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The Liverpool players ran through their drills for the next day's game against West Ham, going through their paces as if it were instinct. Klopp watched them warming up, seeing and hearing how in sync his boys were.
They were all kind of new to this, Klopp thought. None of them were superstars like Messi or Ronaldo, and Klopp himself was no Cruyff, but they believed in themselves and each other. They were themselves, and that was all that mattered.
In his reflection, Klopp didn't notice Achterberg sneaking towards the touchline. Before he could make a move, the spunky, confident lyrics of "Soy Yo" blasted through the air.
Me caí, me paré, caminé, me subí
Me fui contra la corriente y también me perdí
Fracasé, me encontré, lo viví y aprendí
Cuando te pegas fuerte más profundo es el beat, sí!
Klopp glared at Achterberg as the rest of the staff burst into laughter. "How do you always guess my password?"
Achterberg shrugged, a teasing smile playing across the goalkeeping coach's features. "All your passwords are a combination of our rivals' names and swear words."
"Dance break!" Lijnders called out, blowing the whistle for everybody to stop.
"Dance break?" the newer players echoed in disbelief.
The others, meanwhile, leapt into the opportunity, dancing dances that ranged from stylish to goofing off. Soon, even the newcomers had joined in, clapping along and dancing with anybody who was willing.
Y no te preocupes si no te aprueban
Cuando te critiquen, tú solo di
Soy yo!
*
It had been Mane's idea to start the bonfire. Firmino had laughed in disbelief and claimed it wouldn't be necessary, but soon the front three were in the basement, sorting through the three boxes of Coutinho-related things Firmino had stashed away after his breakup with the magic little striker. Then it was back up to the training pitch, stacking the photos, newspaper clippings, and string friendship bracelets into a pile of tinder.
Firmino handled the artefacts with a bittersweet melancholy. Those had been memories of good times. But now all they did was remind him of the Coutinho-sized hole in his heart.
"All done." Salah handed the match and matchbox to Firmino, squeezing the forward's shoulder. "Ready to break free?"
Firmino stared down at the match and nodded. "Ready."
Mane hugged Firmino, ruffling his hair. "Anytime you're ready, bro. Although I still want to slap Philippe for leaving like that."
Salah nodded firmly. "You and me both. Thank goodness we haven't told the other Brazilians yet, or Philippe would've been exiled to Saturn by now."
Firmino struck the match against the paper and dropped it into the pile. Everything lit on fire, the memories of Coutinho burning to smoke and ashes.
At least, the physical ones did. For as Firmino watched the pictures blacken, the i-cord friendship bracelets smoulder, and the bad-pun socks crumble, he could still remember every memory that the items signified.
"Let's get a selfie near the dock!"
"You're better at this than me. My bracelet looks like a web woven by a drunk spider."
"You always stare at the floor when you're sad. Now when you stare at the floor, you'll see the socks and you'll laugh!"
Good Lord, he could still hear Coutinho clamouring for Firmino to carry him around on his back. He could hear the little drama king sticking out his tongue and jokingly calling for the medics when he'd been fouled in training. He could even smell the frosting on Coutinho's coconut eclairs.
"Bobby?" Salah elbowed Firmino, concern written across his face. "Are you okay?"
Firmino shook his head and started to sing, knowing that if he didn't he would break down.
Dancin' in the dark with you between my arms
Barefoot on the grass while listenin' to our favourite song
When you said you looked a mess, I whispered underneath my breath
But you heard it...
Well, damn it. He was crying anyway.
Salah and Mane exchanged questioning looks, but each took Firmino's hand as the remaining artefacts drifted towards the sky in smoke.
*
Later that day, Klopp tapped the lectern at the front of the music room. The players got into positions, some holding up instruments and others clearing their throats to sing.
Klopp had started the idea of a choir in his third year in Liverpool. The players had loved it, and now everybody was involved in a senior band, as well as a youth choir for the academy players.
As Lallana played the piano in the corner of the room, Firmino stepped up to the microphone, looking smaller than usual in the oversized hoodie he'd borrowed from Alisson, and started singing with a peculiar sense of sorrow in his voice.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
He exchanged a glance with Klopp, who nodded encouragingly. Alexander-Arnold joined in, knowing the words by heart from repeated radio exposure, while Henderson and Fabinho harmonised.
Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake when you rise
Sleep, pretty darling
Do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
The orchestra swelled as Van Sijk drummed out a steady, almost dramatic beat on the timpanis.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
The others joined in like streams flowing into a shimmering river. Klopp resisted the urge to join in, knowing that while he had many talents, singing was nowhere near one of them.
Oh boy, you're gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight for a long time
Boy, carry that weight
Carry that weight for a long time
Klopp watched as Alisson stepped forward from the orchestra section of the room, strumming the bass guitar. He took the place of Henderson, who'd drifted back to play the piano with Lallana, standing right next to Firmino. Fabinho remained on Firmino's other side.
I never give you my pillow,
I only send you my invitations
And in the middle of the celebrations,
I break, I break, I break down
While singing the part, Firmino had stared down at the ground, as if he were trying hard not to break down like the lyrics suggested. It wasn't surprising--Firmino had been rather down the whole day, so much that he hadn't seemed to hear Klopp's question on just why on Melwood's green turf there was a pile of ash in the middle of the pitch.
Nobody knew the exact cause for the usually merry striker's gloom, but Klopp had a feeling that it was about Coutinho. When Klopp had gone down to the basement to dig up an old scrapbook, he'd noticed that the three boxes holding Firmino's mementoes of Coutinho had disappeared, as well as the box of matches he always kept near the antique oil lamp.
Fabinho slung his arm around Firmino's shoulder, pulling the shorter Brazilian close to him. Alisson's hands were occupied with the guitar, but he pressed himself closer to Firmino as well, as he and Fabinho sang.
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight,
Carry that weight for a long time
Boy, you're gonna carry that weight,
Carry that weight for a long time
Firmino took a deep breath, glanced at his two compatriots, and--to Klopp's surprise--smiled as he sang the finale with the rest of the choir.
Once, there was a way to get back homeward
Once, there was a way to get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
*
A couple of days after the choir performance, Klopp brought an old-fashioned gramophone to training. The players found it on a table in the middle of the locker room, bright and brassy and not at all new.
"I didn't know you sculpted, boss!" Robertson blurted before Henderson could stop him. "That's a great flower!"
Klopp chuckled, carrying a cardboard box filled with paper sleeves. "That's not a sculpture, Robbo, that's a gramophone. It's what my generation played music on before tapes and CDs."
"So, the ancient days," Robertson surmised, sending the whole locker room into a laughing fit.
"Not too ancient. Even after cassettes came out, I kept the gramophone and listened to these vinyl records." Klopp shook his head, amused, and took what seemed to be a giant black CD from one of the sleeves. "And here's one of my favourites: Songs In The Key Of Life."
Klopp set the record on the needle, and a brassy, bold trumpet started to play.
Music is a world within itself
With a language we all understand
With an equal opportunity
For all to sing, dance and clap their hands
The beat was infectious, and the instrumentals were full of life. Before long, everybody was dancing around the locker room.
They can feel it all over
They can feel it all over people
They can feel it all over
They can feel it all over people, yeah
Henderson twirled Lallana around and dipped him like a waltz scene from a Disney movie. The fullbacks linked hands with Milner and did their corny, hilariously inaccurate version of a tap dance. Fabinho and Alisson lifted Firmino onto their shoulders and back down again, prompting a genuine laugh from the merry forward. The centerbacks hopped back and forth before pulling the fullbacks into a round dance.
Klopp, meanwhile, stood in the corner of the room and watched on. Eventually, he was pulled into the round dance that had formed in the middle, which now included everybody inside.
The outside world still judged them as a green group, a cluster of newcomers who'd never experienced glory. Inside Melwood, that didn't matter. They had rhythm; they had music. Inside Melwood, they could dance in circles and goof off and enjoy each others' company.
And Klopp wouldn't have it any other way.