As Tunishi exits the field, the crowd erupts and his teammates run up to Tunishi with astonished and excited looks on their faces. Jacobs jumps up on Tunishi's back and wheezed, laughing, "Tento, that was ridiculous! Nobody rabanos like that! For real?!" Jacobs continues to yell, still mesmerized by the beauty of the moment. Mohammad claps Tunishi on both shoulders, eyes lit up, and says, "Dude, you are seriously a genius! That was pure quality man. You just made history!" The team gathers around to pat Tunishi's back and cheer his name. They are all bursting with pride and joy, and everything in between. Tunishi shows incredibly little reaction to the barrage of compliments piling up around him. He walks off the field with a calm, inscrutable face. He moves his eyes over the crowd—not lingering on anyone. Jacobs and Mohammad are pouring on compliments and he stares, seemingly blankly, and mumbles under his breath, "It's nothing special." His tone is even and almost dismissive, as if the rabona that left everyone stunned was an incredibly mundane setting. "Ball came in, I hit it. That's it." He does not smile, nor does he luxuriate in their adoration — he simply walks, leaving his exuberant teammates behind him (buzzing, not quite yet ready to laugh or be awed by how flat, how unfazed he seemed).
Tunishi departs from the active space, merely evading the radar of the floodlights, and he is only receiving the cooling effect of the night air on his skin. The noise of the spectators—the cheers, even his name that passes back and forth among the words—gradually fade away behind him. He keeps moving without even a single blink. There is no such thing as a return in his mind at all. Why should he?
He is simply wandering about with no particular place to visit. There is no need for haste; the two of them—Tunishi and the noise of his footsteps on the pavement, the breeze that only the overhead leaves can hear, is making a soft lullaby of whispers. Tunishi is still wearing his jersey, which is by now totally soaked with sweat. He does not even realize it. The street lights are switching on and off in succession, and he is walking through the shuttered stores and the empty intersections where the quietness is so intense that it almost gets on his nerves.
There is no phone, no earbuds and no music to block his thoughts. Only he, the world's sound and, frankly, a vacant face—no smile, no frown, just a blank... gone. The match, the maybe plan, the audience's ecstasy—might that have been another persona?
He proceeds until the streets are no longer discernible, one merging into the next, and the time has long run out for any possible adrenaline to still be left in him. Suddenly, a dark street transforms into a broad one and there is the building right in front of him. He does not ask for a pause. He continues his walk without interruption.
He keeps at his pace, does not even bother to look at the door, which is barely outlined in his side view. The roads are almost empty, and even the few cars that go by are mute, and the very dim light of a television in a house is the only thing that is visible. He is not aware of it. Or perhaps he knows it but it is of no importance to him.
He is afar from the game. The rabona is not even a thing to him, the applause are not heard, and even the players yet to taste the divine charm of the game are not there. It is just a noise. The scenery.
He steps into a darker street that is quieter, has rougher sidewalks, and a little less light. He walks but there is no special rhythm—just shuffling of feet. As if to slip away from someone or simply to fade into silence of the walking.
Finally, he arrives at the junction and stops. Not because he is tired. Just in his usual manner. He is looking at the sky and watching the clouds move. The sky is cloudy, and this night is starless. Then he turns and goes back.
No exact place to go still; still very slowly.
Only Tunishi and the night have company.