how you can obsess about a title, as if it’s the most important thing in your life, and suddenly, you’re holding something much more precious.

We knew it would be a boy. I remember turning up for an ultrasound on crutches, and Lola’s bump was hidden under her clothes, so everyone thought we were there for me! On the screen, we could see a little peanut.

“See that tiny flicker? That’s the heart.” 

A miracle. Isn’t it incredible how nature can spark life out of nowhere?

The birth was complicated though, because our boy was big. The labour took a long time, and I have never seen Lola fight so hard. I say “fight,” because it’s like in sport, when you give all you have to make something happen, and you suffer, you’re in pain, but you know that in the end it will all be worth it. 

30 April 2026. 

Marco Merino. 

He was dirty. Blue skin. Crying. 

The most beautiful little boy in the world.

A few days later, I had my first training session after the injury. Three months of recovery done. The World Cup squad would be announced in three weeks. I was thinking, Today we stop, or we move forward. 

I laced up my boots and did a little jog. 

No pain.

Finally, I could see the light.

Ten days after Marco was born, we played West Ham, and it was almost unbearable. Sometimes I would travel with the team to be part of the group, but as a new dad, I wanted to watch this one from the sofa, like a fan. When VAR ruled out their equaliser…… 

“VAMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOS!!!!!!!!!”

I went nuts. 

Suddenly, I heard a sound.

“U-hu … u-hu … u-huuuuuuuu.”

Marco was crying. 

I’d woken him up.

Lola started yelling at me.

I just held my hand up. My bad.

Once we knew that City had to win their next game to stay in the race, the boss pushed training back so that we could watch it together at Colney. We must have been a hundred people in the dining hall: players, staff, cooks, all celebrating throw-ins and shouting at the ref. 

When Bournemouth scored, I got up and went for a walk. 

I love to analyse the tactics, but this time I had to calm down. Then City equalised, and I had my heart in my throat, hammering away at 200 beats per minute. The next thing I remember is the final whistle. Screams. Hugs. Champagne. Pure joy. 

I let out the biggest roar of my life, just releasing all the pain and the doubt.

Bottlers. 

Runners-up. 

Champions.

When I had calmed down, I went downstairs to the gym alone, and I called Lola and my parents. When I went back up, we all jumped into the swimming pool, singing Arsenal songs. Down in the city centre, the streets were packed, N5 was going crazy. 

22 years. 

But I was never going to dance on the table and down six rum and cokes. In five days, we played Palace away. In six days, Luis would name the World Cup squad. 

Zero minutes in four months. How do you call up a player like that? 

I spent all week arguing with the boss and the physios. The plan was for me to return for the Champions League final, and even that was risky. But I had to show Luis that I was ready. Finally, they agreed to give me half an hour against Palace. The weird part was that I felt like a rookie, like I had to relearn how to play football. The other guys were so relaxed now that the title was won, but when I came on, I was a wreck. The ball went so fast I could barely see it. I was exhausted. 

That day, I was playing for the World Cup, 100%. And after that, I thought I had a good chance. For weeks, I had made sure that Luis saw anything that showed how well I was doing: charts, stats, reports, my max speed, even videos. (Maybe one day I’ll send him all the stuff that was cut out, hahaha.) 

The next day, I turned on Spanish TV. The federation had made this amazing video about how the national team belongs to the people, so Luis wasn’t reading out the names. He had given the honour to Spanish everyday heroes. I was sitting on the sofa going, Please, please please…. 

At some point, the screen showed a woman in a vineyard. 

“........ Mikel Merino!!”

I hugged Lola. I kissed Marco. My phone blew up with messages. 

I was going to the World Cup.

Saying goodbye to my family was incredibly difficult. I was leaving behind the two people I love the most, at a moment when Marco was one month old. I knew that Lola needed me a lot. Marco probably needed me even more. It’s so hard to deal with the pressure of delivering for your country while you’re leaving the most important part of your life behind. 

Once I was at the World Cup, I didn’t just want to be there. I wanted to be important, to win it. But after 0–0 to Cape Verde, the media really killed us. It’s true that we weren’t at our best, but we needed time to get going, and also, come on. We’re Spain. We won the Euros. I was actually this close to posting a photo of Spain losing to Switzerland in the first game at the 2010 World Cup. We all know how that ended. So don’t write us off. Don’t give up on us. 

The tournament started for real in the knockouts. When we were about to play Portugal in the round of 16, my dad flew to Dallas with his lucky socks. 

As a player, he used to celebrate goals by circling the corner flag. When I scored against Germany at the Euros in 2024, I did the same, and it was huge news all over the world, especially since it was in Stuttgart, where my dad had scored the goal of his career for Osasuna in the UEFA Cup 33 years earlier. Someone sold socks that showed me doing the celebration, and my dad gave them to me as a gift. 

I was like, “Dad, come on.…”

He said, “What do you mean?”

I said, “They’re cool, but I can’t wear my own socks.” 

He said, “Fine, I’ll wear them myself!”

Spain 0–0 Portugal.

Five minutes left….

Luis put me on as a striker. Of course, I’m not really a striker. When Havertz was injured early last year, and I had two weeks of people online telling me that I should play up front, I just laughed. Me? Up front? At Dortmund, I played a few games at centre-back! But since it has worked so well at Arsenal, Luis also started playing me there, and honestly, I love it. I’m not fast, but I see the game as a whole. Even before I started playing there, I thought a lot about how the striker should move. 

When Ferran got the ball outside the box, I saw a space open up at the heart of their defence. I ran in behind. The ball was perfect. 

Don’t touch it, just finish.

Left foot. 

Gol.

Somewhere in the stands, a middle-aged man with grey hair and ugly socks was going crazy.

After that game, I got the best present I could have imagined: My wife and my son. Lola had flown for 12 hours with him just to be there with me. 

“MARCOOOOOO!!!”

I held him in my arms. But I noticed right away.

He was a lot heavier. 

His cheeks were chubbier. 

I was only gone for one month, and he was not the same boy as before. That was really tough for me. And that’s why the Belgium game was so special. Scoring another late winner was crazy enough, but to do it in front of my family? After that injury? It felt like a movie where I had no say in the story, I only got a role to play, and I’m so grateful that this was the one that fell to me. 

When I met Lola and Marco at the hotel afterwards, we kissed and we cried. We had no words. That goal was for her. Without her support during this time, I would have been watching the game from the sofa in London.

My dad was there, too. The first thing he did was to pull up his trouser legs and laugh.

“These socks scored two goals!!”

He was wearing them every game, and we were playing every four days. I just hope he’s got more than one pair. 

By that point, we were very hard to beat. Maybe we were not the best team at the World Cup, but we felt that there was nobody better than us, either. Not even France. Everyone thought they would beat us, and we actually talked about it at dinner. For sure, they have superstars everywhere, incredible players, but we all grew up with the same system and culture, and we understand football in the same way. To score against us, you need the ball. And taking the ball off Spain is very, very hard.

The best part about the final was that we forgot it was a final. We just played it. Our young guys, they are so confident that they’re almost disconnected from reality. I really admire it. They live in their own world where the pressure is just talk, and the game is a game, as if they are still kids. That is the best way to play. 

On the bench, I was so present. All I saw was 11 versus 11. Pressure, angles, movements. When I came on, I simply felt honoured. My dad always said, “Pressure is a privilege.” You can lose, but don’t let it be due to fear. 

And I was close. So close. 

Man..................

That header. I’ve already spent hours talking to my dad about it. You see, the problem was that I didn’t move my feet fast enough, so I could not connect with the ball as well as I wanted. The moment I headed it, something felt off. Argh!

“You have to score that.”

I still hear it everywhere. Bars. Restaurants. On the streets. Even my family keeps reminding me. 

“A Merino doesn’t miss that.”

“Yes, Grandma, I know.”

“But darling, how could you not score?”

ARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.

Maybe Dad forgot to wear the socks.

Anyway, I felt we’d get more chances. When they put on a third centre-back, I knew I was causing trouble. You need your striker to stretch the defence so that there’s space for the midfielders to run into, and when I saw Pedro Porro about to cross it, I just attacked the box. I drew three players with me, and Ferran had so much space. 

1–0.

I thought, That’s it. 

Huge mistake. It’s so hard to stop the brain from relaxing. We had been in total control, and all of a sudden Argentina were pinning us back. The ball felt heavier. We couldn’t clear it. We couldn’t keep it, even with one man more. 

Fortunately, we knew how to suffer. At one point, Messi lined up to shoot just outside the box, and I was like, No, not him.

I moved forward to close him down, one metre away. 

He hit it hard.

BANG. Right in my face.

I went down like I’d been shot, which I had. 

I got hit so hard that I was actually blind in one eye for the rest of the match. For a moment, I was really worried. But when the whistle went, I just felt this surge of relief, because we hadn’t messed it up. And then this image appeared in my mind.

Me as a kid, with a ball. 

No text, no poetry, just that image. I could see the kid tell his mom that, one day, he would win the World Cup. Now, that little kid was running around on a pitch in New Jersey, as a world champion. 

It was difficult, yes. But not impossible.

My family came down from the stands to hug me. And then I remember going to the dressing room and stealing some stuff from the celebrations. A few packs of lomo and serrano ham. Some bread, some snacks. About 15 cans of beer. I stuffed it all in a bag and brought it for my family, and then we gathered in a circle on the pitch and had a little picnic. It’s a tradition we often have, me and my wife, after a victory.

We like the park. This time, we had the MetLife. 

I can still taste that moment. I remember looking around at the Spanish fans in the stands, so happy. Cucurella was probably calling his tattoo artist. Luis was being hugged by everyone. Less than six months earlier, a PowerPoint had told me this could never happen. I looked at the people I love, and I thought, I cannot ask any more of life. 

Still today, I can’t fully believe that it happened. 

Really, I can only say thank you. 

To Dad, for his mentorship, and the lucky socks.

To Mom, for letting me dream.

To Marco, for being the centre of my universe.

And to Lola, for helping me up the stairs.

You never let me fall.

— Mikel