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Whose stock went up? Whose stock went down? A market index report from the MTV Challenge Accepted podcast

On our MTV Challenge Accepted podcast (link in bold) we have a segment where we discuss this question. Whose stock went up? Whose stock went down? Here were our winners and losers this week.
STOCK UP
Kyle
We try to avoid the obvious, so it almost goes without saying that Kyle had a good week. He slithered to a victory, and made sure to keep his streak going of a good quip or two in every episode.
Kyle may not be the strongest challenger left in the house, but he's not bad at all. He's going to have a puncher's chance at winning this final -- which is probably true of every guy remaining. Fessy will be the betting favorite, but there's still some uncertainty there. Without knowing how he'd do in a final, we'd call this one of the most even fields in memory (on the guys' side.)
Jenny
When anthropology professors explain different civilizations to their students, they should be clicking on episodes of The Challenge. After all, the show is as a great example of a patriarchal society. The men have always lorded over the women, expecting that their opinions should be sent down from the mountaintop and treated like gospel.
The daily challenge illustrated as much. Fessy and Cory cut a deal with Josh, and then cut a deal with each other. They'd promise the other a spot in the tribunal. The fact that this negotiation took place showed an implicit belief that the decision would come down to their preference. No questions asked. No pesky female weighing in with her "vote."
However, Jenny didn't roll over. As an equal 1:1 vote with Fessy, she actually stood her ground and pushed for Josh (or Kyle), because it was the fair thing to do. Fessy ultimately backed away, allowing Jenny to win this argument. It may have been a trivial one, but it showed that Jenny isn't going to be a shrinking violet. She's going to have just as much of a voice as the guys. Given her place in the game, she deserves as much.
We adore Jenny already, so it's hard for her stock to go up much higher. Still, it climbs and climbs like she's Amazon (the stock and the warrior.)
Nelson
Conversely, we have not been so kind to Nelson this year. He's been erratic and insecure for the majority of the season so far. But then... it felt like something changed. He's been a comforting friend to Bayleigh last week, and this week had a honest heart-to-heart "tough love" talk with Aneesa about her place in the game.
So what changed? When did Nelson grow up?
If we had to pinpoint a moment, it would be when he earned his red skull. Since then, he's appeared to be a newer, kinder, calmer Nelson. He's such a Challenge superfan that he comes in hard and hot sometimes, so eager to prove himself. Right now, he must feel confident about his place in the game. He's a beast in elimination, and has a very good chance to win the final presuming swimming is not heavily involved. Better still, his alliance looks like it's in control of the house for the first time in ... ever? Nelson's view from the catbird seat looks good, and the effect on his personality looks good as well.
STOCK DOWN
Cory
Meanwhile, success has not done much good for the game of Nelson's BFF. Cory had been fairly cool and rational this season in pursuit of his red skull. Once he got it, you would figure he'd be as happy and content as Nelson. Instead, Cory made waves this week by getting very upset that he wasn't picked to be in the tribunal.
Why...? We're still trying to figure that out.
He claims that he was mad at Jenny because she "owes" him, but I'd be very skeptical of that debt if I was a ruling judge. Cory acts like he gifted Jenny a purgatory win in that first elimination, when in fact Jenny was one of the only competitors campaigning for it at the time. She doesn't owe him anything; she would have gotten a red skull sooner or later anyway.
He was also upset with Fessy, more understandably so. Fessy snaked out of a deal. Agreed. Not cool. Still, was it that big of a deal...? Cory wasn't up in the discussion to go in. It didn't affect him in any way. The only reason Cory appeared to be mad was a matter of pride. He gloated about his daily challenge record, and seemed to want to "win" for the sake of winning. In reality, that won't matter in the long run. If anything, Cory should have let this one go like Elsa, knowing that Fessy's friendship will do a lot more for his long-term success than this one irrelevant daily.
Josh
Again, the obvious choice so we won't dwell on it. Josh lost in elimination, ending a very poor season for him overall. Actually, T.J. ended the season for him, mocking him as the "dude who cries a lot." Ouch.
We did wonder though: is this a pattern? Do the Big Brother contestants choke in big moments? Josh panicked and froze up again. Swaggy looked like a deer in headlights prior. Even Paulie -- a good competitor -- has stumbled in major moments before. Perhaps the Big Brother folks don't have the eye of the tiger. TBD. Fessy and Kaycee will have the chance to reverse that curse in the upcoming weeks.
MIXED BAG
Fessy
We're mixed on Fessy this week. On one hand, we completely understand his strong desire to grab a tribunal spot. Smart competitors should be targeting him, so he was understandably paranoid in this case. However, by backing out of his deal with Josh and then Cory, Fessy showed some of his true colors. He's not the most reliable friend and ally, which is a knock against his reputation that may end up costing him more on a show like this (where players return) than it would on a one-off show like Big Brother.
At the same time, I did connect with Fessy's personal story. It couldn't have been easy to be a Muslim kid in school after 9/11. And he's absolutely right that there aren't many Middle-Eastern Muslims in professional sports. When you're a Middle-Eastern kid, or an Indian kid, or a Korean kid, or whatever, and you never see someone like you in the NFL, it would be discouraging. It'd be a huge deal to have that representation and motivation that it's possible. All in all, I wish Fessy had his chance to shine and be a role model in the NFL.
Was that dream realistic...? Eh. Kinda-sorta. I'm a huge NFL Draft fan (and write about it often on reddit), so I know that his prospects were fairly dim. There are barely any players from his school that matriculate to the NFL. His statistics don't jump off the page either in comparison to other small-school tight ends. Being ranked as the "30th tight end" as he mentioned isn't a huge feather in your cap either; on average, less than 15 tight ends get drafted every year. To be fair, he genuinely did have some darkhorse buzz and some good workouts, so it's possible that he would have gotten some invites to training camps and perhaps latched onto a team from there. But overall, he had long odds.
the red skull
Arguably the most import aspect of this season so far, it's been a polarizing one.
All season long, we've said that the red skull twist would be a "bust" if at least 1 challenger didn't get sent home for not securing a chance at one. That won't happen now. Everyone funneled into a neat and orderly line, and everyone remaining has their skull in hand.
Still... is that really such a bad thing? Every competitor won an elimination. That's good. That's different. This season would have been worse if players like Kyle and Nany skated to a final without sniffing the Purgatory. Overall, I'd still consider the red skull wrinkle a good idea, even if it didn't lead to AS MUCH drama as we expected. In the future, I'd recommend keeping some version of it, with some possible tweaks. (2 red skulls = immunity, for starters.)
submitted by ZandrickEllison to MtvChallenge [link] [comments]

The Last Precursor 003: The Terrifying Terran

The Last Precursor is a brand new HFY-exclusive web-serial which focuses on the exploits of the last living human amidst a galaxy of unknown aliens. With his species all but extinct and only known as the ancient Precursors, how will Rodriguez survive in this hostile universe? Make sure to read Parts 1 and 2 first if you missed them!
Previous Part
Part 001
.......................................
Several kilometers from the Bloodbearer, aboard the Assault Ordinance Platform, 'Dragon's Breath.'
Orgon the Unkillable paces back and forth on his ship's bridge. The Kraktol Fleet Commander reveals his impatience as he turns to his Chief Tactical Officer.
"Officer Soren! What have you found?"
The red-scaled Kraktol swivels in her chair to face her Commander. She pounds her chest and lowers her head. "Kyargh! Commander, I have completed my fifth scan. I am still unable to penetrate the Precursor vessel's hull. I know nothing of its occupants, nor its internal technology. The metal composing its body is far denser than any alloy we have on file."
A flash of anger appears on Orgon's face. "Don't give me excuses. Give me results! I called off the attack on Tarus II for the sake of capturing that errant vessel. If we don't obtain that Precursor stealth craft, the Thülvik will have my head!"
Behind Orgon, a slightly shorter Kraktol with bright yellow scales approaches him.
"Commander."
Orgon turns to look at the newcomer. "First Officer Megla. Tell me you have good news."
His first officer nods. "I have calculated the age of the unknown Juggernaut-class Precursor ship. The scorch marks lining its shell appear both numerous and ancient. Preliminary readings show it has resided within this nebula for tens of millions of years."
The Fleet Commander cocks his head. "Tens of millions of years? So... could that mean...?"
"Aye, Commander. I believe the vessel is an unclaimed Precursor relic. If we are lucky, we might have a chance at obtaining it for ourselves."
For the first time in an hour, Orgon's expression brightens.
"Huhuhu... remind me to grant you a medal of commendation when we return. No! Three. Haha. This news is most fortuitous, indeed!"
A gleam of greed appears in Orgon's eyes. He falls silent as his thoughts turn inward.
Such an advanced piece of Precursor technology... if I obtain it, the Thülvik will surely promote me to the highest rank! Perhaps she shall even take me for her mate! Huhuhu...
After a moment, Orgon frowns.
No. Aren't I thinking too small? The Juggernaut warship is a thousand times more incredible than our best vessels. If I were to obtain it... why would I hand such a powerful and priceless artifact over to the Thülvik? Huhu... wouldn't it be better if I took it for myself? Even in the Core worlds, my might would be uncontested! Those damned Mallali haven't anything of comparable might.
The Commander forces a neutral expression while noticing the look his First Officer gives him.
I must keep such thoughts to myself. If the crew were to learn of my mutinous intent, they might turn against me. First, I should secure the vessel, and only then will I turn my attention toward those worthy to stay at my side.
Commander Orgon harrumphs to clear his throat. "Graugh! Since the vessel is unclaimed, I believe now would be the ideal moment to approach. If we delay for too long, the fugitive Kessu may take over the vessel's control systems. The last thing we want are the descendents of the filthy Sky Cats to-"
"Commander!" Officer Soren shouts, her voice rising an octave. "We're being hailed! The origin source is... the Precursor vessel. The Juggernaut!"
Orgon's words halt in his throat. A sense of unease grabs him, making him turn to face the primary viewscreen, where his officers sit.
"The vessel itself? Damn! Don't tell me the Kessu have already made their move! Everyone, return to your stations. Officer Soren, put the hail onscreen."
"Yes, Commander! Kyargh!"
Orgon's First Officer and the others nearby take to their seats, while Orgon himself remains standing. His crew turns to face the viewscreen, using their numbers as a show of strength.
Click.
The viewscreen shifts, revealing six bipedal aliens, all of them bald on their bodies, except for the tops of their heads. The one in the middle sports fur under his lips and around his chin, making the Kraktol all feel a sense of confusion.
Hm? Orgon thinks. I do not recognize this species. They are not Kessu.
Of the six assembled aliens, five of them wield highly advanced energy rifles, far mightier than anything aboard the Dragon's Breath. None of the Kraktol crew misses this distinction.
"Greetings. I am Fleet Admiral Rodriguez, head of the United Terran Coalition, servant of the Divine Emperor Malathus the Third. Who are you, and why have you brought a fleet of battleships into my space? Are you planning to declare war upon me?"
The bipedal alien speaks with authority, making all of the Kraktol bridge crew feel a hint of respect toward him. His voice does not shake, nor does his conviction waver.
Orgon the Unkillable folds his claws behind his back. He straightens his posture while meeting 'Admiral Rodriguez's' gaze.
"Graugh! I am Fleet Commander Orgon of the Kraktol, follower of the Thülvik. I am unfamiliar with your species, alien. Are you native to this region of space?"
The alien doesn't respond for a moment.
"...You could say that. My people are known as Terrans. Humans, if you like. I will repeat my earlier question. Why have you appeared before me with a fleet of death machines? Are you attempting to intimidate me?"
The Kraktol Commander shifts his feet. Several questions pop into his mind upon hearing the Terran's words.
Death Machines? Compared to the vessel these aliens control, my fleet can hardly be considered a nuisance. Why does the Terran pretend he is at a disadvantage? Damn. What is a Terran, anyway? I have heard of no such species in all my years! Don't tell me some scavengers from the Core stumbled upon this vessel before me! If they've taken over its weapon systems, I won't have a chance at seizing it for myself! The Thülvik will behead me for sure!
Orgon casually raises his palm; the universal gesture for deference. "Ah, my apologies, Admiral Rodriguez! I was unaware the vessel you reside upon had already been scavenged. You see, I am a Rodak of many talents. I was pursuing a group of fugitives who stole valuable technology, when they entered this nebula and stowed away aboard your vessel! I wasn't certain if your Precursor vessel had been claimed by anyone, and now it seems my question has been answered. Might I implore you to hand over the thieves who took our technology?"
Several seconds of silence follow.
Admiral Rodriguez's eyes flick to the side, as if listening to someone else speak.
Not long after, the Admiral blinks in acknowledgment. "I see. You were in pursuit of a species known as the 'Kessu.' Is that correct?"
"Graugh! Yes, you are a very discerning Terran, Admiral Rodriguez. If you would be so kind as to return my stealth-craft, I will be on my way."
"According to information I've just received, the 'Kessu' you speak of have not stolen any such technology. They claim that the vessel is theirs. Are you able to provide proof for your accusations of theft?"
Commander Orgon's eyes flicker. "Hmm... the thieves stole not only the vessel, but many important documents related to its ownership. How about this? I can provide you with a substantial number of Core credits in exchange for the return of that vessel. You see, if I do not retrieve it, I will suffer a great humiliation. As one who is wise in the ways of negotiation, you understand what I mean, yes?"
"Mmm."
The Terran nods.
"Certainly, I do."
"Excellent!" Orgon says, as he clasps his claws together. "I can guarantee you a fruitful friendship with the Kraktol if you choose to cooperate with me today. Additionally, regarding your Juggernaut vessel, my people would be willing to offer a fortune in credits for the transference of its ownership. You need not rush to a decision, Admiral Rodriguez, but I hope you will consider my request! Why be a scavenger when you can live as a king?"
The Terran frowns. "I am confused regarding a few matters, Fleet Commander Orgon. If you would be so kind, would you mind explaining a few things to me?"
Orgon falters. "Graugh. Yes?"
Admiral Rodriguez continues. "You keep using the term 'Precursor.' It might be that my translation interface is not working properly. Would you mind explaining what that term means?"
Several question marks appear over Orgon's head. Is this alien not from a species our translator recognizes? Perhaps 'Precursor' means something different in the Terran's native language.
"Ah, yes, of course! I will be happy to explain. Maybe your people have a different word which refers to the former super-civilization that once ruled the Local Cluster. Most Core-worlders refer to them as the Precursors. They were the ones who created the ships you and I currently reside upon!"
The Terran nods. "Ah, so that's what you mean. Yes, I believe I understand. You mean the species which perished many tens of millions of years ago, correct?"
"Graugh! Yes, that is exactly right."
Commander Orgon shakes his head inwardly. This Terran seems intelligent, but he does not even know the universal term for the Precursors! Perhaps his people are nomadic, merely flitting about from one dilapidated outpost to the next.
Admiral Rodriguez narrows his eyes. "Next, you implied that I was a scavenger. What did you mean by that statement?"
Orgon's internal laughter comes to a sudden stop.
The Terran's cold expression chills his blood, reminding him of the one time in the past he screwed up and pissed off the Thülvik.
Ancient Rodaks! The look on the Terran's face could freeze a star solid! Have... have I inadvertently insulted him?!
The Kraktol Commander suddenly becomes acutely aware of how much more powerful the Terran's scavenged vessel is compared to his. Even if 99% of its weapons might be nonfunctional, the remaining 1% could atomize his fleet with ease.
"...Ah! Perhaps there was another mistranslation! Graugh... what poor decorum of me to choose my words so flippantly! Let me rephrase my question, great Admiral Rodriguez! Ah... might I ask in which way you procured the vessel you currently reside? The Juggernaut Precursor ship, I mean."
The Terran Admiral's expression doesn't change. "That is my business, and mine alone, Commander Orgon. My crew numbers more than fifty thousand. All of them are highly trained, elite warriors. We are not scavengers who obtained this ship through ill-means."
Orgon's scales shiver as the Terran's eyes threaten to bore holes in his natural armor. "Y-yes! Of course. Naturally, I misspoke! Forgive me, for I know very little regarding the ways of your people, the 'Terrans.' For you to acquire such a priceless Precursor ship, I am sure you must have explored far and wide across the galaxy. It seems you would not be willing to part with it for a reward as trifling as credits, yes? Perhaps some form of equivalent exchange?"
The Admiral's reply drains the blood from Orgon's scales. "My vessel is not for sale, Fleet Commander Orgon. As for the fugitives who have slipped aboard, they must have done so under the cover of the plasma storms pervading this sector. I will end our communication here and re-establish contact with you later. If I find that your claims are true, I will consider selling their ship to you for a fair price."
Orgon's dampened spirits immediately experience a full revival. He clutches his claws together and nods politely. "Oh, yes! Yes, we will give you any sum you wish-"
"But..." Admiral Rodriguez says, cutting off the Kraktol Commander. "...If I should find that your claims are false... only the Divine Emperor's command will save your fleet from my wrath. For your sake, I hope that you have not attempted to deceive me."
Orgon's words jam in his throat. He quickly folds his claws behind his back to hide their shaking. "Y-yes... of course, Admiral Rodriguez."
Without another word, the viewscreen turns black as the Terran disables the connection from his side.
All of the crew aboard the Dragon's Breath remain perfectly still. The atmosphere becomes so tense that one could hear a pin drop.
Still trembling, the Fleet Commander takes a few steps back and sinks into his seat.
I'm finished.
Commander Orgon's eyes turn vacant.
If I don't retrieve the stealth-fighter, the Thülvik will behead me for abandoning our mission to annihilate the Kessu.
If I don't retrieve the Juggernaut-class Precursor vessel, I won't have the power to make myself the new Thülvik.
And if that Terran speaks to the Kessu aboard his ship, he's likely to find out the truth and destroy my fleet. He's... he's not a mercenary, nor a scavenger.
The Kraktol Commander's eyes slowly close.
He's a damned zealot. He must belong to a species that thinks of themselves as virtuous protectors of the innocent.
Orgon raises his fist and smashes it against his chair's arm.
"First Officer Megla!" Orgon roars. "Dig up every piece of information you can find about these damned Terrans... these filthy humans!"
The First Officer jumps out of her seat and nods. "Kyargh! Yes, Commander!"
"Chief Tactical Officer Soren! Draw up a plan of attack! If that Terran turns on us, I want a shot at seizing his vessel! I don't care how little!"
The Tactical Officer nods. "Kyargh! I will do as you command."
Finally, Orgon turns to his Chief Navigation Officer. "Gorlax! Send a report back to the Thülvik regarding what we've found! Encrypt it with the highest security! We must keep this vessel's existence a secret! If the Buzor learn of its significance, they might come here before us!"
Gorlox, like all the other officers, merely nods. "Graugh! Yes, Commander!"
Quickly, the whole bridge gets to work following Orgon's orders. As they do, the Fleet Commander leans back in his chair. A look of animalistic rage appears in his eyes.
You dare to threaten me?! Filthy Terran. I'll wipe your whole species from existence!
.......................................
After ending the call, Admiral Rodriguez exhales deeply.
"Is there a problem, Admiral?" Irene, the blond-haired Bio-Entity asks. "Your discussion with the Kraktol designated Orgon appeared most fruitful."
José nods. "Yes. Assuming that crocodile-creature's words were true... it seems humanity has, indeed, gone extinct. The chances of finding some long-lost colony are remote. Additionally, I've learned that the galaxy is aware of neither our appearance nor our proper species' name, or else the Fleet Commander would have recognized me immediately. At the least, someone aboard his bridge would have."
"Umi," José continues, "keep an eye on the enemy vessels. If they move so much as a half-step closer, inform me at once. Additionally, monitor their transmissions. Something tells me the Commander isn't as meek and polite of a fellow as he pretended during our chat. I suspect he'll call for backup, and soon."
"Orders confirmed," Umi replies. "Admiral Rodriguez, I have downloaded the data stores from the Kraktol vessel. Their primitive security measures were unable to prevent my access. Would you like to take a look at what I've found?"
"Later," José says with a wave of his hand. "Right now, I'm curious about that stowaway vessel Orgon mentioned. Why didn't you inform me of its presence?"
"You have only just awoken from stasis," Umi says. "Due to the nature of your hibernation, I deemed the refugees unimportant. The vessel they reside upon is a relic of the ancient United Terran Coalition war fleet. Its fleet signature identified it as an ally, and therefore, I decided it was a low-priority compared to the Kraktol fleet."
Admiral Rodriguez turns away from the viewscreen. "I see. Bio-Entities, please return to the tasks I gave you. Umi, I want to know more about the 'Kessu' vessel. Who are the Kessu, and why were they fleeing the Kraktol? I don't intend to step between two warring factions, even if their technology is lightyears weaker than the Bloodbearer. After all, Ramma's Chosen must never interfere in the matters of other factions. We have been and will continue to remain politically neutral."
Umi's voice softens. "You are the last living member of Ramma's Chosen, Admiral Rodriguez. For the sake of your mental health, I feel the need to remind you that there is nobody left who will punish or reprimand you for doing as you please. As you are the current highest-ranking member of the United Terran Coalition, I do not even technically have the right to refuse orders contradicting Ramma's creed."
José nods. "I know, but keep those thoughts to yourself. I am unable to change my state of mind so easily. From my perspective, I was a mere Private amongst a strict military hierarchy only one day ago. This whole situation makes my mental state somewhat difficult to readjust."
"Understood. I will not bring up this matter again unless I deem it a Priority One need. Admiral Rodriguez, do you have any further orders?"
The newly minted Admiral strides through the Bridge's exit doors, leaving behind the five Bio-Entities. "I do. Pull up anything regarding the Kessu that you can find. Use the information you lifted from the Kraktol and cross-reference it with whatever news you've obtained from our stowaways. I want to quickly piece together the galactic situation outside this plasma cloud, as well as find out how much of what the Kessu and Kraktol have given us checks out."
Umi beeps in confirmation. "Orders acknowledged, Admiral. The requested operation will take me fourteen seconds to complete."
José smiles. "Good."
...
Twenty minutes later, after José has strolled down the Bloodbearer's hallways while taking his time, he arrives at the rear of the ship, its hangar bay. The gigantic open area features five levels of interceptor and assault corvette storage space, with more than 200 miniature battleships already docked and room for another hundred. José steps through the entrance to the hangar and pauses as he glances around.
Unlike many areas José has passed, including the mess hall, the hangar bay appears especially clean and pristine. Every inch of its interior sparkles and shines, making him frown.
"Umi. How has the hangar bay maintained its cleanliness for 100 million years? Are the Bloodbearer's janitors still functional?"
"Affirmative, Admiral Rodriguez. However, out of a complement of three hundred and seven Filth Expunger Units, only twelve remain functional. Five of them remain inside the hangar bay, where they have continued working since the crew entered stasis."
"Hm. I'm not complaining. Better to have twelve than zero. Send a few of them to the dirty sections of the ship. I'll work on repairing the others when I have time."
"Orders acknowledged, Admiral."
With a satisfied nod, José strides along a catwalk some three hundred feet above the hangar floor. Its reach spans the length and width of the entire hangar, with multiple vacuum tubes at recurring intervals for reaching the levels above and below.
"Seven hundred meters from your position, Admiral: That is where the Kessu's vessel resides. Turn seven degrees to your right and look for the arrow-shaped craft."
José follows Umi's direction. After confirming his destination, he quickly strides across the catwalk and stops at a vacuum tube, intending to ride it to the bottom. However, due to a hundred million years of wear and tear, it fails to open, leaving him stranded.
Umi speaks, her robotic tone containing a smidgen of embarrassment. "My apologies, Admiral. I did not realize the vacuum tubes were out of operation. There is a ladder one thousand and two hundred meters starboard of your current position. You may use it to descend-"
"No need," José says, waving Umi's concerns away. "I'll just jump."
The synthmind's voice jumps an octave. "Admiral Rodriguez, I understand that you are one of Ramma's Chosen, but a 300-meter fall will-"
"It won't do anything," José laughs. Without another word, the human swings his legs over the guardrail and jumps off the catwalk. His body plummets to the metal floor below, where he crashes into it feet-first with a clang!
José straightens his posture and shakes a bit of numbness out of his legs. "Hm. I'm a little out of shape."
"Admiral..." Umi says, her tone revealing audible annoyance. "You are the last Terran. Please do not take such risky actions with your life. The effects of extended cryosleep can result in drastic weakening of both your muscles and bones. Had you broken a limb, I would have limited methods at my disposal to retrieve your body and transfer you to sickbay. My assistant bio-entities are presently few and far between."
"Relax," José says. "I'm fine. I know my own strength. I once fought a group of Void Roamers on Ataraxia II, near the Third Spiral Arm. When they surrounded me, I leaped from a cliff ten times this height and survived. Don't underestimate Ramma's Chosen."
"Those circumstances were different-"
"I don't want to hear it. End of discussion. Now, please behave yourself as I introduce myself to the Kessu. I'd like to make a good first impression with our potential allies. We could use some influential connections in this hostile galaxy."
"Admiral. Regarding the Kessu... they are not an advanced culture. You should temper your expectations."
"Oh? Then why were the Kraktol acting as if the Kessu possessed a vessel lightyears more advanced than theirs? Perhaps you are underestimating our stowaways."
Umi's tone shifts to one of exhaustion. "...Affirmative, Admiral. You are... possibly correct..."
If José notices the discrepancy between Umi's words and tone, he doesn't mention it.
Instead, the human saunters the remaining 100 meters toward the Kessu's ship. Once he nears it, he raises an eyebrow.
"Oh? I thought you said this vessel came from the 14th Era? Its appearance mirrors craft from ten eras beyond. Were you, perhaps, mistaken?"
"Negative, Admiral. The Slipstream is a specially designed craft capable of adapting its shape and appearance by borrowing the design elements of other advanced vessels. Theoretically, it could mimic many aspects of the Bloodbearer, given enough research time."
José's expression shifts to one of surprise. "Ohh! An adaptive-type science vessel! I've heard of these! Supposedly, they can improve their programming and adjust their hulls over time to obtain ever-greater levels of utility. Admiral Baruchen mentioned the researchers at Rylon V made a few prototypes during our chats in the past. How fascinating. Well, why don't I introduce myself?"
With a bit of a spring in his step, José strides toward the entry port of the Slipstream. As he nears, the craft's entry bay lowers, revealing its interior. Before José can jog up the ramp, a host of strange, cat-like creatures appear at the top. The Admiral slows to a stop, as do the unfamiliar aliens.
Admiral José's heart skips a beat. These must be the Kessu! I bet they're also the 'Sky Cats' the Kraktol mentioned before. And no wonder! They look like large, bipedal breeds of various feline species from my era!
Slowly, the Kessu shamble down the ramp while keeping their eyes locked on the hulking, nine-foot-tall human at the bottom of the Slipstream's ramp.
As they draw near, a cat with colors resembling a panda, one who leans on a walking staff, raises his paw.
"Nyarr mrow meow prraw?"
A bio-chip embedded in José's brain translates for him. "Greetings. I am Nyoor of the Kessu."
A shiver runs down José's back.
These... these Kessu... they're...
He swallows a lump in his throat.
...too damned cute!
Next Part
.......................................
Author Note:
Klokinator here! I am also the author of The Cryopod to Hell. The Last Precursor takes place in the [Cryoverse] which TCTH spawned. You do not have to read TCTH to enjoy TLP. However, I highly recommend it if you enjoy HFY themes, but be warned it will take some 200 parts to get to the relevant HFY elements due to the nature of the story. (A similar structure involving very few humans fighting against vicious demons that have taken over the galaxy.)
If you like this story, please consider subscribing to my Patreon! I am very poor and presently jobless due to Coronavirus, so every dollar helps. You get access to Cryopod artwork, and plenty of other exclusive posts, with more to come soon.
Thank you!
submitted by Klokinator to HFY [link] [comments]

Kubala, the path to glory of Barcelona's most loved legend: A story of overcoming, adventures, crazy nights, majestic matches and of a good man who made everybody around him happy.

Nothing in Kubala's life was normal. Now that TV series about sportsmen are fashionable, the one that could be made about the adventures of Ladislao Kubala Stecz (Budapest, 1927) would raze through many seasons. In one season we could go deeper into his facet of legendary footballer, capable of changing the way of playing this sport, how he saved his life at the very last moment by not getting on the Torino plane that crashed in Superga, or how he was ten minutes away from signing for Real Madrid or enrolling in the Pirate League of Colombia, all of this in order to end being Barcelona's biggest icon... who ended playing for Espanyol.
We could add a season of adventures due to his incredible escape from communist Hungary. His journey through Italy with a football team, the Hungaria, of stateless people in which in addition to Hungarians also played Croats, Albanians, Romanians and Serbs who were looking for a life as good as they could get. One could also add to this the facet of the social phenomenon that dazzled a country during the dark years of Franco's regime by becoming a pop star, and end up with another season about the legends, real, invented or simply exaggerated, of his adventures in Barcelona's nightclubs.
Everything about Kubala is like a movie.

The legend of the escape.

Born in Budapest to a Hungarian man and a Slovakian woman, he always considered himself as both Hungarian and Slovakian, even when this republic was part of the now extinct Czechoslovakia. By the age of 20, Kubala was a football star known for his performances with Slovan Bratislava and Vasas Budapest. In fact, he had already been capped by Czechoslovakia and Hungary. Later, he would go on to play for Spain, and is still the only player to have been capped by three countries. But fed up with the system that was preventing him from developing his professional football career, he embarked on an escape proper of a movie to the West. He contacted a human trafficking organisation, a mafia that, in exchange for a large amount of money, facilitated a partial escape. As is now the case with criminals who gamble with the lives of people who want to cross the Mediterranean from Africa to Europe or pass to the United States through the southern border, the smugglers did not secure anything. The last part of the journey depended on the luck and expertise of the escapees and often ended tragically.
"I remember that when I escaped from Hungary I was just a kid. The traffickers left us in the middle of a mountain to do the last stretch on foot. We were a large group. The adults gathered the children and gave us palinka. A liquor similar to brandy to get us drunk and fall asleep. A child's cry could alert the border guards patrolling the mountain. And they had orders to shoot to kill. The group split in two. My group was lucky and we were able to win the Austrian border. Once we were safe, we learned that the other group that had travelled with us and took another road was discovered and killed." The chilling story is that of Zoltan Czibor, the son of the former Barça player who tells how he had to flee Hungary with his family to join his father in Italy. The odyssey of Kubala, six years earlier, was mirrored.
The traffickers disguised Kubala as a Russian soldier and put him in a truck that would leave the escapees at an undetermined point in the mountains so that they could cross the border into Austria on their own. Kubala remembered that this journey scared him to death because unlike his comrades, he was a national celebrity and any soldier who checked the military truck would recognize him. He was endangering his life and the lives of those who accompanied him.
When they were left in the mountain on January 27, 1949, Kubala walked, and crossing a river helped by a tire that carried him, managed to reach Innsbuck, Austria, without any documentation. He was a stateless man starting from scratch.
In Austria he managed to sign with Pro Patria, a team from Milan, but he could only play friendly matches. His escape provoked the anger of the Hungarian regime, which denounced him and blocked his registration. Kubala had married Anna Daucik two years earlier, sister of Fernando Daucik, a veteran player of the era who would later become a famous coach. When Kubala fled, he left behind his family, whom he was unable to reunite with until six months later, when Anna was able to cross the border and meet Ladislao in Udine. He arrived with one more member of the family. A baby, her firstborn, whom Kubala did not yet know.
While he is irregularly enrolled in the Pro Patria, he gets the chance to sign with Torino, Italy's dominant team at the time. He is offered a trial match. Nothing better than a friendly match that Il Grande Torino had in Lisbon as a tribute to Xico Ferreira. However, when the Turin team's plane is about to take off, the president of Torino prevents Kubala from boarding because he fears a federal sanction. On the return flight, on 4 May 1949, the Fiat G 212 of Avio Linee Italiana crashed into the retaining wall of the Basilica of Superga due to the wind, poor visibility and an error in the altimeter of the aircraft. At 180 kilometres per hour and with a visibility of 40 metres, the pilot saw the stone wall of the basilica too late when he thought the plane was at 2,000 metres and was actually at 690 metres above sea level. The 31 people who were travelling in that aircraft died. Kubala had saved his life again.

The legend of Hungaria.

With no possibility of playing in Italy because the back then very powerful Italian Communist Party was pressing to prevent people fleeing from countries in the orbit of the USSR from taking refuge in Italy, Kubala had no choice but to form a team of stateless people who hired their services throughout Europe to play friendly matches against whoever hired them.
The team was called Hungaria, was managed by his brother-in-law Fernando Daucik and was mainly made up of Hungarians, although there were also players of other nationalities. It was made up of: Kis, Marik, Torok, Mogoy, Lami, Rákosi, Hrotko, Majteny, Nagy, Kubala, Otto, Licker, Turbeky, Monsider (Croatian), De Lorenzi (Albanian), Szegedi (Romanian) and Arangelovic (Serbian).
They played their first match against Italy's B team, but again pressure from the PCI forced them to play outside Italy. And that is how they arrived in Spain, hired by Santiago Bernabéu. On June 5, 1950, they faced Real Madrid in Chamartin, losing 4-2, but with a stellar performance by Kubala, who scored both of his team's goals. Three days later, they beat the Spanish team that was preparing for the World Cup in Brazil, where they came in fourth, 1-2 again with a great performance by Kubala, who received an offer from Real Madrid to be signed.
Kubala requires that to join the team, Madrid must also hire Daucik as a coach, something that Bernabéu does not agree to. The Madrid coach at that time was the Briton Keeping, a great connoisseur of WM tactics. Daucik is offered to train the Plus Ultra, a Madrid branch that plays in the third division. That negative and the federative problems that drags Kubala cause that Madrid becomes disinterested in his transfer, that was already agreed lacking of some fringes that turned out to be determinant.
The Hungaria moves two days later to Barcelona, where on June 10 plays against Espanyol losing 6-4 in a match with Pepe Samitier, the technical secretary of Barça, in the stands. It is necessary to emphasize that Hungaria had been playing three matches in five days with a very short team and without being able to make substitutions. Even so, Kubala amazes and Samitier does not mess around. Six days after that match, on 16 June 1950, at half past six in the evening, Kubala signed his three-year contract with Barça at the Pasaje Méndez Vigo. Obviously, with Fernando Daucik as coach. President Montal, Sr., signed him as an "amateur player" in order to avoid any trouble for the federation.
Real Madrid rages and is shocked. Pablo Hernández, general secretary of the white entity and Santiago Bernabéu's right hand, assures that Barça had broken a non-aggression pact between both teams and had hired a player with whom they were in talks. Samitier, who was unbeatable in the media, declares that he had been following Kubala for months and that the pact had not been broken because it referred only to players who played in Spanish teams. And Hungaria was not Spanish. In fact, it wasn't from anywhere.
But Kubala's problems didn't end there. He still didn't have a registration card or an international certificate. Vasas in Budapest and the Hungarian Federation had reported him to FIFA. Barça used the weak argument that since professionalism had been abolished in Hungary, any amateur player could choose his destiny. But the fight was not going to be so easy.
Barça, it is fair to say, had the total support of the regime and the Federation to carry out the transfer. At the level of anti-communist propaganda, Kubala was perfect. A young and extraordinary sportsman who fled from the red hell to take refuge in Franco's Spain was a candy too sweet to let go. Muñoz Calero, president of the Federation, rowed in favor of Barça as did Ricardo Cabot, secretary of the organization, who, in addition to his affection for the regime, was a well-known Barcelona supporter.
But the procedures were very slow and Kubala could only play friendly matches. He made his debut against Osasuna on 12 October, scoring two goals on the day the Barça fans knew instantly that they had just signed a star. Then he played against Zaragoza, Frankfurt twice, Girona and the Badalona. In six friendlies he scored 11 goals. The fans and the player himself were eager to meet in an official match. For all this, the Federation to play the role with FIFA fined Barça every time he lined up Kubala with the symbolic figure of 50 pesetas.
It is at this time that Kubala is about to leave everything and go away from Barça. He needed the money and wanted to play at the highest level and in Colombia he was offered the chance to do so. The South American country had organised the so-called Pirate League outside FIFA and many of the world's biggest stars joined, including Alfredo Di Stefano who went to Millonarios in Bogota. Kubala had a tempting offer from Atletico Bucaramanga. With the option of Kubala leaving, events accelerated. To begin with, Barça fixed his financial situation by means of a peculiar amateur contract in which they paid him 1,200 pesetas for "compensation" and 3,800 for "encouragement and overfeeding".
On April 2, 1951, he was granted the status of political refugee as a stateless person, which was a step towards granting him Spanish nationality. But for this step, Kubala first had to be converted to Catholicism through the sacrament of baptism. Every Spaniard had to be a Catholic. Kubala was baptized in Aguilas, Murcia, the birthplace of Muñoz Calero, president of the Federation. It is then when Barça, to avoid problems, settles its differences economically with Vasas, which despite being against capitalism accepts a payment of 300,000 pesetas to provide the transfer, while the Pro Patria, which also complained, is satisfied with 12 million lire.
The Kubala era could now really commence.

The legend on the field.

Kubala made his official debut with Barcelona in Sevilla in a cup match. The Sevillistas at that time were one of the best teams. Sevilla and Barça had developed in that period a great rivalry in the high places of the table. In 1946 Sevilla had stolen the possibility of winning the championship from Barça by drawing in Les Corts on the last day, in 1948 Barça beat the Sevillians in the final of the Eva Perón Cup (which would be the current Supercup) and in that campaign a Barça without Kubala had lost all its options to win La Liga after losing 4-0 in Nervión three days before the end of the season.
The Cup, by that time was played once the regular season was over and in those circumstances the official debut of Kubala took place. On April 29th in Nervion, Barça arrived to play against Sevilla in the middle of a difficult atmosphere. The Andalusians had lost the league in a dramatic outcome when they drew at home in the last match against Atletico Madrid with a refereeing performance that the locals judged scandalous. For further concern, the Federation allowed Kubala to line up with Barça in the first round of the Cup, which in Sevilla was taken as a surprise.
With the stadium full to the flag, Barcelona defeated Sevilla in an exhibition of Kubala. He wasn't just the best of the match but he showed Spain a way of playing football unthinkable until that time: chest controls, shots with curve, millimetric changes of play of 40 meters, protection of the ball with his back, use of the body in the shot and touches with the heel.
Domenech, Sevilla's attacker who was the direct protagonist of that match, explained years later how he remembered that day.
"It was something never seen before. Ramallets kicked it and he would receive her with his chest, or with either of his legs. If you tackled him he would dribble you in a brick. He'd put the ball where he wanted her. Besides, from time to time he changed with César, he'd be a center forward and César would be a midfielder. They drove us crazy. The anger of the people became clamours. We were witnessing something extraordinary. It was like going from black and white cinema to colour," explained the former Sevilla player. The Sevilla crowd, who had welcomed Barça and its new superstar with anger, ended up giving Kubala a standing ovation for every action as if they were watching a glorious bullfighting performance.
Kubala's actions on the field change football forever. Since there was no television, his exploits are reported orally. There is no other way to see it than to go to the field of Les Corts, which is packed for every game Barça plays as a local. It is a very common argument to say that Kubala forced Barça to build the Camp Nou because the old Les Corts was not enough to accommodate all the people who wanted to admire him. Maybe he had an influence, but as the journalist Frederic Porta, author of an interesting biography of Kubala (Kubala, l'heroi que va canviar la història del Barça. Ed. Saldonar) explains, "the truth is that Barça had already bought the land to build the Camp Nou two years before and the idea of making a bigger field already existed, but Kubala advanced everything and justified the change".
Blessed with brutal technique, a sensational strike of the ball and an unusual physical strength, Kubala changed football. He would throw free-kicks over the wall with curve or by making the ball bounce in front of the goalkeeper, he would take penalties (he was practically infallible) with what was later called paradinha and was credited with the Brazilians although he was the first in Europe to do so. Physically he was a bull. In his youth he had practiced boxing and if he didn't become a recognized fighter with a great career it was because he had short arms. His lower body was sensational. He had a butt and legs that allowed him to protect the ball like no one else. Frederic Porta says that "in his time of splendour they measured his thighs and each one had a circumference of 69 centimetres, which would be the waist of one of his companions". He was also capable of running the 100 metres in less than 11 seconds. A total athlete with a very refined technique.
However, that physical strength and the confidence he had in her, for he never avoided a collision, were his downfall. Kubala became the target of a hunt by rival defenders. He never went into hiding and that's why in eleven years at Barcelona he suffered up to eleven injuries of some seriousness. With matches without television, the harshness that bordered on violence was the order of the day. He was being kicked to death.
But Barça was living its most golden period to date. Moreover, the club revolved around Kubala. Frederic Porta compares it with the present time: "Now they say that Messi commands the club and surely he commands, but nothing to do with the influence that Kubala had. Kubala was the boss and even the one who decided the transfers. And no one was surprised. That Barça adopted the socks with the horizontal stripes blaugrana is his imposition. He saw them on the rugby team, liked them and incorporated them into the football team by decree. In fact, it is he who insists on signing Luis Suarez when he impresses him in a match against Deportivo. Kubala was Suarez's first fan, but what happened in the stands, which was divided between Suaristas and Kubalistas, is another matter.
Suarez was eight years younger than Kubala. He arrived at Barcelona at the age of 19, Kubala was 27 and his physique was very punished by his injuries and the life he was living, as he did not deprive himself of anything. If he held out, it was because of privileged genetics.
Therefore, there never was a real competition between them, but there was a lot of influence here from the figure of Helenio Herrera, the Barça manager, who saw Kubala as older and slower and was looking forward to a quick change by the young Galician as the leader of the team. The debate reached the stands and the media. It was an absurd debate, because they didn't play in the same position, with whom Kubala really had a certain rivalry with Eulogio Martínez, who was the one with whom he alternated the position.
Kubala's physical problems were not only due to injuries. He had the whole of Spain in suspense when he suffered a tuberculosis that could have cost him his life. There are apocryphal versions that explain that this tuberculosis was actually a stab wound he suffered in a fight in a cheap pub in the fifth district (Barcelona's Chinatown) and he has to retire to Montseny to recover. Nobody is betting on his return to the pitch if he survives a "hole in the lung the size of a silver bullet" according to the chronicles of the time. But once again, Kubala's ability to survive prevails. He returns to the pitches, but already heavily punished and slowed down.
It is against this backdrop that the 1961 European Cup final arrives, with Kubala arriving at the age of 34 with a herniated disc that barely allows him to walk, but he wants to play. He knows that the club is going through a critical situation despite having reached the final of the maximum trophy for the first time: the club is bankrupt because of the construction of the Camp Nou, the fights in the board of directors are chaotic, Luis Suarez has signed for Inter (the one in Bern will be his last game with Barça), which was where Helenio Herrera had left the team in the hands of Enrique Orizaola.
Kubala tells Orizaola to line him up, that like all the Portuguese will go for him and he can barely move because of the back pain and will play with painkillers, it will give more opportunities to his teammates. But the match is a pile of misfortunes for Barcelona. Ramallets scores an own goal, Barça shoots three times to the damn square posts of the goals (from then on they would change their shape) even Kubala kicked a ball that hit a post, went through the goal line until it hit the other post and came out repelled. Barça lost and Kubala's time at Barcelona came to an end.

The man of the year.

Kubala's significance goes beyond the playing field. According to a vote made for Radio Barcelona by journalist Joaquín Soler Serrano in the mid-50s, the Catalans most loved by their fellow citizens were Doctor Barraquer and Ladislao Kubala.
"He was literally the most famous person in the city, people really venerated him, and even Messi's influence cannot be compared to that of Kubala in those years," explains Porta.
His life off the field was notorious. An unrepentant night owl, it was common to see him in Barcelona's fashionable coffee shops and nightclubs. He was a man who stood out. Alfredo Relaño defines him in some of his articles as "a demigod. Tall, strong, blond with blue eyes and an overflowing personality. He aroused the admiration of men and women alike. An idol". Frederic Porta sums it up with the argument that "he would be the sum of Messi and Beckham and on top of that, he would go out every night".
Faced with Kubala's disorganised life, the Barcelona management decided to set up a private detective agency to follow him at night. The reports of the detectives are still in the Centre de Documentació del FC Barcelona and Frederic Porta published them in the history magazine 'Sàpiens'. In them, he gives a detailed account of the nocturnal wanderings of "Mr. K.", the code name of the Blaugrana star in an exercise in absurd discretion. There is also a letter from a Sabadell businessman in the club's archives, expressing concern that Kubala and Czibor had been "found in a Sabadell establishment after 2.30 in the morning accompanied by some of those ladies who were once gentlemen, I don't know if you understand". What the businessman doesn't explain in the letter is what he was doing in the same place.
Kubala's fondness for drinking was no secret. Helenio Herrera explains in a television interview that "one day at an airport in customs they asked Kubala if he had anything to declare and he said two bottles of whisky. The official asked him to show them to him and he, laughing, touched his belly and said: 'X-ray, I have them inside'. On another occasion, in the same situation, but carrying the bottle in the bag, he was told to leave it at the airport because no alcoholic drinks were allowed to be taken on board. Neither shy nor lazy, he drank it in front of the astonished official.
The legends about the occasions when the night was made longer and he did not arrive at training sessions or matches were recurrent. In that case, he called on the services of Angel Mur Sr., the team masseur who knew where to find him. He would start a pilgrimage through the usual places or floors until he found him, took him to the changing room, gave him a cold shower, a coffee with salt, a massage and played. The fans forgave him everything and were aware that their star was a man of joyful life. But he never failed on the field. Among the crowd at the time there were comments about the Kubala ritual in those games that followed a busy night. "He started off badly, and vaguely, but the signal was when, ten minutes into the game, he rolled up his sleeves as if to say 'I'm here, let's start, I've already cleared off', and the machine started to work.
You can't find anyone in the world who speaks ill of Kubala. Absolutely no one. Everyone highlights his huge heart and that despite being by far the highest paid player of the time (he earned six times more than his teammates) he didn't have a no for anyone. His detachment from money was legendary.
As proof, the anecdote explained by his biographer Porta: "one day he arrived at the dressing room and commented that his car had been stolen and that in the glove compartment he was carrying an envelope with 200,000 pesetas, which was a fortune for the time (a good apartment could cost 130,000 pesetas). When his colleagues tried to encourage him, he simply said: someone who needs it more than I do must have taken it".
It was also usual for him to take off his coat and give it to a poor man who begged in Barcelona's winter, or to take in any Hungarian who came to Barcelona asking for help in his house in Carrer Duquesa d'Orleans. Kubala, remembering his times as a stateless refugee without papers, asked nothing. He would take them home and pay them a boat ticket to America. The motto among the refugees fleeing the Iron Curtain was that "if you get to Barcelona, look for Kubala, he will help you". He never failed.
Later, now retired, he set up a bar next to Czibor in Capitan Arenas Street, the mythical Kep Duna (blue Danube in Hungarian) that became an unofficial refugee reception centre that was monitored by the secret services of the United States, the USSR and the Spanish police. Something like the Rick's Café in the film Casablanca, but in the upper area of Barcelona.
He was the great character of Barcelona loved by all, but there was a moment when this was almost broken, strange as it may seem. It coincided with the defeat in Bern, when a part of the press came to write that "Barça must be de-Kubalized as the Soviet Union must be de-Stalinized" and, especially, when he signed for Espanyol. The earthquake was a huge one.

From the bench to Sarrià.

After the defeat in Bern's final, Kubala announced his retirement from the fields. He had taken the coaching course and was ranked number one in his class. He made a pact with the president Llaudet, who was also an interesting character as we will see, that in principle he would take charge of the footballers' school of the club and that in a couple of years he would be in charge of the first team.
Meanwhile, Barcelona is directed by Lluís Miró who faces a team in disarray. Suarez has been transferred to Inter in the worst decision in the club's history and myths such as Ramallets, Tejada and Czibor were in the decline of their careers. The season starts badly and after losing at Mestalla to Valencia by a humiliating 6-2 that forces the resignation of Miro. It was time for Kubala, who was promoted to the first team in front of the joy of the fans. And the project results from the beginning. The Barça of the second part of season 61-62 recovers in La Liga and finishes second (the distance with the white ones when Kubala arrived was almost insurmountable) and avenges the 6-2 of Mestalla beating Valencia in the Camp Nou 4-0.
Facing the next season, the 62-63, Kubala can make his team by giving painful drops of some of his former teammates as it is the case of Eulogio Martinez or Evaristo. One of Llaudet's reluctances to give Kubala the job of coach was that he would have to manage some of his former teammates.
The positive expectations about Kubala's first full project were frustrated at first when the Blaugrana team had to play the final of the Copa de Ferias against Valencia, the team that caused the fall of Miró and the promotion of Kubala. And the history, by rare that it seems, repeats: Valencia returns to him to put 6-2 to the Barça. The fans explode against the team. In the return match, obviously, there is nothing to do, but Llaudet's ability to self-flagellation has no limits. As Alfredo Relaño writes, the Blaugrana president calls a dinner with the press the day before the game and makes this statement that if it happened today would open all the news.
Llaudet, in front of the press and accompanied by the coach Kubala and Gràcia as captain, asks the fans to forgive him and announces changes in the protocol of the start of the second leg. "Valencia will go out first to receive the applause, then Barcelona, to receive the whistles. Then Kubala will come out, so he can get the thunders. And finally me, so that all the whistles fall on my person, because I am the barcelonist who loves the club the most and who is destined to die on the pitch, if necessary...". He ends his speech crying. As we can see, Gaspart didn't invent anything.
The match ended in a draw and Kubala's project as Barça's coach was doomed. The manager is fired in the middle of the season and then a bomb explodes in Barcelona. Kubala accepts the offer to return to the pitch, but not as a coach, will be as a player and nothing more and nothing less than in Espanyol, Barça's eternal rival.
On 3 September 1963 Espanyol, then Español, announced that Kubala would be hired as a player. At 36 years of age, he was capable of being competitive.
His decision divides the public opinion. On the one hand, Federico Gallo and Juan José Castillo support his decision, on the other hand, Carlos Pardo or Ibáñez Escofet shoot at him. They call him a "Jew who sells himself for a plate of beans", a "traitor" and they see political interests in his decision.
Kubala explains that he wanted to continue playing and that he saw himself capable of doing so, although he accepted that he was not at Barcelona's level. He had received offers from important clubs, including River Plate and Juventus, but he doesn't want to leave Barcelona, where he feels like another Barcelonian. The Espanyol meets his expectations.
His start of the season is not bad, on the contrary, he scores in his first two games, but the team doesn't work out. The coexistence between the veteran newcomer Kubala and the team's symbol, Argilés, is not easy. Scopelli is dismissed as coach and de facto command of the team is given to the two team leaders despite their differences. The crisis erupts when the Spaniard visits the Camp Nou. The periquitos lose by 5-0 in a match in which the Barcelona crowd booed Kubala who they are eager to humiliate with his new team. Even so, at the end of the match, Kubala has a gesture to his former team that shows that he does not hold any grudge against what he has heard from the stands. At the end of the match, he organizes his teammates to make the corridor to Barça applauding the rival in recognition of the exhibition made. That gesture feels bad among the Espanyol fans and among some of his teammates. Argilés does not make the corridor and goes straight to the changing rooms.
The following year, Kubala becomes a manager-player and among the departures that he causes, there is the one of Argilés, but by contrast, Di Stéfano arrives, also hurt by his bad exit from Madrid fighting against Bernabéu.
Di Stefano and Kubala are like brothers. Even though they haven't officially played together, they have a special chemistry. A friendship that is forged when the Argentinian is about to sign for Barcelona.
When Di Stéfano arrives in Barcelona to sign for Español, he stays first at the Avenida Palace Hotel, but after a month he is living in Kubala's house as one of the family. The children of both always maintained a relationship as if they were brothers.
One of the players under Kubala's command was Jose Maria Rodilla, one of the players who would soon form the famous 'Dolphins' forward line. At 80 years of age, Rodilla remembers Kubala.
"I have a wonderful memory of Kubala, I always had a special affection for him. Not in vain, he was the one who signed me for Espanyol", he remembers when answering the call of this newspaper to which he confesses that* "normally I do not make declarations, but to speak about Kubala I do whatever is needed"*.
Rodilla, former teammate at Espanyol, has clear that "he was the best player in the world in terms of technique. Di Stéfano was the best footballer, but he didn't have his technique. Alfredo was more intense and more player of the whole field, but he could not do things that Kubala did"
Those who had the privilege of playing with both of them remember that "for example, Di Stefano wouldn't leave you alone for a minute, he was all over you and the fights were intense, but he always set an example, he never asked you for anything that he didn't do. Kubala was more paternalistic and tolerant. For example, he would ask us to do as he did in training, and while sitting down he would be able to make 3,000 touches on the ball without dropping it. Only he could do that."
Rodilla adds a story that explains Kubala's quality as a player-coach at the age of 38: "We went to play a friendly at Amposta and they called a foul on the edge of the box. Kubala takes the ball and whacks it into the corner. The referee made him repeat it because someone had moved or I don't know what. Kubala takes the ball and wham, back to the square. And the referee tells him that he has to repeat. That day Kubala got angry and left the field."
Rodilla recalls that Kubala's move from Barça to Espanyol created controversy in the city, but that he was oblivious to it. "He was still a magnificent person, I never heard him say a bad word against anyone. He never got into an argument, he was goodness personified, he was unlucky in his time as a coach, but as a coach he is one of the best I've ever had, with a great love for young players and always trying to help you improve."

Boys well, optimal morale.

He extended his playing career for a couple more years by playing for Zurich and even trying out the American adventure at the Toronto Falcons, where he coincides with Branko and Daucik's son. At the age of 40 he played 19 games and scored 5 goals.
In 1968 he returned to Spain and trained the Córdoba team for a short period of time until he was called up to the national team. Kubala will manage the Spanish team until 1980, when he signs for Barcelona again as a coach.
Kubala's debut with Spain was, once again, a propaganda match for the regime. It was played in the Estadio de la Línea de la Concepción against Finland and Spain beat their rivals 6-0 in a match that was no longer useful. Spain had missed out on qualifying for the Mexico '70 World Cup, but the idea of that game was to showcase a great field that could be seen from Gibraltar as if to give jealousy to those in the Rock for the sports culture of Spain. Dictatorship things.
It's true that at that time Spain was struggling more than anything else on the international scene. It did not qualify for the 1974 World Cup because of Katalinski's goal in the play-off match in Frankfurt, and in both the 1978 World Cup and the 1980 European Championship the team fell in the first round, but there is still no one from that era who will make a judgement against Kubala.
"Kubala, one ahead of his time. No doubt he had a lot to do with his past as a footballer. And not just like any other player, like the best! I remember him always saying to me: 'Ruben, you have to get out of the way on the other side of the ball. Look for the space, not the ball. The goal I scored in Yugoslavia has to do with everything he taught me," he told Fermin de la Calle in an interview with AS Ruben Cano, the hero of the famous 'Battle of Belgrade' in the match that took Spain to the World Cup in Argentina. Yes, the one with the goal by Cardeñosa that could have changed Kubala's record with the national team.
He did a lot to improve Spanish football and his idea regarding the incorporation of foreigners to improve the level of Spanish football was key in the future development of the Spanish competitive level.
His players remember him as a didactic person, tactically bold and very close. At a time when fury was the hallmark of the game, Kubala never forgot that he was the heir to the Magyar tradition of the Honved and the Hungary who, by moving the ball, shocked the world the day they destroyed England at Wembley 3-6.
For the average football fan, Kubala may have been a half-hearted coach who embodied an era of the national team in which nothing was won, as has been the case most of the time, and he became popular for his expressions that would now be meme material on social networks. The national team was known as the 'Kubala boys' and the coach's catchphrase before the matches saying "boys well, optimal morale" was the fashionable phrase in the coffee shops of the 70s in Spain.
But among his colleagues, Kubala still deserved reverential respect. "The first goal was authentically Latin, cunningly scored and perfectly studied. I can only congratulate Kubala on his previous tactical work," said German boss Helmut Schön after facing and losing to Spain in a friendly in which the recent world semi-finalist and next world champion fell to the Kubala boys at the Sanchez Pizjuan with two strategic goals from Arieta. Yes, Arieta against Müller. Seeler, Beckembauer, Maier, Netzer and company.
He left the national team in 1980 to join Barça as the coach of Núñez's second project in an operation that was the prelude to what would happen in the World Cup in Russia with Lopetegui. Kubala committed to Barça while he was coach and tried to alternate functions, but Porta refused. Finally, on 8 June 1980, four days before the start of the European Championship, Kubala signed for the Blaugrana team, which he would join after the European Championship.
His second spell at the head of Barça did not go well either and he was dismissed mid-season. He continued his adventure on the bench as coach of Saudi Arabia (in that he was also a pioneer), training Malaga and the Paraguayan national team before retiring from football on the bench of Elche.
He spent his final years in Barcelona as active as ever. Playing with Barça veterans, helping his teammates, not having a no for anyone and playing tennis every day or going for a run or cycling routes exhibiting an enviable physical condition.
Until the light of genius and the glory faded away 18 years ago. A degenerative brain disease put an end to the adventure, but not to the legend of a world football myth. An icon that changed the lives of so many people that they wouldn't fit even in a stadium.
The coffin with the mortal remains of Kubala was carried on shoulders, amidst the applause of the fans who gathered at the doors of the church of Santa Tecla, by Alfredo Di Stéfano, Gustau Biosca, Eduardo Manchón, Estanislao Basora, Joan Segarra, Josep Bartomeu, Luis Suárez, Antoni Ramallets and Gonzalvo III.
He rests in the cemetery of Les Corts, next to the Camp Nou because that is what he left written in his will, while Serrat sang to him about how...
...Pelé was Pelé and Maradona was the one and that's it. Di Stéfano was a pit of mischief. Honour and glory to those who made the sun shine on our football. Everyone has his merits; to each his own, but for me none is like Kubala. Respectable silence is requested, for those who haven't enjoyed him, I'll say four things: he stops it with his head, he drops it on with his chest, he sleeps it off with his left, crosses the pitch with the ball attached to the boot, leaves the midfield and enters the box showing the ball, hides it with his body, pushes with his ass and gets in with his heels. He pisses on the centerback with a dedicated piece. and touches her gently to put her on the path to glory.

by Santi Gimenez for AS.com (2020)

submitted by HippoBigga to Barca [link] [comments]

Kubala, the path to glory of Barcelona's most loved legend: A story of overcoming, adventures, crazy nights, majestic matches and of a good man who made everybody around him happy.

Nothing in Kubala's life was normal. Now that TV series about sportsmen are fashionable, the one that could be made about the adventures of Ladislao Kubala Stecz (Budapest, 1927) would raze through many seasons. In one season we could go deeper into his facet of legendary footballer, capable of changing the way of playing this sport, how he saved his life at the very last moment by not getting on the Torino plane that crashed in Superga, or how he was ten minutes away from signing for Real Madrid or enrolling in the Pirate League of Colombia, all of this in order to end being Barcelona's biggest icon... who ended playing for Espanyol.
We could add a season of adventures due to his incredible escape from communist Hungary. His journey through Italy with a football team, the Hungaria, of stateless people in which in addition to Hungarians also played Croats, Albanians, Romanians and Serbs who were looking for a life as good as they could get. One could also add to this the facet of the social phenomenon that dazzled a country during the dark years of Franco's regime by becoming a pop star, and end up with another season about the legends, real, invented or simply exaggerated, of his adventures in Barcelona's nightclubs.
Everything about Kubala is like a movie.

The legend of the escape.

Born in Budapest to a Hungarian man and a Slovakian woman, he always considered himself as both Hungarian and Slovakian, even when this republic was part of the now extinct Czechoslovakia. By the age of 20, Kubala was a football star known for his performances with Slovan Bratislava and Vasas Budapest. In fact, he had already been capped by Czechoslovakia and Hungary. Later, he would go on to play for Spain, and is still the only player to have been capped by three countries. But fed up with the system that was preventing him from developing his professional football career, he embarked on an escape proper of a movie to the West. He contacted a human trafficking organisation, a mafia that, in exchange for a large amount of money, facilitated a partial escape. As is now the case with criminals who gamble with the lives of people who want to cross the Mediterranean from Africa to Europe or pass to the United States through the southern border, the smugglers did not secure anything. The last part of the journey depended on the luck and expertise of the escapees and often ended tragically.
"I remember that when I escaped from Hungary I was just a kid. The traffickers left us in the middle of a mountain to do the last stretch on foot. We were a large group. The adults gathered the children and gave us palinka. A liquor similar to brandy to get us drunk and fall asleep. A child's cry could alert the border guards patrolling the mountain. And they had orders to shoot to kill. The group split in two. My group was lucky and we were able to win the Austrian border. Once we were safe, we learned that the other group that had travelled with us and took another road was discovered and killed." The chilling story is that of Zoltan Czibor, the son of the former Barça player who tells how he had to flee Hungary with his family to join his father in Italy. The odyssey of Kubala, six years earlier, was mirrored.
The traffickers disguised Kubala as a Russian soldier and put him in a truck that would leave the escapees at an undetermined point in the mountains so that they could cross the border into Austria on their own. Kubala remembered that this journey scared him to death because unlike his comrades, he was a national celebrity and any soldier who checked the military truck would recognize him. He was endangering his life and the lives of those who accompanied him.
When they were left in the mountain on January 27, 1949, Kubala walked, and crossing a river helped by a tire that carried him, managed to reach Innsbuck, Austria, without any documentation. He was a stateless man starting from scratch.
In Austria he managed to sign with Pro Patria, a team from Milan, but he could only play friendly matches. His escape provoked the anger of the Hungarian regime, which denounced him and blocked his registration. Kubala had married Anna Daucik two years earlier, sister of Fernando Daucik, a veteran player of the era who would later become a famous coach. When Kubala fled, he left behind his family, whom he was unable to reunite with until six months later, when Anna was able to cross the border and meet Ladislao in Udine. He arrived with one more member of the family. A baby, her firstborn, whom Kubala did not yet know.
While he is irregularly enrolled in the Pro Patria, he gets the chance to sign with Torino, Italy's dominant team at the time. He is offered a trial match. Nothing better than a friendly match that Il Grande Torino had in Lisbon as a tribute to Xico Ferreira. However, when the Turin team's plane is about to take off, the president of Torino prevents Kubala from boarding because he fears a federal sanction. On the return flight, on 4 May 1949, the Fiat G 212 of Avio Linee Italiana crashed into the retaining wall of the Basilica of Superga due to the wind, poor visibility and an error in the altimeter of the aircraft. At 180 kilometres per hour and with a visibility of 40 metres, the pilot saw the stone wall of the basilica too late when he thought the plane was at 2,000 metres and was actually at 690 metres above sea level. The 31 people who were travelling in that aircraft died. Kubala had saved his life again.

The legend of Hungaria.

With no possibility of playing in Italy because the back then very powerful Italian Communist Party was pressing to prevent people fleeing from countries in the orbit of the USSR from taking refuge in Italy, Kubala had no choice but to form a team of stateless people who hired their services throughout Europe to play friendly matches against whoever hired them.
The team was called Hungaria, was managed by his brother-in-law Fernando Daucik and was mainly made up of Hungarians, although there were also players of other nationalities. It was made up of: Kis, Marik, Torok, Mogoy, Lami, Rákosi, Hrotko, Majteny, Nagy, Kubala, Otto, Licker, Turbeky, Monsider (Croatian), De Lorenzi (Albanian), Szegedi (Romanian) and Arangelovic (Serbian).
They played their first match against Italy's B team, but again pressure from the PCI forced them to play outside Italy. And that is how they arrived in Spain, hired by Santiago Bernabéu. On June 5, 1950, they faced Real Madrid in Chamartin, losing 4-2, but with a stellar performance by Kubala, who scored both of his team's goals. Three days later, they beat the Spanish team that was preparing for the World Cup in Brazil, where they came in fourth, 1-2 again with a great performance by Kubala, who received an offer from Real Madrid to be signed.
Kubala requires that to join the team, Madrid must also hire Daucik as a coach, something that Bernabéu does not agree to. The Madrid coach at that time was the Briton Keeping, a great connoisseur of WM tactics. Daucik is offered to train the Plus Ultra, a Madrid branch that plays in the third division. That negative and the federative problems that drags Kubala cause that Madrid becomes disinterested in his transfer, that was already agreed lacking of some fringes that turned out to be determinant.
The Hungaria moves two days later to Barcelona, where on June 10 plays against Espanyol losing 6-4 in a match with Pepe Samitier, the technical secretary of Barça, in the stands. It is necessary to emphasize that Hungaria had been playing three matches in five days with a very short team and without being able to make substitutions. Even so, Kubala amazes and Samitier does not mess around. Six days after that match, on 16 June 1950, at half past six in the evening, Kubala signed his three-year contract with Barça at the Pasaje Méndez Vigo. Obviously, with Fernando Daucik as coach. President Montal, Sr., signed him as an "amateur player" in order to avoid any trouble for the federation.
Real Madrid rages and is shocked. Pablo Hernández, general secretary of the white entity and Santiago Bernabéu's right hand, assures that Barça had broken a non-aggression pact between both teams and had hired a player with whom they were in talks. Samitier, who was unbeatable in the media, declares that he had been following Kubala for months and that the pact had not been broken because it referred only to players who played in Spanish teams. And Hungaria was not Spanish. In fact, it wasn't from anywhere.
But Kubala's problems didn't end there. He still didn't have a registration card or an international certificate. Vasas in Budapest and the Hungarian Federation had reported him to FIFA. Barça used the weak argument that since professionalism had been abolished in Hungary, any amateur player could choose his destiny. But the fight was not going to be so easy.
Barça, it is fair to say, had the total support of the regime and the Federation to carry out the transfer. At the level of anti-communist propaganda, Kubala was perfect. A young and extraordinary sportsman who fled from the red hell to take refuge in Franco's Spain was a candy too sweet to let go. Muñoz Calero, president of the Federation, rowed in favor of Barça as did Ricardo Cabot, secretary of the organization, who, in addition to his affection for the regime, was a well-known Barcelona supporter.
But the procedures were very slow and Kubala could only play friendly matches. He made his debut against Osasuna on 12 October, scoring two goals on the day the Barça fans knew instantly that they had just signed a star. Then he played against Zaragoza, Frankfurt twice, Girona and the Badalona. In six friendlies he scored 11 goals. The fans and the player himself were eager to meet in an official match. For all this, the Federation to play the role with FIFA fined Barça every time he lined up Kubala with the symbolic figure of 50 pesetas.
It is at this time that Kubala is about to leave everything and go away from Barça. He needed the money and wanted to play at the highest level and in Colombia he was offered the chance to do so. The South American country had organised the so-called Pirate League outside FIFA and many of the world's biggest stars joined, including Alfredo Di Stefano who went to Millonarios in Bogota. Kubala had a tempting offer from Atletico Bucaramanga. With the option of Kubala leaving, events accelerated. To begin with, Barça fixed his financial situation by means of a peculiar amateur contract in which they paid him 1,200 pesetas for "compensation" and 3,800 for "encouragement and overfeeding".
On April 2, 1951, he was granted the status of political refugee as a stateless person, which was a step towards granting him Spanish nationality. But for this step, Kubala first had to be converted to Catholicism through the sacrament of baptism. Every Spaniard had to be a Catholic. Kubala was baptized in Aguilas, Murcia, the birthplace of Muñoz Calero, president of the Federation. It is then when Barça, to avoid problems, settles its differences economically with Vasas, which despite being against capitalism accepts a payment of 300,000 pesetas to provide the transfer, while the Pro Patria, which also complained, is satisfied with 12 million lire.
The Kubala era could now really commence.

The legend on the field.

Kubala made his official debut with Barcelona in Sevilla in a cup match. The Sevillistas at that time were one of the best teams. Sevilla and Barça had developed in that period a great rivalry in the high places of the table. In 1946 Sevilla had stolen the possibility of winning the championship from Barça by drawing in Les Corts on the last day, in 1948 Barça beat the Sevillians in the final of the Eva Perón Cup (which would be the current Supercup) and in that campaign a Barça without Kubala had lost all its options to win La Liga after losing 4-0 in Nervión three days before the end of the season.
The Cup, by that time was played once the regular season was over and in those circumstances the official debut of Kubala took place. On April 29th in Nervion, Barça arrived to play against Sevilla in the middle of a difficult atmosphere. The Andalusians had lost the league in a dramatic outcome when they drew at home in the last match against Atletico Madrid with a refereeing performance that the locals judged scandalous. For further concern, the Federation allowed Kubala to line up with Barça in the first round of the Cup, which in Sevilla was taken as a surprise.
With the stadium full to the flag, Barcelona defeated Sevilla in an exhibition of Kubala. He wasn't just the best of the match but he showed Spain a way of playing football unthinkable until that time: chest controls, shots with curve, millimetric changes of play of 40 meters, protection of the ball with his back, use of the body in the shot and touches with the heel.
Domenech, Sevilla's attacker who was the direct protagonist of that match, explained years later how he remembered that day.
"It was something never seen before. Ramallets kicked it and he would receive her with his chest, or with either of his legs. If you tackled him he would dribble you in a brick. He'd put the ball where he wanted her. Besides, from time to time he changed with César, he'd be a center forward and César would be a midfielder. They drove us crazy. The anger of the people became clamours. We were witnessing something extraordinary. It was like going from black and white cinema to colour," explained the former Sevilla player. The Sevilla crowd, who had welcomed Barça and its new superstar with anger, ended up giving Kubala a standing ovation for every action as if they were watching a glorious bullfighting performance.
Kubala's actions on the field change football forever. Since there was no television, his exploits are reported orally. There is no other way to see it than to go to the field of Les Corts, which is packed for every game Barça plays as a local. It is a very common argument to say that Kubala forced Barça to build the Camp Nou because the old Les Corts was not enough to accommodate all the people who wanted to admire him. Maybe he had an influence, but as the journalist Frederic Porta, author of an interesting biography of Kubala (Kubala, l'heroi que va canviar la història del Barça. Ed. Saldonar) explains, "the truth is that Barça had already bought the land to build the Camp Nou two years before and the idea of making a bigger field already existed, but Kubala advanced everything and justified the change".
Blessed with brutal technique, a sensational strike of the ball and an unusual physical strength, Kubala changed football. He would throw free-kicks over the wall with curve or by making the ball bounce in front of the goalkeeper, he would take penalties (he was practically infallible) with what was later called paradinha and was credited with the Brazilians although he was the first in Europe to do so. Physically he was a bull. In his youth he had practiced boxing and if he didn't become a recognized fighter with a great career it was because he had short arms. His lower body was sensational. He had a butt and legs that allowed him to protect the ball like no one else. Frederic Porta says that "in his time of splendour they measured his thighs and each one had a circumference of 69 centimetres, which would be the waist of one of his companions". He was also capable of running the 100 metres in less than 11 seconds. A total athlete with a very refined technique.
However, that physical strength and the confidence he had in her, for he never avoided a collision, were his downfall. Kubala became the target of a hunt by rival defenders. He never went into hiding and that's why in eleven years at Barcelona he suffered up to eleven injuries of some seriousness. With matches without television, the harshness that bordered on violence was the order of the day. He was being kicked to death.
But Barça was living its most golden period to date. Moreover, the club revolved around Kubala. Frederic Porta compares it with the present time: "Now they say that Messi commands the club and surely he commands, but nothing to do with the influence that Kubala had. Kubala was the boss and even the one who decided the transfers. And no one was surprised. That Barça adopted the socks with the horizontal stripes blaugrana is his imposition. He saw them on the rugby team, liked them and incorporated them into the football team by decree. In fact, it is he who insists on signing Luis Suarez when he impresses him in a match against Deportivo. Kubala was Suarez's first fan, but what happened in the stands, which was divided between Suaristas and Kubalistas, is another matter.
Suarez was eight years younger than Kubala. He arrived at Barcelona at the age of 19, Kubala was 27 and his physique was very punished by his injuries and the life he was living, as he did not deprive himself of anything. If he held out, it was because of privileged genetics.
Therefore, there never was a real competition between them, but there was a lot of influence here from the figure of Helenio Herrera, the Barça manager, who saw Kubala as older and slower and was looking forward to a quick change by the young Galician as the leader of the team. The debate reached the stands and the media. It was an absurd debate, because they didn't play in the same position, with whom Kubala really had a certain rivalry with Eulogio Martínez, who was the one with whom he alternated the position.
Kubala's physical problems were not only due to injuries. He had the whole of Spain in suspense when he suffered a tuberculosis that could have cost him his life. There are apocryphal versions that explain that this tuberculosis was actually a stab wound he suffered in a fight in a cheap pub in the fifth district (Barcelona's Chinatown) and he has to retire to Montseny to recover. Nobody is betting on his return to the pitch if he survives a "hole in the lung the size of a silver bullet" according to the chronicles of the time. But once again, Kubala's ability to survive prevails. He returns to the pitches, but already heavily punished and slowed down.
It is against this backdrop that the 1961 European Cup final arrives, with Kubala arriving at the age of 34 with a herniated disc that barely allows him to walk, but he wants to play. He knows that the club is going through a critical situation despite having reached the final of the maximum trophy for the first time: the club is bankrupt because of the construction of the Camp Nou, the fights in the board of directors are chaotic, Luis Suarez has signed for Inter (the one in Bern will be his last game with Barça), which was where Helenio Herrera had left the team in the hands of Enrique Orizaola.
Kubala tells Orizaola to line him up, that like all the Portuguese will go for him and he can barely move because of the back pain and will play with painkillers, it will give more opportunities to his teammates. But the match is a pile of misfortunes for Barcelona. Ramallets scores an own goal, Barça shoots three times to the damn square posts of the goals (from then on they would change their shape) even Kubala kicked a ball that hit a post, went through the goal line until it hit the other post and came out repelled. Barça lost and Kubala's time at Barcelona came to an end.

The man of the year.

Kubala's significance goes beyond the playing field. According to a vote made for Radio Barcelona by journalist Joaquín Soler Serrano in the mid-50s, the Catalans most loved by their fellow citizens were Doctor Barraquer and Ladislao Kubala.
"He was literally the most famous person in the city, people really venerated him, and even Messi's influence cannot be compared to that of Kubala in those years," explains Porta.
His life off the field was notorious. An unrepentant night owl, it was common to see him in Barcelona's fashionable coffee shops and nightclubs. He was a man who stood out. Alfredo Relaño defines him in some of his articles as "a demigod. Tall, strong, blond with blue eyes and an overflowing personality. He aroused the admiration of men and women alike. An idol". Frederic Porta sums it up with the argument that "he would be the sum of Messi and Beckham and on top of that, he would go out every night".
Faced with Kubala's disorganised life, the Barcelona management decided to set up a private detective agency to follow him at night. The reports of the detectives are still in the Centre de Documentació del FC Barcelona and Frederic Porta published them in the history magazine 'Sàpiens'. In them, he gives a detailed account of the nocturnal wanderings of "Mr. K.", the code name of the Blaugrana star in an exercise in absurd discretion. There is also a letter from a Sabadell businessman in the club's archives, expressing concern that Kubala and Czibor had been "found in a Sabadell establishment after 2.30 in the morning accompanied by some of those ladies who were once gentlemen, I don't know if you understand". What the businessman doesn't explain in the letter is what he was doing in the same place.
Kubala's fondness for drinking was no secret. Helenio Herrera explains in a television interview that "one day at an airport in customs they asked Kubala if he had anything to declare and he said two bottles of whisky. The official asked him to show them to him and he, laughing, touched his belly and said: 'X-ray, I have them inside'. On another occasion, in the same situation, but carrying the bottle in the bag, he was told to leave it at the airport because no alcoholic drinks were allowed to be taken on board. Neither shy nor lazy, he drank it in front of the astonished official.
The legends about the occasions when the night was made longer and he did not arrive at training sessions or matches were recurrent. In that case, he called on the services of Angel Mur Sr., the team masseur who knew where to find him. He would start a pilgrimage through the usual places or floors until he found him, took him to the changing room, gave him a cold shower, a coffee with salt, a massage and played. The fans forgave him everything and were aware that their star was a man of joyful life. But he never failed on the field. Among the crowd at the time there were comments about the Kubala ritual in those games that followed a busy night. "He started off badly, and vaguely, but the signal was when, ten minutes into the game, he rolled up his sleeves as if to say 'I'm here, let's start, I've already cleared off', and the machine started to work.
You can't find anyone in the world who speaks ill of Kubala. Absolutely no one. Everyone highlights his huge heart and that despite being by far the highest paid player of the time (he earned six times more than his teammates) he didn't have a no for anyone. His detachment from money was legendary.
As proof, the anecdote explained by his biographer Porta: "one day he arrived at the dressing room and commented that his car had been stolen and that in the glove compartment he was carrying an envelope with 200,000 pesetas, which was a fortune for the time (a good apartment could cost 130,000 pesetas). When his colleagues tried to encourage him, he simply said: someone who needs it more than I do must have taken it".
It was also usual for him to take off his coat and give it to a poor man who begged in Barcelona's winter, or to take in any Hungarian who came to Barcelona asking for help in his house in Carrer Duquesa d'Orleans. Kubala, remembering his times as a stateless refugee without papers, asked nothing. He would take them home and pay them a boat ticket to America. The motto among the refugees fleeing the Iron Curtain was that "if you get to Barcelona, look for Kubala, he will help you". He never failed.
Later, now retired, he set up a bar next to Czibor in Capitan Arenas Street, the mythical Kep Duna (blue Danube in Hungarian) that became an unofficial refugee reception centre that was monitored by the secret services of the United States, the USSR and the Spanish police. Something like the Rick's Café in the film Casablanca, but in the upper area of Barcelona.
He was the great character of Barcelona loved by all, but there was a moment when this was almost broken, strange as it may seem. It coincided with the defeat in Bern, when a part of the press came to write that "Barça must be de-Kubalized as the Soviet Union must be de-Stalinized" and, especially, when he signed for Espanyol. The earthquake was a huge one.

From the bench to Sarrià.

After the defeat in Bern's final, Kubala announced his retirement from the fields. He had taken the coaching course and was ranked number one in his class. He made a pact with the president Llaudet, who was also an interesting character as we will see, that in principle he would take charge of the footballers' school of the club and that in a couple of years he would be in charge of the first team.
Meanwhile, Barcelona is directed by Lluís Miró who faces a team in disarray. Suarez has been transferred to Inter in the worst decision in the club's history and myths such as Ramallets, Tejada and Czibor were in the decline of their careers. The season starts badly and after losing at Mestalla to Valencia by a humiliating 6-2 that forces the resignation of Miro. It was time for Kubala, who was promoted to the first team in front of the joy of the fans. And the project results from the beginning. The Barça of the second part of season 61-62 recovers in La Liga and finishes second (the distance with the white ones when Kubala arrived was almost insurmountable) and avenges the 6-2 of Mestalla beating Valencia in the Camp Nou 4-0.
Facing the next season, the 62-63, Kubala can make his team by giving painful drops of some of his former teammates as it is the case of Eulogio Martinez or Evaristo. One of Llaudet's reluctances to give Kubala the job of coach was that he would have to manage some of his former teammates.
The positive expectations about Kubala's first full project were frustrated at first when the Blaugrana team had to play the final of the Copa de Ferias against Valencia, the team that caused the fall of Miró and the promotion of Kubala. And the history, by rare that it seems, repeats: Valencia returns to him to put 6-2 to the Barça. The fans explode against the team. In the return match, obviously, there is nothing to do, but Llaudet's ability to self-flagellation has no limits. As Alfredo Relaño writes, the Blaugrana president calls a dinner with the press the day before the game and makes this statement that if it happened today would open all the news.
Llaudet, in front of the press and accompanied by the coach Kubala and Gràcia as captain, asks the fans to forgive him and announces changes in the protocol of the start of the second leg. "Valencia will go out first to receive the applause, then Barcelona, to receive the whistles. Then Kubala will come out, so he can get the thunders. And finally me, so that all the whistles fall on my person, because I am the barcelonist who loves the club the most and who is destined to die on the pitch, if necessary...". He ends his speech crying. As we can see, Gaspart didn't invent anything.
The match ended in a draw and Kubala's project as Barça's coach was doomed. The manager is fired in the middle of the season and then a bomb explodes in Barcelona. Kubala accepts the offer to return to the pitch, but not as a coach, will be as a player and nothing more and nothing less than in Espanyol, Barça's eternal rival.
On 3 September 1963 Espanyol, then Español, announced that Kubala would be hired as a player. At 36 years of age, he was capable of being competitive.
His decision divides the public opinion. On the one hand, Federico Gallo and Juan José Castillo support his decision, on the other hand, Carlos Pardo or Ibáñez Escofet shoot at him. They call him a "Jew who sells himself for a plate of beans", a "traitor" and they see political interests in his decision.
Kubala explains that he wanted to continue playing and that he saw himself capable of doing so, although he accepted that he was not at Barcelona's level. He had received offers from important clubs, including River Plate and Juventus, but he doesn't want to leave Barcelona, where he feels like another Barcelonian. The Espanyol meets his expectations.
His start of the season is not bad, on the contrary, he scores in his first two games, but the team doesn't work out. The coexistence between the veteran newcomer Kubala and the team's symbol, Argilés, is not easy. Scopelli is dismissed as coach and de facto command of the team is given to the two team leaders despite their differences. The crisis erupts when the Spaniard visits the Camp Nou. The periquitos lose by 5-0 in a match in which the Barcelona crowd booed Kubala who they are eager to humiliate with his new team. Even so, at the end of the match, Kubala has a gesture to his former team that shows that he does not hold any grudge against what he has heard from the stands. At the end of the match, he organizes his teammates to make the corridor to Barça applauding the rival in recognition of the exhibition made. That gesture feels bad among the Espanyol fans and among some of his teammates. Argilés does not make the corridor and goes straight to the changing rooms.
The following year, Kubala becomes a manager-player and among the departures that he causes, there is the one of Argilés, but by contrast, Di Stéfano arrives, also hurt by his bad exit from Madrid fighting against Bernabéu.
Di Stefano and Kubala are like brothers. Even though they haven't officially played together, they have a special chemistry. A friendship that is forged when the Argentinian is about to sign for Barcelona.
When Di Stéfano arrives in Barcelona to sign for Español, he stays first at the Avenida Palace Hotel, but after a month he is living in Kubala's house as one of the family. The children of both always maintained a relationship as if they were brothers.
One of the players under Kubala's command was Jose Maria Rodilla, one of the players who would soon form the famous 'Dolphins' forward line. At 80 years of age, Rodilla remembers Kubala.
"I have a wonderful memory of Kubala, I always had a special affection for him. Not in vain, he was the one who signed me for Espanyol", he remembers when answering the call of this newspaper to which he confesses that* "normally I do not make declarations, but to speak about Kubala I do whatever is needed"*.
Rodilla, former teammate at Espanyol, has clear that "he was the best player in the world in terms of technique. Di Stéfano was the best footballer, but he didn't have his technique. Alfredo was more intense and more player of the whole field, but he could not do things that Kubala did"
Those who had the privilege of playing with both of them remember that "for example, Di Stefano wouldn't leave you alone for a minute, he was all over you and the fights were intense, but he always set an example, he never asked you for anything that he didn't do. Kubala was more paternalistic and tolerant. For example, he would ask us to do as he did in training, and while sitting down he would be able to make 3,000 touches on the ball without dropping it. Only he could do that."
Rodilla adds a story that explains Kubala's quality as a player-coach at the age of 38: "We went to play a friendly at Amposta and they called a foul on the edge of the box. Kubala takes the ball and whacks it into the corner. The referee made him repeat it because someone had moved or I don't know what. Kubala takes the ball and wham, back to the square. And the referee tells him that he has to repeat. That day Kubala got angry and left the field."
Rodilla recalls that Kubala's move from Barça to Espanyol created controversy in the city, but that he was oblivious to it. "He was still a magnificent person, I never heard him say a bad word against anyone. He never got into an argument, he was goodness personified, he was unlucky in his time as a coach, but as a coach he is one of the best I've ever had, with a great love for young players and always trying to help you improve."

Boys well, optimal morale.

He extended his playing career for a couple more years by playing for Zurich and even trying out the American adventure at the Toronto Falcons, where he coincides with Branko and Daucik's son. At the age of 40 he played 19 games and scored 5 goals.
In 1968 he returned to Spain and trained the Córdoba team for a short period of time until he was called up to the national team. Kubala will manage the Spanish team until 1980, when he signs for Barcelona again as a coach.
Kubala's debut with Spain was, once again, a propaganda match for the regime. It was played in the Estadio de la Línea de la Concepción against Finland and Spain beat their rivals 6-0 in a match that was no longer useful. Spain had missed out on qualifying for the Mexico '70 World Cup, but the idea of that game was to showcase a great field that could be seen from Gibraltar as if to give jealousy to those in the Rock for the sports culture of Spain. Dictatorship things.
It's true that at that time Spain was struggling more than anything else on the international scene. It did not qualify for the 1974 World Cup because of Katalinski's goal in the play-off match in Frankfurt, and in both the 1978 World Cup and the 1980 European Championship the team fell in the first round, but there is still no one from that era who will make a judgement against Kubala.
"Kubala, one ahead of his time. No doubt he had a lot to do with his past as a footballer. And not just like any other player, like the best! I remember him always saying to me: 'Ruben, you have to get out of the way on the other side of the ball. Look for the space, not the ball. The goal I scored in Yugoslavia has to do with everything he taught me," he told Fermin de la Calle in an interview with AS Ruben Cano, the hero of the famous 'Battle of Belgrade' in the match that took Spain to the World Cup in Argentina. Yes, the one with the goal by Cardeñosa that could have changed Kubala's record with the national team.
He did a lot to improve Spanish football and his idea regarding the incorporation of foreigners to improve the level of Spanish football was key in the future development of the Spanish competitive level.
His players remember him as a didactic person, tactically bold and very close. At a time when fury was the hallmark of the game, Kubala never forgot that he was the heir to the Magyar tradition of the Honved and the Hungary who, by moving the ball, shocked the world the day they destroyed England at Wembley 3-6.
For the average football fan, Kubala may have been a half-hearted coach who embodied an era of the national team in which nothing was won, as has been the case most of the time, and he became popular for his expressions that would now be meme material on social networks. The national team was known as the 'Kubala boys' and the coach's catchphrase before the matches saying "boys well, optimal morale" was the fashionable phrase in the coffee shops of the 70s in Spain.
But among his colleagues, Kubala still deserved reverential respect. "The first goal was authentically Latin, cunningly scored and perfectly studied. I can only congratulate Kubala on his previous tactical work," said German boss Helmut Schön after facing and losing to Spain in a friendly in which the recent world semi-finalist and next world champion fell to the Kubala boys at the Sanchez Pizjuan with two strategic goals from Arieta. Yes, Arieta against Müller. Seeler, Beckembauer, Maier, Netzer and company.
He left the national team in 1980 to join Barça as the coach of Núñez's second project in an operation that was the prelude to what would happen in the World Cup in Russia with Lopetegui. Kubala committed to Barça while he was coach and tried to alternate functions, but Porta refused. Finally, on 8 June 1980, four days before the start of the European Championship, Kubala signed for the Blaugrana team, which he would join after the European Championship.
His second spell at the head of Barça did not go well either and he was dismissed mid-season. He continued his adventure on the bench as coach of Saudi Arabia (in that he was also a pioneer), training Malaga and the Paraguayan national team before retiring from football on the bench of Elche.
He spent his final years in Barcelona as active as ever. Playing with Barça veterans, helping his teammates, not having a no for anyone and playing tennis every day or going for a run or cycling routes exhibiting an enviable physical condition.
Until the light of genius and the glory faded away 18 years ago. A degenerative brain disease put an end to the adventure, but not to the legend of a world football myth. An icon that changed the lives of so many people that they wouldn't fit even in a stadium.
The coffin with the mortal remains of Kubala was carried on shoulders, amidst the applause of the fans who gathered at the doors of the church of Santa Tecla, by Alfredo Di Stéfano, Gustau Biosca, Eduardo Manchón, Estanislao Basora, Joan Segarra, Josep Bartomeu, Luis Suárez, Antoni Ramallets and Gonzalvo III.
He rests in the cemetery of Les Corts, next to the Camp Nou because that is what he left written in his will, while Serrat sang to him about how...
...Pelé was Pelé and Maradona was the one and that's it. Di Stéfano was a pit of mischief. Honour and glory to those who made the sun shine on our football. Everyone has his merits; to each his own, but for me none is like Kubala. Respectable silence is requested, for those who haven't enjoyed him, I'll say four things: he stops it with his head, he drops it on with his chest, he sleeps it off with his left, crosses the pitch with the ball attached to the boot, leaves the midfield and enters the box showing the ball, hides it with his body, pushes with his ass and gets in with his heels. He pisses on the centerback with a dedicated piece. and touches her gently to put her on the path to glory.

by Santi Gimenez for AS.com (2020)

submitted by LordVelaryon to soccer [link] [comments]

Our Friendships Turned Febrile

Our Friendships Turned Febrile
-- Contains Heavy Non-Consensual Ballbusting --
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
His balls pulsated against her outstretched fingers, his oval orbs heaving up and down in his smooth, shaved scrotum. It was an appropriate description, seeing that she wasn’t moving any of her extremities, simply observing his delicate danglers. The skin around the tip of his penis had parted, his taunt erection bulging against his epidermis.
Emily gently pinched John’s epididymis, causing him to wince. Besides the restraints tying him to the foot of the bed, her warm breath and curvaceous breasts kept him in check. If common logic were to be applied, his justification for bondage would have been fragile to say the least. But with the prospect of her warm tongue on his twitching member, and the insatiable allure of her womanly figure, he had abandoned natural rationale.
Emily and John, until just an hour ago had been childhood friends. Growing up in the same neighborhood, they would see each other regularly. Whether it be walking to, or from school, socializing, projects, they could always be found together in some degree.
She pressed her index finger into John’s spongy penis, sliding it into his foreskin. The bound male moaned as Emily sifted her finger under his frenulum. John ejected a light load of pre-cum. He bucked his hips up and down, trying to get Emily to scratch his insatiable itch. The black-haired beauty receded her finger and brought it to her face. John’s member was violently twitching, the feeling of her delicate fingers hadn’t quite left yet.
“I’m impressed, you wash this thing, don’t you?”
Emily stood from her crouched position, wiping her lubed finger on her pink yoga pants. She bounced her way across her carpet, humming. John instinctively began to buck his hips, craving Emily. As she hopped along, her peachy ass bobbed and jiggled, displaying what must have been years of rigorous exercise, combined with exemplary genetics. John’s cravings had taken the better of him, as he imagined her cheeks consuming his cock. He pulled against his restraints. If only he could touch himself, he would explode over her white carpet in an instant. It was her condition, however, that he be rendered immobile.
Both of his hands had been strapped tightly to the foot of her bed frame, while either of his feet were strapped to kettlebells. While his lower appendages still had some autonomy, he couldn’t bother himself to resist.
Emily bent over, revealing her lack of panties, as well as her own set of low hangers. Her breasts were abnormally large for her frame. John was kicking himself, feeling he had been cheated in a way. Him and Emily had known each other for the better part of a decade; since meeting, they’re bodies had both undergone extraordinary changes. Only now, did he realize her gifts. Usually covered in a thick snow coat, he had never seen her body on full display, until now. Her swaying tits were barely contained by her white sports bra. Perfectly in symmetry with her spayed legs, they appeared as an exaggerated extension of her covered pussy.
“Em.” John strained. Involuntarily, he shot another spurt of pre-cum.
The transparent liquid trickled down the back of his shaft, lubricating his balls.
“Come one John, be patient, I told you I was going to suck your dick today, I just need to do a little something first.” She cooed.
Emily unzipped her black backpack. John stared intently at her figure. Unconsciously, he began to thrust to her body's natural rhythm. John’s feminine friend pulled four items from her school sack; her pink journal, pen, lime-green water bottle, and a blue-ribbon tape measure. The smiling Em skipped back to her bound man. Her massive mounds didn’t appear real. Even in the confines of her white sports bra, their movements appeared comical.
She did a goofy somersault. In another setting, John would have chided her awkwardness. It resembled a tumble more than a well-executed roll. In a quick reflection, John couldn’t blame her. While her proportions awakened pure lust in the boy, he could still note the pure impracticality on her figure in an athletic sense.
In passing conversations, they had discussed physical exercise. To think that she could manage anything with her overly exaggerated figure was incredible. Her breasts were nearly double the width of her waste! Her shapely ass was a completely different question. Lunging out, she skidded dangerously close to John’s genitals, her head inches away from his low hanging orbs. Instinctively, John aimed to protect his testicles. Thankfully, her high surface created enough friction to halt her movements. Emily tilted her head up, shooting John a mix between a nervous smile and a devious one. His arms were pulling against his restraints again, proving to her that he couldn’t defend himself if need be. A gradual wet spot began to manifest in her tight pants, turning the once light pink into a darker shade.
As if it never happened, Emily sat up, scooching closer to John. Cross legged, she reached her delicate hand out to his softening penis. Instantly, his virility was reignited, her hand absorbing his sweating cock. She gave him three soft tugs, then two intense, then alternated, again and again and again. John bucked as if his life depended on it, desperately trying to reach climax as fast as possible. He couldn’t handle it anymore; Emily’s exposed figure had contacted his own primal urges.
“Ahh, John. I need to do something first,” Emily waved.
She removed her sloppy fingers from John’s penis, but kept it hovering above. He squeaked, bucking harder and harder, mashing the tip of his head against her flat palm. Quickly, a thick mucus pre-cum built between the two of them; Emily giggled, then removed her hand completely. John let out a pathetic wail. He didn’t expect Em to know, but he was on the verge of losing his seed, several more thrusts, and he would have been there. Blue-balled, he whined like a little pup.
“I told you, didn’t I? I want to do something before I suck you off John! You want my mouth, don’t you?” Em said, stretching the side of her mouth with her pre-cum covered hand.
John’s personal lube dripped down her hand, onto the greater top portion of her breasts, giving them a new shine. Em giggled again, wiping the rest of the clear liquid onto and in-between her unnatural mounds. She sucked the tip of her index seductively, her cloudy hazel eyes peering into John’s desperate stare.
“Alright Em, I’ll play along a bit longer,” John nodded.
“Great!” Emily giggled.
Truly, both were aware of John’s discomfort, but for their out ulterior motives, both parties kept silent. The raven-hair Emily picked at her journal, flipping to back pages. In her other hand, she squeezed her bottle, ejecting a clear stream of water into her mouth.
“I’ve never seen you use that journal before Em.” John whimpered.
In a semi-hysteria, he focused on the mundane to distract from his own excitement.
“Don’t lose that boner!” Emily called.
Forcefully, she gripped his long shaft, tugging it roughly. John arched his back and moaned out. His low dangling balls bounce between the soft portion of her welled fist and the creamy bristles of the carpet. He moaned out again, another glob of pre-cum dribbling out. Emily stopped tugging and wiped the liquid onto John’s flat stomach.
“Em, this is just cruel.” John pleaded.
“I’ll be done quick, I promise.”
Emily pulled the blue-ribbon tape measure taunt, and placed it at the base of his cock.
“You want to measure my cock?” John asked.
“Basically.” Emily shrugged.
“Why?”
Emily wrapped the ribbon around three different sections of John’s penis. At the base, the head, and the girthiest section. In a surprising move, she reached out for his dangling testicles. Firmer than John would have expected, she tightened her grip.
“Ouch.” John grunted.
“Don’t be a baby.” Emily chided.
She knelt down lower, making sure the ribbon was even as it wrapped around John’s compressed testicles. The bound boy was able to stave off the unpleasant feeling, focusing on her toned back and protruding rear. Straining against the pink elastic yoga pants, it appeared heart shaped.
“Got it!” Emily said with glee.
Quickly, she jotted down John’s specific measurements. John gave her a disapproving look, not that she minded.
“Wait just one more second, I need to take a picture too!”
“A picture?” John gasped.
His heart leapt up. For whatever reason, the idea of his dick being in the hands of Emily terrified him, that was, unless it was physically in her hands. In the time John had come to know Emily, she had made a particular impression. As much as he cherished her as a friend, she was known to spread misinformation or rumors. In some extreme cases, it would lead to someone crying in the halls or class, sometimes leaving school for a few days. A documented photo of his dick in her hands didn’t sit right; yet, he couldn’t do anything. Emily snapped the photo before he could further object.
“Why’d you take my picture?”
“Taking your measurement is one thing, but a dick-pic is a little more intimate. Don’t worry, I’ll crop out your face before sharing it with school.” she giggled.
John wasn’t able to tell if she was joking or not.
“Why do you want to do any of this?”
“Why does anyone do anything?” she said dismissively.
She tossed her phone to the far reach of her white carpet, and plopped down between John’s legs.
“Seriously.” John scolded, searching for a truth.
The bound boy's member had softened completely, yet Emily didn’t seem to mind, perhaps she was only interested in the maximums.
“I don’t know, I like it. Don’t kink shame,” she pouted, going over John’s measurements again.
“I’m not kink shaming you,” John defended. “But you say it’s a kink?”
“Yeah?” Emily said, tilting her head to the side.
“So, you like to do this to other guys?”
“Of course I do!” Emily laughed. “You know John, for being so compliant, I think you deserve a specific stroking.”
John’s penis expanded, the tip escaping his foreskin restraint. More pre-cum flowed from his slit, re-lubing his impressive appendage.
“I mean I’m going to stroke your ego.” Emily laughed. “Your length is an impressive 8 and ¾ of an inch.”
John couldn’t hide his disappointment. Emily picked up on his displeasure.
“What? You think it’s too small? It’s rather impressive, of all the other boys I've done this too, you’re the longest by far.”
“I guess that’s cool,” John mumbled. “But I already knew my measurement.” He said sheepishly.
“Your girth isn’t bad either, 5 inches at the base, 6 at the most, 5 and ½ at the tip. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“Some of it.”
“Well how about your balls?”
“My testicles?”
“It’s a little lacking to be honest, 6-inch circumference.”
John felt his face redden. While Emily had pointed out an arbitrary measurement, he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Of course, Emily picked up on it, a slight curl building at the corner of her red lips.
“How about this, ask me for another boy's measurement at school.”
“What?”
“Ask me, I bet I could tell you.”
“I’m not interested in dicks.”
“But you are interested in me touching your dick.” Emily smirked.
Emily patted John’s penis with her open palm, recharging it in a way. Seeing what her aim was, John obliged.
“Ken Culver from third period, you’ve talked to him, right?”
Emily giggled while flipping several pages in her journal.
“I didn’t know you were into Ken, if I had known, I wouldn’t have touched him.”
“Fuck off.” John grumbled.
“Here it is. 5 ½ inches, 4 at the base, 4 max, 4 ¼ at the tip. His testicles had a circumference of 8 inches, that last measurement is quite impressive.”
“Should I take your word for it?”
“Under what premise would you have to assume that I would lie? Also, why did you ask for Ken’s, huh?” Emily grinned.
John rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know, he’s been missing from school for the past week, guess it was just on my mind.”
The atmosphere shifted completely. Something had changed. Emily became uncharacteristically quiet. She placed her journal and water bottle to the far side of John’s bound leg. Clearing her throat, she suppressed a smile. Seductively, slowly, she bent closer and closer to John’s cock. She placed her fingers on his thighs, clawing them gently. There was a primal hunger in her eyes.
“I’m going to start, are you ready?” Emily asked.
Before John could give an answer, she began to pleasure him. She pressed her nose on the wet tip of his penis. John instinctively jolted up, sliding his cock to the side of her button nose. Emily exhaled, her warm breath wrapping around John’s slippery cock.
“Oh, Em, you’re so good.” John moaned, overcome with raw pleasure.
“I know.” Emily said, simultaneously wrapping her pink tongue around John’s shaft.
She lapped his wide penis, tickling his sensitive glans, causing him to squirm. Next, she incorporated her hands. Gripping his lower shaft, she lathered the tip of his dick using her tongue as a propeller. Her free hand began to work his swelling testicles. Focusing one at a time, she lightly pinched his right and left; John produced several squeaks as a result. Taking it as positive feedback, Emily increased her overall intensity. Her hot mouth enveloped the top portion of his members. She squeezed his shaft simultaneously.
Gradually, but roughly, Emily increased the grip she had on John’s pulsating testicles. Toying with them as she saw fit. They were completely at her mercy; all John could do was wallow in the pleasure she was producing for him. Emerging from that pleasure, came a twinge of pain, emanating from his stomach. It caused him a minor discomfort, but he didn’t care. He bucked his hips rapidly, thrusting his penis into Emily’s mouth. In response, the busty girl pulled on John’s scrotum. Her index and thumb constricted his nut cords, relegating his testicles to the bottom of his elastic sack. The creamy rug added an extra level of stimulus as she yanked them to the carpet.
John barely noticed; the intense head-polish Emily was giving in the back of her throat was the only thing he could reasonably comprehend.
“Em, I’m really close.” John moaned.
Emily took John’s words at face value, preparing for his imminent explosion. She increased her cadence, taking his entire length back and forth. John let out a high pitch groan as his testicles attempted to retract. Held firm by Emily, they weren't going anywhere. In a circular motion, she ground John’s testicles into the carpet.
“Emily, I’m cumming!” John exclaimed.
John came, his seed spilling out of his throbbing slit. Overcome with pure pleasure, he threw his head back. His thick white milk nearly pierced the back of Emily’s throat; ropes and ropes spewed out. Emily didn’t stop. She continued to suck him off, tugging his testicles further and further down.
“Hey, Emily, stop.” John pleaded, thrashing.
Voraciously she consumed him. Flipping his softening penis with her tongue. At the same time, she hunkered down on his precious orbs, flattening them against the floor with her encompassing palm.
“Please stop.” Strained John.
Emily showed no signs of slowing down. His words seemed to encourage her. Running the risk of tearing his member, he rotated his hips side to side, hoping to escape Emily’s brutal suction. All at once, Emily released herself from John, letting his strained testicles slap against his pelvis. Sticky strings of cum dripped down from her mouth onto her carpet. John’s withering cock twitched slightly; his nuts nearly sucked up into his abdomen. He pulled against his restraints, curling from the pain emanating from his lower stomach. He groaned.
Emily seemed to take a sort of pleasure from it all. She leaned back, letting the strings of white cum fall onto her smooth breasts. John tilted his head back, staring at the warm glow of the light saturating the pastel room.
“John. Look.” Emily smiled.
The bound boy, still in his daze, tilted his head down, not quite able to meet her eyes. However, her hanging breasts were still well in view. If his penis hadn’t just been put through the metaphorical ringer of Em’s mouth, the reaction would have been instant. Emily reached out to John with her sticky fingers, pressing on his chin, she forced his eyes up to hers.
“Did you like it?” Emily asked, licking her lips.
“Yes.” John said.
Despite his discomfort in the current moment, he couldn't deny the euphoric experience he had undergone in Emily’s room. A feeling he wouldn't forget as long as he lived. While it was the first time he had ever received a blowjob, he understood the skill required to evoke such a powerful orgasm.
“Glad you enjoyed it.” Emily smiled.
She wiped the rest of John’s cum on her yoga pants and stood. John tilted his head back again, purely to marvel at her looming breasts. He was also given an ample helping of her general shape. Up close, her abnormal proportions deviated further. Her smooth, exposed navel contrasted heavily with her firm, yet supple bosom. Against her polished skin, her pink yoga pants gouged into her fleshy hips. She stretched, accentuating her rounded breasts. John, despite his daze, craved her bare-skin. He embraced the idea of her naked body rubbing against his own, the things he would do for that were beyond the scope of words.
“I’m going to clean up.” She yawned. “But don’t worry, I’ll be right back.” She winked, turning to her side.
With the same hop in her step, she exited to the left, through a lime-green door, leaving John alone with his thoughts. He sighed, relaxing his entire lower half. As his euphoria faded, the twinge within his stomach grew. John groaned out, unable to sate the urge of crumpling up into a ball.
During his legendary blowjob, Emily hadn’t gone easy on him. In its current state, his penis felt like mush, he found the idea of an erection in the moment impossible. He focused slightly lower, to his taught testicles. They were still throbbing slightly, as if they were still under the same pressure Emily had been exerting. John groaned again, the ever-present discomfort fully manifesting.
“Emily must like it rough." John chuckled to himself, somehow trying to rectify his discomfort, as well as Emily’s actions.
“I’m back!” Emily cooed.
She sauntered back to John, a white hand towel on her shoulder. Her face was free of any fluids, she had cleaned herself. Besides several stains on her pink pants, and a conspicuous wet spot between her legs, she was just as she was 30 minutes ago, when she led John into her room.
In most months, everything was either frozen, or covered in snow; there wasn’t much of a distinction. With the low temperature, came the need for appropriate attire. John was biting his tongue, invoking some form of punishment on himself. All that time, he hadn’t considered what lay beneath Emily's many layers. Her body was drop dead gorgeous. Even her face was something to be lost in. Was it an issue with his subconscious, not recognizing Emily for the true woman she was? John found it self-evident; it took her to offer a blowjob on the way back from school for him to truly notice it. But with that blunt invitation, came the rapid ripples of lust and desire. He wanted to touch her more; he wasn’t against the idea of even dating her.
“That was fun John, I’ve never had a dick that big in my mouth before. To think I would find it attached to my closest friend.” Emily giggled. “But like I said, your balls are lacking a little something.”
John’s face became flushed in a deep red, hearing Emily’s critical words. It also struck him as odd, being caught up in how she perceived him. Any time before, he would have shrugged it off as playful banter, but her tone was unlike anything he had heard before. It was as if she blamed him for something.
“Can you untie me Em?” John said, clearing his throat.
Silently, Emily strode over to one the kettlebells tying John down. Instead of unfastening the strap, she picked up her water bottle. Slowly, she walked back to her backpack, placing it with care.
“Hey John, why did you want me to suck your dick?” Emily asked bluntly.
John hadn’t considered the reason.
“Well, you’re very pretty, I guess.” John stuttered
“Because I’m pretty, huh? Do you like me then?”
“I mean... Why did you want to give me a blowjob?”
Emily chuckled, her rotund breasts reciprocating the motion.
“Somehow, I don’t think you would understand, John.”
“I mean, why now? Do you like me?” John asked.
The bound boy’s heart rate increased. He hoped the answer would be yes. Given all the evidence of affection, he was blindly guided to that conclusion.
“I’ll answer that question in just a second.” Emily cooed, her white teeth on display. “But for you, it may feel a pinch longer.”
Pressing her back bare foot into the fuzzy floor, she bolted at John. Her eyes had an unstoppable, determined look. While she was clearly speeding, her movements became lagged to the boy. Her pronounced mounds of flesh swayed in a mesmerizing way. However brief the moment, John fell under a spell, hyper-examining every inch of her body. Emily planted her petite foot into the floor, winding her other behind her. In a single fluid motion, she launched a kick, her entire body working to complete the one action.
Emily’s narrow foot blasted John’s descending balls. Her nimble toes caressed his danglers at first, then dug into them, punting them upwards. His nuts flew into his soggy cock, sending his bodily liquids spraying out. Droplets fell on his stomach, the carpet, and Emily’s pink shin. She laughed outright, her body heaving from her hysteria, but over John’s manic scream, it was incomparable.
John thrashed as hard as he could, attempting to undo the restraints holding his arms and legs in place. While his arms were too tightly bound, his legs attempted to unite.
“Wait John.” Emily said, firmly placing one of her feet on John’s sliding shin.
She slid her other foot out, keeping John’s legs parted. His reddening testicles were on full display for her to admire.
John tilted his thighs inwards, obscuring Emily’s view from his precious jewels.
“Emily, what the fuck is wrong with you?” John coughed.
The tortured boy wailed in pain. The straps welding him to the foot board; the more he struggled, the deeper they dug into his skin. However powerful his will, he was unable to fold his body; his only conceivable action was to cry. Through watery eyes, John attempted to appeal to Emily’s emotions. He looked into her hazel eyes, pleading.
“John, you little bitch.” She growled. “Spread your legs right now, or you’re going to regret it so much.”
Her gaze was peerless, devoid of remorse. John had never seen her so angry, not in the 11 years they had known each other. Still, he wouldn’t budge.
“Stay right there.” Emily said.
Swiftly, she trotted to her bright orange cabinet on the other side of the room, humming. She retrieved something particular from the bottom drawer. Purposefully, she stuck her rear out, hoping to arouse John. She pulled out two winding loops of silky rope. When she returned to John, she couldn’t help but laugh at his pathetic state. His entire body was covered in a cold sweat. While it was the appropriate response after receiving a direct punt to the testicles, Emily found his reaction extremely amusing.
“Emily, please let me go, this isn’t funny.” John whimpered.
Still humming to herself, Emily crouched next to John, ignoring his pleads for her to stop. Gently, she placed one of her petite hands on John’s straining thigh. She slid the rope between his clamped legs.
“You’re just going to make things worse on yourself, you know John.”
“Stop, stop.” John huffed, hyperventilating.
“Almost done.”
Emily tied a strong knot after wrapping the rope around John’s thigh several times.
“See? This isn’t so bad!” Emily smiled, pulling the silk taunt.
Only then did Emily's actions sink into John; she was trying to open his legs. He thrashed against her pulling force, turning his body in the direction she was trying to pull his leg.
“Hold still.” She grunted.
Emily thrusted her foot into John’s squishy thigh, while simultaneously prying apart the other one. The bound boy was unable to resist against Emily’s abnormal strength. John had always known Emily to be robust, but she was completely overpowering him! Still struggling with the pain of her foot defiling his manhood, he was helpless. Emily tied the other end of the silk rope to the foot of the bed.
“Time for the other one.” Emily cooed.
Emily took the other rope and wrapped it around John’s loose thigh, repeating the process. Now, completely bound, John’s hot testicles were completely exposed.
“I really like you like this, John.” Emily giggled.
She stood between John’s pried legs; her hazel eyes trained on his sagging jewels. She licked her lips. Without hesitation, she launched her arched foot into John’s tormented testicles. The results were immediate. John’s entire body spasmed, overcome with unfathomable pain. Emily shuddered with pleasure, her wet spot growing. She felt his squishy, yet simultaneously hard testicles slide and scrunch against her polished foot, bringing her to near-orgasmic levels of euphoria.
“Emily, please stop it!” John cried.
“Nope!”
Emily shot another direct, compromising kick into John’s swelling testicles and ravaged penis. His leathery sack and vulnerable balls split between her foot, compressing against his pelvis. Before he could even attempt to recover or compose himself, she brought her heel down, slamming his orbs into the carpet. Wide mouthed, John lost all sense of himself, as well as Emily, that was, besides her invasive foot. She ground the ball of her foot in a circular motion, before using his precious bits as a spring.
She was relentless, treating herself in lieu of John’s pain, indulging in her pleasure. She stepped back, before launching another furious strike into his danglers. Seeing John on the brink of unconsciousness, Emily abruptly stopped her strikes. Her heart was in her head, the constant thumping nearly drowning out John’s desperate cries. Emily caressed her breasts, the overwhelming flesh and fabric overwhelming her relatively small hands.
She lost her patience, John’s agonizing pain tickling the sadist within. Emily propelled her arched foot again, and again, and again. John’s orbs twisted within his red scrotum. No matter how chaotic their movements were, Emily’s tyrannical foot and curled toes ravaged his sensitive nerves, bludgeoning each of them equally. John was a mess; having lost all strength, his arms and legs were motionless, limp like his penis. His tears rolled over his scrunched face, combining with the dried pre-cum on his stomach.
Emily continued to pound John’s nuts, her cadence becoming predictable. Less than a second after a strike, another would succeed it. John couldn’t fathom it any longer; he pleaded with himself to lose consciousness. But simply, his body wouldn’t allow it, forcing him to savor Emily’s heartless testicle torture. Emily let out a feminine grunt every time her arch devastated John’s swelling nuts. It was completely disproportionate to the true striking force. Each time John’s crying testicles were bullied into his pelvis, his body would shake as a whole. Emily’s entire queen-sized bed shook with her precise kicks, funneled through John’s precious organs.
Emily smiled down at John, mostly at his swollen nut-sack, admiring her footwork. She fell to her knees, then her stomach, her sticky breasts creating a ramp, keeping her head level with John’s shriveled penis.
“Holy fuck John, that was incredible.” Emily panted.
The aroused Emily’s sensual breath caressed John’s genitals. Even that caused him to wince, her clutching exhale gripping his pulsating testicles.
“Your balls sagged so much after I gave you that blowjob, I couldn’t help but go extra hard on them.”
Emily lightly caressed the bottom of John’s tormented testicles with her shaky hand. Unable to hear his groans and screams over her own beating heart.
“Emily, let me go.” John wailed.
Emily smirked, and slapped John’s danglers. John let out another pint of tears.
“John, your balls are so hot, so beautiful. Look at how large they’re becoming.”
John’s childhood friend snatched his nuts with one hand, squeezing as if she was trying to fuse them into one. John thrashed again, pure pain radiating through his body. His raw nut meat bulged between Emily’s fingers. With her second hand, Emily prodded his exposed meat, where her other fingers wouldn’t reach.
“Look at this little guy too.” Emily giggled.
The busty girl pinched John’s flabby foreskin with her thumb and index, lifting the flaccid penis off her handiwork.
“He kept getting in the way of my kicks, maybe he wants some action too?”
Emily invaded John’s foreskin again, sifting her fingers around and under his sensitive glans. John groaned and instinctively bucked. Emily pulled her finger out, examining her find.
“Look, I found white gold!” she snickered, lapping John’s semen from her finger.
Her hand returned to his member, stroking his tip. John continued to convulse. After the insurmountable amounts of pain his exposed genitals had received from Emily’s kicks, the waves of rolling pleasure felt like a completely new experience, one he had never had before. Emily hunkered down on John’s jewels, pulling them lower and lower. Simultaneously, she increased the cadence of her strokes, her hand appearing as a blur.
Despite his gut and nut-busting pain, he managed to hold an erection, Emily skillful hand surpassing the limits of his defined bliss. He was full mast, his member towering over Emily’s shiny face, casting a long shadow. On the horizon, John could see pods of whales. That, or it was the spots blotting his vision. Either way, they were close, their blowholes primed. John tilted his head down to Emily, her ferocious swells rocking his craft. John was so close to seeing the blowhole gush, the surge was within his scope. Emily pulled down on his anchor, flattening his orbs on the carpet, securing his position. John groaned, hope of blowing his load fading into oblivion.
Emily wiggled her ass, laughing as she continued to smother John’s testicles into her now sticky carpet. She had found a sweet spot, where she could stroke his bulging cock as fast as she wanted, without the worry of him spurting his seed unannounced. John had run out of tears, now, in pure hysteria, he thumped his head against the hickory foot board, begging for unconsciousness.
Emily stopped everything, taking her hands off John’s cock and balls. John yelped and bucked at the same time. Half of him wanted to be pushed over the edge by Emily’s hand, while the other wanted to curl up forever. He bucked his hips, trying to acquire enough stimulus from the air. His testicles slapped against his taint as he furiously fucked the air. Overall, it brought him more pain than pleasure, his sore nuts slapping against himself.
“Here, let me help you John.” Emily cooed.
The ball-busting beast blew along the underside of John’s upright cock, sending lube dribbling out of his slit. Emily’s eyes tracked the slow crawl of the clear liquid down to John’s swaying testicles, reigniting her passion for them.
“John, this has been the best 7 minutes of my life. The blowjob was a nice challenge, taking something that long. But the thrashing I gave you, the motions and screams you made, it was on an entirely different level.”
John’s eyes bulged out of his head. It had only been 7 minutes? Had Emily really kept track? If pressed, John wouldn’t have been able to construct a sentence conveying the time he had perceived.
“I’m not finished though, and neither are you.”
Emily gripped John’s cock as if her life depended on it. A clear stream of pre-cum ejected from John’s red tip, as she slid her constricting hand up his shaft. On the downstroke, Emily struck John’s balls. She held her welled fist in that position, relishing in John’s pained screams. She continued to stroke, over and over, making sure her fist struck her prisoner’s swelling nuts.
John ignored the pain to the best of his ability, focusing on Emily’s diligent hand bringing him waves of pleasure. John, through the blood rushing in his ears, heard a high pitch squeal. He couldn’t discern if it came from him or his torturer. All he could fathom was the monstrous load spewing from his sore penis. Rope after rope arced over Emily’s head, landing on her curvy, pink butt.
“You’re so lively!”
Emily didn’t stop stroking. It was as if she hadn’t realized John had already unloaded all of his testicle's contents. John’s mind broke. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, as pleasure turned into pain, adding another layer to his deep nut-ache. It took Emily a moment to realize that John was unresponsive, and even when she did, she continued to milk his withering cock, until his slippery penis was ungraspable. She inhaled John’s musk, licking bits of cum off her hand.
“Wakey wakey!”
Emily slammed the back of her sticky hand into John’s balls. His entire body twitched, encouraging Emily to continue. She batted them about like a curious cat with a ball of yarn, treating it like her prey. Given the limited amount of space she had, her uppercuts lacked impact, instead, she focused on pressing them deeper into his pelvis, as well as smashing the sticky scrotum into John’s spayed thighs. Over time, her amusement dwindled; John hadn’t responded for the past 3 minutes. She pursed her lips, and stood.
“I guess even if I do this with you John, it isn’t fun when you don’t make a sound.” Emily shot a glance at the analog clock to her right, biting her lip. “I guess I should clean you up, after I do one more thing.”
Emily reached around John’s limp leg, where her blue ribbon was. She placed her hands under John’s slumped sack, caressing his testicles. Lightly, she felt around the contents within; her heart leapt out of her chest when she realized they were both still intact. She wanted to kiss John right there. Surely, she thought his bits wouldn’t have been able to survive her onslaught. Pulling his still intact testicles to the bottom of his scrotum, Emily wrapped the tape measure around the meatiest portion; she gasped when she saw the number. She wrote it down, still shaking.
“I need to take a picture.” Emily heaved, scrambling over to her phone.
Returning to John, she prodded his kiwi sized testicles. She snapped tens of photos, each accentuating a certain angle each time. Near the end of her spree, Emily snapped a selfie with the re-emerging John. The bound boy blinked several times, watching Emily take pictures of his shriveled cock.
“Em.” John moaned.
“Oh John, you’re awake again? How do your balls feel? Are they hot? I know I am. Are they sore yet?” Emily giggled. She retrieved a photo from her phone, eager to show John her handiwork up close. “See look, there’s a little bruising! But don’t worry, I checked, they’re not broken.”
John let out a long groan, his voice crackling like dry firewood. Emily let out her same giggle, triggering something within John. It was the same high pitch sound she produced when tenderizing his nuts. The same sound when John would tell her jokes at school, it was the same as it had been for the past 11 years; they were identical. Emily bit her bottom lip, her hunger displaying itself again. She wrapped her slender, warm arms around John's neck, pressing her tremendous breasts against her prisoner's muscular chest.
“I had a great time today.” Emily said, licking John’s neck. “You know, when I was batting your balls around, I was worried I was going to break you. But I never wanted to do that, you’re different from the other boys, I knew it. When Ken Culver got his balls broken, I was afraid of doing it again, but you gave me confidence.”
Emily brought one of her arms down to John’s nether regions, tenderly fondling John’s aching orbs, bringing him gut-tearing pain; all John could do was let Emily violate him, unable to take any initiative.
“Your testicular circumference is 9 inches. When I worked Ken, while his testicles were ruptured, it was 12 inches. And as far as I’m concerned, you have a much higher potential.”
Emily gently pinched John’s epididymis, like she had done at the start. She smiled, landing a kiss on John’s chin, before standing.
“The truth might be John, I do like you. I put my entire back into that blowjob, and my kicks.”
Emily pulled her raven hair to the side, picking out strands of semen from it, flicking it to the carpet. She crouched down, her breasts providing a cushion as she pressed herself against her own knees. Slowly, she unstrapped John from his confines.
“I hope you get better John, better soon. I can’t wait for it.” Emily grinned.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading my story! I would really appreciate feedback/criticism. I’ve just started getting into the ballbusting writing world, mainly I’ve written about what engages me in particular, without taking into account other people's interests.
Not sure if I'll extend this particular narrative in the future, but it's always possible! (I have many ideas) I would really like to know if the overall tempo is enjoyable! I tried aiming at a good mix between pain, pleasure, and narrative; also, flavorful descriptions.
If anyone feels like I could improve on any of those points, I would love to hear! I want to create interesting, fappable, cohesive stories centered around females beat’n balls :) Thanks!
submitted by Agent_BB86 to BallbustingStories [link] [comments]

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