Mamá, This Is for You

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Watching my mother’s feet as she danced the bachata in our living room. 

One two three, one two three. 

The warmth of her. The warmth of our house. 

That’s what I think about when I want to go home again in my dreams. 

She would always listen to Aventura. I think it was because of the pain of her separation from my father. He left when I was born. Every night, after working to the bone, she would come home and play her music. 

I think I was maybe 8 years old. All I wanted to do was dance with her. It was my mission. 

Unfortunately, I was a terrible dancer. I spent months looking down at her feet, trying to imitate her. 

One two three, one two three. 

I never looked up at her face. Just the feet. Trying to keep the beat. 

One two three, one two three. 

Damn. 

One two three, one two three. 

I don’t know how long it took me. Maybe a year. But one day I finally heard her say, “There you go! Willian, you got it! You got it!” 

I looked up at her face, and she was smiling so big.

God, what a memory. 

I guess that’s how I learned how to use my feet. 

I had no concept of what a “footballer” was. I just played. In Ecuador, at that time, you didn’t dare to dream that someone would pay you for it. In fact, my dream was to be a naval officer. My godmother’s husband showed up one day in his clean white uniform, and I was obsessed with it. 

“They pay you to sail? And they give you that cool kit? Please take me with you!!” 

I always loved uniforms. And I always wanted to be somebody. 

One day, someone wanted to sign me up for a club team in the neighborhood, and my mom said, “Football? It’s just a hobby. How can you feed your family with football?”

I don’t think she ever got used to it. To her, it was just what I did after school.

Still, she always supported me.

In the mornings, she ran a food stall by my sister’s school. I used to be so excited when she brought home the leftover empanadas at the end of the day. I would go crazy for them. At night, she made extra money by washing clothes for some people in the neighborhood. No washing machines. Just her hands and a bucket.

And then there were the pigs. 

We lived by the edge of the mountain in Quinindé, so we kept a little farm in the backyard. A bit of an "improvised" farm, if you understand what I mean. 

When times were tough, we had skinny chickens. 

When times were better, it was pigs. 

I think the local council had some issues with that, but my mom was a charming woman. Everyone loved her. Every Christmas, there was a nice slice of pork waiting for them, so they would look the other way.

And what do pigs eat? The leftovers. The scraps. 

A dirty business. 

Well, guess whose job it was to feed the pigs?  

“Willian! Ahoritaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!”

I would always be playing football in the street, pretending I couldn’t hear her.

“Willian! Ahoritaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!” 

Man, I would be testing the limits. One more minute with the ball was precious. 

“Mom, I’m coming! I’m coming!”

You know how mothers have their special phrase they always say, and it means it’s serious?”

She would say, “Right now means RIGHT NOW!!!”

That was the signal that I really had to go. 

I would knock on the doors of all the neighbors, and they would come out with their garbage bins. I would be up to my elbows in rice, picking out the bones. God, it would smell terrible, too. Especially in the summer. As I got a bit older, it was really embarrassing, because I would hear the other kids making fun of me. The adults could be even worse. Some of them, I could see the little smirk on their faces. It leaves a mark on you.

Every December, when the pigs were nice and fat, we would slaughter them and make a roast, and everybody in the neighborhood would get a piece. Even the ones who shut their doors. I remember asking my mother, “How can you feed the ones who would not even help us feed the community?”

And she would say, “Don’t let it bother you. Everybody gets a good slice.” 

I would go deliver this beautiful pork to the ones who had laughed in my face.

“Merry Christmas from the Pacho family.” 

My mother, she had the biggest heart in the world. But I think there was a deeper lesson she was teaching me, you know? 

We turned scraps into a feast.

I carried that with me my entire life. 

When I was 15, football took me away. I went to live a few hours from home at the Independiente del Valle academy. I remember my mom could not comprehend that someone would give a bed and food to a teenager just because he was good at football. I was so lonely at first. But I met my best friend Moisés there. He was my roommate in the dormitory. When we got a bit older, we got our own apartment together to split the costs. We used to have a routine — Moisés would cook, and I would do the dishes. Then the next day we would switch. We were just two regular guys trying to make something of themselves, you know? 

Of course, my roommate was not just any Moisés. He was Moisés Caicedo. 

To think that the two guys scrubbing dishes would be playing in the Champions League some day……. No, impossible. 

I’ll never forget when Moisés got called up to the first team and started making a tiny bit of money, he went and bought a Hyundai Sonata. Race-car red. Hahahah. To us, it was like he bought a Ferrari. I was just so happy for him. It gave me the hope that I could do it, too. I was seeing Sonatas in my dreams. 

Everything was good. I wasn’t lonely anymore. I was getting closer to the first team. And then my world changed. 

One day, I got a call from home. It was one of my sisters. She told me that my mom had gotten “the thing” removed. You see, she had always had this lump under her arm, and the doctors thought it was benign. But then it started bothering her a bit, and when they removed it…….

There was a problem. 

I didn’t really understand much at first. I just heard “cancer” and I was really scared, but my mom said not to worry. The doctors were taking care of everything. 

“Don’t come home for me,” she would say. “You’re busy with your football.”

Every time I would call her, she would say everything was fine. She never wanted me to worry.

Then some time in 2019, we got a break, and I took a bus home to Quinindé. When I walked in the door, I knew she was keeping the truth from me. My mom was always a bigger woman. She had a “presence.” She filled up the whole room with her personality, you understand? A force of life. Dancing, singing, yelling, cleaning the house, cooking, laughing........

When I saw her this time, she was so thin. 

She said, “Don’t worry, I’m OK.”

I forced myself not to cry. 

That night, she asked me to help her with her medication, and she took off her shirt, and I could see that they had operated on her. There was a drainage tube in her back. Her left breast had been removed. Her skin was burned. Scarred. I had to use all my strength to hold in my tears.

I said, “Mom, are you hurting?”

She said, “I’m fine, I’m fine.” 

That night, I slept next to her in the bed, like when I was a child. When she fell asleep, I cried all night in silence so she wouldn’t worry.

A few days later, I had to go back to the academy, and I felt this intense fear in the pit of my stomach. 

I never take photos. I don’t know why, but I don’t like it. So I don’t have many pictures with my mother on my phone. Only on things like birthdays, we would take a picture. 

When I was packing my bag, I thought, You should take a photo with her.

But for some reason, I did not dare.

Maybe it was my way of convincing myself, “No, you will see her again. You have to see her again. When you come back home again, she will be a lot better, and you can take all the pictures you want.” 

I went back to the academy. It was an 8 hour bus ride through the mountains. 

I kept thinking: You can’t lose her now. You still have to buy her a nice house. A big one with a lot of space, so that she can clean on Sundays and listen to Marco Antonio Solís and dance around the kitchen with her mop. We have so much left to do together.

I cried until my lungs hurt. 

I never take photos. I don’t know why, but I don’t like it. So I don’t have many pictures with my mother on my phone. Only on things like birthdays, we would take a picture. 

A few months later, my coach told me that I was going to make my debut for the first team. I immediately called my mom to tell her the news, and she didn’t pick up. This was normal. She never had her phone. I had been talking to her the day before, and she was feeling exhausted. 

She always took so much pride in how she looked. And she said, “I just feel ugly today.” 

That broke my heart. 

I said, “Mom, you look great. Don’t be crazy. Just have a rest.”

She never called me back. So I sent her a text that said, “Don’t go to bed too early tomorrow! I’m making my debut. You have to watch the game!” 

I was so nervous that I couldn’t sleep. I literally sweat through the sheets. All I could think about were the two strikers I had to face, who were in good form.

I finally fell asleep for a little bit as the sun was coming up. 

Then I woke up to a bunch of texts and voicemails from my family and friends. Too many texts. You know that feeling? 

You know right away something is wrong. 

I scrolled through the messages, and it was a blur. People were talking about my mom, and how much they loved her. They were offering their condolences. They were praying for me. 

I called my sister in a panic. 

I said, “Mom?! Mom!? What happened?!”

She said, “What? Don’t be crazy. It’s just a rumor. She’s fine. You know how people are in this village. They have no idea what’s going on. An ambulance took her home from the hospital, and that’s what they saw. She’s resting. Don’t worry. Call us after the match.” 

She was so convincing. I completely believed her. I went to the match, and my last thought before I went onto the pitch was, Mamá is watching you on TV. You have to win every ball for her. 

I remember that I played very well. We got a clean sheet. I couldn’t wait to FaceTime her. 

As I was leaving the pitch, my coach grabbed me by the arm and took me into a little room next to the dressing room with the team psychologist. I thought that they were going to congratulate me and tell me to stay humble. When they opened the door, my father and my brother-in-law were waiting for me.

What is going on?!

They told me that my mother was gone. 

She passed away that morning. 

They knew all day. Everybody. My coach, my family...... 

They kept it from me so that I could fulfill my dream. They thought that’s what she would have wanted. 

I cried out in pain, like I’ve never cried before.

I have never felt more alone. 

Why has the person I love the most been taken away? The only person I can truly trust. My reason for everything. Why her? Why, why, why, why?

Just…… Why?

They told me to go and change, but I said, “No, take me to her now.” 

I stayed in my dirty kit, and we made the journey home, through the Andean cordillera. If you have never been to Ecuador, then you can’t imagine how it feels to drive the mountain roads at night. You’re on a rollercoaster in the dark. There’s no guardrails. When you have to stop to pee, you’re pissing off the edge of the world. 

I remember I kept having to go a lot. It felt like every 30 seconds. 

“Sorry, stop the car.”

I had been so nervous that I was going to cramp during the game that I drank a ton of water. The first time we stopped, I went to the edge of the cliff, and I kept saying to myself, “This must be a dream. She can’t really be gone.”  

Then the second time we stopped, I looked out over the edge, and it was completely black. Just the abyss. And I had this very dark thought.

“...........What if I did something right now?”

No. Come on.

“What if I just stepped off the edge? All this would go away.”

No. Come on. Don’t be crazy. 

“But how can I go on without her? I could join her. It would be so easy. Just a step.”

The fourth time we stopped, I went a bit closer to the edge. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even cry anymore. 

I remember looking down into the abyss and just thinking....

Mamá, I don’t want to be here without you. 

Finally, my brother-in-law and my father noticed that something was wrong with me. They didn’t even say anything, but every time we stopped after that, they would take me to the edge and hold onto me. I thank God for them. I don’t know if I would have really jumped……

But the thought alone is so scary to me, even now. I understand that I have a lot to risk as a footballer for telling this story, but I am telling it for all the kids out there who have lost a parent at a young age. 

It is a wound that only we can understand. A wound that never heals. 

We made it home in the early morning. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and the street was packed with cars of people coming from all over the place to say goodbye to her. There were so many cars that we had to park far away. I got out of the car and walked down our street, still in my kit. 

Everyone came out of their houses to embrace me. They were lined up on both sides of the street. And the more people that I saw, and the closer we got to the house, the more weight I felt on my chest. I didn’t want to arrive at the house, because arriving meant that it was real. 

I remember thinking: My mom walked these streets every day. She walked here as a young woman, and as a mother, and she walked here on her way home to God.

When we arrived and I smelled the smell of home, I could not even cry anymore. I could barely breathe. It was like I had a knot in my throat. All I could do was cough. 

I went and laid in her bed, and every memory came back to me. 

The memories wash over you like waves. 

The clean clothes. The hot meals. The books for school. The Venus football boots. 

Always providing, always giving me the best she could. 

Without her, life had no meaning.

I didn’t come out of her room for a week. 

When I finally left her room, I was changed as a man. 

I didn’t come out of her room for a week. When I finally left her room, I was changed as a man. 

I tried speaking to our team psychologist, but I could not put into words for a stranger what I was feeling. It is easier to write about her, just for myself, like I am doing now. 

The only therapy that worked for me was time and football. 

After her death, a strange thing happened. I lost all my fear on the football pitch. Before, I was a gentle player. I didn’t like contact. I didn’t have this instinct to “eat the world.” 

When she died, I was consumed with rabia, impotencia, dolor — rage, helplessness, grief.  

My first game back, first play – pum, yellow card. Five minute later – pum, red card. I went back home, and I never wanted to play again. 

I had to get it out somehow. So I “bled” myself onto the grass. 

I remember thinking, When she was having her last moments on earth, you were laying in bed worrying about a football match. How ridiculous, to worry about a game. 

It put everything into perspective for me. 

Instead of playing in my fears, I played with hunger. I ate the world. 

In football, you need this kind of ruthlessness. I wish it was not true, but it is. 

I took my game to another level at Independiente over the next two years. In 2021, I got word that Borussia Mönchengladbach wanted to sign me. To be honest, I didn’t even know where it was. I just knew that it was the Bundesliga, and I said, “I’m ready. When is the flight?”

The deal was going to take some time to finalize, but everyone told me that it was done. 

I went to the car dealership to celebrate. I was going to buy a cool car like Moisés. He was not going to be the only baller in town. I was going to get a Kia Sport! I took a picture next to one and everything. 

Then a funny thing happened. This guy shows up at the dealership, and he says, “Oh, you’re looking at cars? Well I’m a real estate agent. How about a house?”

At that moment, I thought about my mother, and the house I’d always wanted to buy her. It felt like a message from God. He showed me some pictures, and one house had a beautiful balcony. 

I don’t know why, but I love balconies. When you grow up in a small, cramped house, a balcony is something so special. 

I said, “I want that one.”

I couldn’t have a house for my mother, but I could have one for my siblings. It would make her so proud.

I told them, “I’m going to Germany, but I am leaving you with this gift. Mom always said that football can’t put a roof over your head. But look at us now.”

The week my siblings were moving in was probably the happiest of my life. I just stood on the balcony and smelled the fresh air and I said, “We’re good. No matter what happens, we’re good.”

We all took a photo together. Top.

They let us move in without paying the full amount. When the Germans say a deal is done, it’s done. 

………..Then it all went to hell. 

My agent got a call from Borussia Mönchengladbach. The deal was off. There was a financial issue on their end, and they couldn’t complete the move in time. It was humiliating. 

I still owed 50% on the house. I was going to cover the rest with my new deal. I had done a big farewell with the club, and it was on TV and everything. They had even bought a replacement centre back for me. 

When I went back to training, some of my teammates were even laughing at me. 

“Ahhh, here comes the Bundesliga star.”

Honestly, without our manager, my life may have turned out completely differently. He is an amazing man. Like a father figure to me. He could have frozen me out. But he told me, “Don’t worry, your spot is still here.” 

All good? No.

I sunk further into the mud.

My second match back after the deal collapsed, I dislocated both of my shoulders. Actually one had been dislocated since I was a boy. I just got good at popping it back into place. That day, both went at the same time. 

The doctor told me that he’d have to do one surgery at a time. It would be a year before I was 100%. I said, “Doc, I can’t wait. Why can’t you do both now?”

He said, “Because you won’t be able to use either arm for months. You won’t even be able to wash yourself.” 

I said, “Let’s do both.”

So we did both. And I became like a newborn again. I had to be fed. I had to be showered. I couldn’t even wipe my own ass. My sister is a real hero. She was my nurse for months. 

If a fly landed on my nose, I had to call her to shoe it away. I was helpless. 

Finally, at my lowest moment, God smiled on me. 

Royal Antwerp bought me. 

In fact, they bought me before I could even train again. I will always be so thankful to them. They took a chance on a broken man.

But to be honest, it was the hardest time of my life. I left for Belgium still in my bandages, speaking no English or French. I had to train alone, and no one spoke to me. The only one who took pity on me was the personal trainer, who happened to speak Spanish. He was my only friend. I remember texting Moisés, “Now I understand everything that you went through when you left for England. Remember when you would call me every night crying? Now I am the one crying, bro.” 

I think it’s why you haven’t heard of so many Ecuadorians in Europe until now. The loneliness and isolation is very real, especially if you don’t have teammates who speak Spanish. I could have easily given up and gone home. 

But I just kept telling myself, “You can’t let this depression win. Do it for Mamá. She would not want to see you crying.” 

She would never show her emotions in front of me. But after she passed, my sisters told me, “You know, when you kept moving up in football, Mamá used to always cry watching you succeed. She would never do it in front of you, but she was so proud.” 

We won the Belgian title that season. The club’s first in 66 years. I fought my way from isolation to the starting 11. I turned tears of pain into tears of joy. 

Hey Mamá, what do we always do? Give us scraps, and we turn it into a feast.

When they sold me to Frankfurt, I knew my life was going to change. But I didn’t expect everything to happen so fast. After one good season there, my agent told me that PSG wanted to meet with me.

When you hear PSG, you don’t even think. You get out your phone and you search for flights. I’ll fly Ryanair. When is the next one? Vamos.

Luís Campos invited me to a secret dinner in Madrid, and it was in this underground restaurant, like in the movies. Within five minutes, he said, “Hold on, someone wants to speak to you. 

He put Luis Enrique on FaceTime. 

It was so cool. Luis Enrique, he has a way about him. An aura, I guess. To me, he is the key to everything that I have achieved at PSG. I say that as a man, and not as a footballer. He speaks very little, but when he speaks, you feel that he understands you as a person. 

For me, after everything that I had been through, he’s exactly the kind of manager that I needed. 

He told me when he brought me in, “Go at your own pace. Don’t feel like you need to prove anything to anyone just because we bought you. You still have to develop.”

In giving me time, it took the pressure off. In giving me time, I exploded. 

I never could have expected to become a starter so quickly. 

I never could have expected two Champions League titles in two seasons. 

I never could have expected the love that I received from the fans. 

It went from, “51? Who is 51?”

To “PACHO! PACHO! PACHO!”

I will never forget being on FaceTime with my siblings before the Champions League Final against Inter. They said, “No matter what happens, we’re going to love you. All you need to do is fight for every single ball. Don’t worry about what comes after.”

In the 20th minute, I headed the ball back toward our goal and it was going to go out for a corner, and I said, “No, you can’t lose a single ball. You promised.” 

I jumped up for it over the Inter player like I was in a kung-fu movie. Everyone posts that photo of me now, because I saved the ball and it started the counter-attack for our second goal. 

People ask me, “Bro, what were you thinking when you went for that?” 

The answer is nothing. I was not thinking. I was just playing without fear. 

Now you know my story, and you know where that comes from. It comes from a place of pain and grief. 

But I came out the other side, into the light. 

When the match was over and we were champions, the first thing I said to myself was: Thank you, God. Thank you, mom. 

If only you could see this.

To be the first kid from Ecuador who won a Champions League, it’s so special. We are not Argentines or Brazilians, you know? 

Before, nobody knew us. They could not find us on a map. 

Now they are beginning to understand our quality. 

Not just myself, but guys like Moisés and Piero, and of course Antonio Valencia, who was a model for us all. 

I ask myself all the time, “Why us?”

How did we make it out? How are we the ones playing in a World Cup, when so many talented players that I saw growing up never made it?

I don’t even have an answer. I just have gratitude to the coaches who helped me, and to my family. Most of all, to my mother. 

To her I would like to speak now. Just to her.......

Mamá, 

Thank you for teaching me how to dance the bachata. Thank you for teaching me the value of scraps. Thank you for always giving everyone a good slice. 

Thank you for buying me so many pairs of boots. Thank you for not caring about football at all.

Thank you for being my mother. 

I never got to take a final photo with you. But I have a much better image in my mind, and I come back to it every day.

I am young. You are young, too. We are dancing together.

One two three, one two three.........

I look up, and you are smiling at me. 

I finally got it right.

It’s better than a picture. It’s a memory. It’s eternal. 

Your son, 

Willian