19 again: one more time with Pablo Hernandez

When Pablo Hernandez joined Castellon after leaving Leeds United, his image was draped down the Marathon Tower opposite their ground, the Estadio Municipal de Castalia. Hernandez was born and raised in Castellon, watching football for the first time in that stadium with his dad, before leaving for neighbouring Valencia and a pro career that scaled the heights of the Champions League, international caps for Spain, and a mural on the side of the Duck and Drake. In 2017, Hernandez and his dad were part of a consortium that bought the club, saving Castellon from financial extinction. He returned as a player three years later, completing his career by finally representing the community that formed him.

A supporters’ bar a short walk from the tower and stadium completes The Pablo Triangle in Castellon. It is a bar by definition — beer is served there — more than appearance. The inside is stark, apart from a few fridges and what looks like a washing machine. When I send a photo to my dad, he ignores the Leeds scarves and flags and replies asking if I’m doing my laundry.

As soon as I walk into the bar with my friend Sam, a member of staff asks if we’re from Leeds, grinning at our response and bumping our fists. He follows up his question by asking if we want a beer. By the entrance, a Castellon badge is painted on the wall, covered in messages scrawled in felt tip by Leeds fans. There’s the usual assortment of ‘Morley Whites’, ‘Miggy Whites’, ‘Beeston and Berlin Whites’. I add Rothwell to the collection, Sam adds LS5. In the top right corner, there’s a collection of messages saying, ‘Thank you Pablo’. The authentic Leeds look is completed by a solitary ‘Bates Out’.

A small beer costs €1.50, about £1.50. We sit on a step in the shade outside drinking ours. We’re about to watch Pablo Hernandez play for Castellon, and life feels good.

The last time I saw Pablo play live was Leeds vs Huddersfield, March 2020. I was watching from the Kop as he gently rolled a pass into Jackie Harrison’s path at the opposite end of the pitch. Harrison crossed to the back post. Luke Ayling detonated the atomic volley. And then we weren’t allowed to leave our homes.

We knew that day might be the last time we went to Elland Road for a little while, but we didn’t realise we’d have to wait almost eighteen months. When football returned during the pandemic, lockdown became a routine of counting the days between watching Pablo drag Leeds to promotion from our living rooms. He produced a burst of inspiration to rival any artist, culminating in his goal at Swansea, and a release from sixteen years of purgatory.

One of the tragedies of that first season back in the Premier League was that, while his mates were having the time of their lives spooking the Super League Six, Pablo was denied the chance to bask in the reward of his endeavour. A handful of appearances, a tiff with Marcelo Bielsa, and he was waving goodbye in tears, saying farewell in front of a stadium that was only allowed to be less than a third full.

Since returning to Elland Road as a fan, I’ll sometimes see the player wearing the number 19 cleverly turn or play an incisive pass, and briefly let myself imagine it’s Pablo. But it doesn’t matter if our new number 19, Rodrigo, is in one of his better moods, the magic just isn’t the same.

Travelling with Sam to Valencia, where we were staying before the game in Castellon, became a pilgrimage to be bewitched by the old number 19 for one last time. On the first day, we visited Hernandez’s former stadium, Valencia’s Mestalla, hoping for a glimpse of a photo of Pablo or some recognition of his contribution. Instead we were greeted by a huge image of Valencia celebrating winning the 2019 Copa del Rey. Holding the trophy aloft was our very own Rodrigo Moreno. The wrong 19 again. Around the stadium, a timeline detailed 100 years of Valencia’s history. The section on reaching two Champions League finals mentioned their semi-final win over Barcelona in 2000, but not beating Leeds to reach the final the following year. I left a Holbeck Moor FC sticker on a lamppost outside so there was at least one small mark of Leeds, although we later found consolation in spotting a Smiley badge graffitied on a wall by the cathedral.

That night we watched Barcelona beat Real Mallorca, missing the only goal because the bar staff didn’t realise they had the channel to watch the game, subjecting us to two old men commentating on a camera focused on manager Xavi on BarcaTV. Raphinha came on in the second half, but didn’t do much. Mallorca should have equalised in stoppage time when their forward narrowly missed an excellent chance. He was wearing the number 19 shirt. Pablo would have buried it.

Before getting the train to Castellon we stopped in a square by the cathedral, testing the city’s signature drink, agua de Valencia, a concoction of orange juice, champagne, vodka, and gin. It mainly tastes of orange juice, but by the end of a glass you get a feeling that warns another will leave you unable to feel your legs. I finished mine off, and realised I’d not said anything to Sam for twenty minutes. I’d been watching a compilation of Pablo’s goals for Leeds on my phone, reading his farewell message to supporters, and trying to hide that I was welling up. I blame the orange juice.

An hour’s train journey took us to Castellon, and the beers outside the supporters’ bar. The Castellon team bus pulled up outside, and we tried to spot Pablo among the silhouettes behind the blacked out windows. In the ground a young fan was sitting a few rows behind us wearing an Argentina shirt with Messi on the back. Messi wore the number 19 during his early years at Barcelona. The greatest footballer of all time never scored against West Brom after seventeen seconds though.

Eventually Castellon start to warm up, and there he is. The number 19 of my dreams. During a shooting drill, Pablo flicks a ball in the air and backheels it without looking. It rolls perfectly into the path of a waiting teammate. Shots are flying off target, until it’s Pablo’s turn. A cross comes into the box and he side-foots a volley neatly past the goalkeeper into the far corner of the net. Easy.

Castellon are facing Osasuna B. The two teams have the exact same record in the league, both sitting just outside the play-offs. Pablo plays behind the striker Dani Romera, a Carlos Tevez-lite bundle of energy and aggression, minus the skill. Pablo is calm. He gets the ball in his own half and lands a pass perfectly onto the head of Romera, who nods it down for a teammate to volley narrowly over. He almost recreates his volley from the warm up when a corner is played to him at the edge of the box, but his shot hits the side netting with the goalie panicking.

The players around him don’t make it easy for Pablo to get in the game. There are moments he is in a good position to score, but they can’t find him with a pass. Their winger Fabricio causes problems with his speed and power, but his touch is abysmal. At half-time, a group of firefighters are paraded around the pitch for a lap of applause. The second half kicks off, and Fabricio goes full Steve Morison, slicing a shot towards the corner flag and hitting a fireman still leaving the pitch.

A corner leads to Castellon’s opener ten minutes into the second half. They score with a slick counter late on to win 2-0, and Romera runs off celebrating by shushing Osasuna’s number 19. Pablo has been subbed off by that point, sitting on the bench right in front of us and spending the final twenty minutes berating the linesman next to him. Shortly before he gets substituted, a poor Osasuna touch leaves a loose ball by the nearside touchline. Pablo is in a fifty-fifty with a defender. On the wall back in the supporters’ bar, a fan had written ‘Pablo could nutmeg a mermaid’. The defender clearly hadn’t seen the warning. Pablo puffs out his cheeks, gets to the ball first, and nudges it through the defender’s legs. El Mago, pure and simple. At full-time, one of his sons runs onto the pitch to get a hug from his dad.

We’d been told to wait around Gate 0 outside the ground if we wanted to meet him afterwards. We hang around like two nervous school kids for half an hour. Pablo walks out on his own holding his wash bag under his arm and we awkwardly approach. I have never felt so nervous meeting someone. “Are you guys from Leeds?” he asks, shaking our hands, thanking us for making the trip, and immediately asking whether Leeds beat Aston Villa.

I remember reading Mike Skinner’s autobiography, and his advice that if you meet someone you admire, you should ask them a really specific question. Seeing Pablo lead Leeds out as captain to a guard of honour from Wayne Rooney and Derby — HA! — after promotion had been secured was one of my proudest days as a Leeds fan, so I ask him how hungover he was that day. Straightaway I wish I’d have thought of something better. Pablo looks confused why I’ve just asked him that, then tells me they expected to lose that game because they’d been drinking for the previous two days, but he still felt better than Mateusz Klich. Leeds won anyway, because he scored a belter. He signs a print for Sam, and we both get photos with him. As I put my arm around him, I can feel myself shaking. I look across to Sam, and notice his hand holding his phone is also shaking. Pablo definitely notices too, but he’s a complete gent. He chats with us a little longer, then shakes our hands and thanks us one more time before we say our goodbyes.

We start walking back to Castellon station, past the supporters’ bar, the stadium and tower behind us. We’re speechless, eventually breaking the silence at the same time, both exhaling in what can only be described as swoons, followed by fits of giggling. “There’s no topping that,” Sam laughs. “Might as well die now.” ⬢