On the last Friday in February, Real Madrid were playing Inter Miami CF. Because it was one of the few home games of the season left, and a prestigious cup to win, everyone was invited to attend to support their team.

Wrapped up in your winter coat and a woolly hat, you sat between lizzie and Claire —who was draped in your team’s colors—grateful to have snagged a seat in the stands. Hundreds of other people had to stand along either side of the pitch. Not that any of them seemed to care about standing in the pouring rain.

They were too busy screaming and cheering on your team’s soccer team. Ten minutes into the game, and you witnessed first hand what all the fuss about Jude Bellingham was about.

He had some crazy pace and the way he could sprint, it was insane. He was unbelievable to watch. You could see the wheels of his brain in motion as he scoped out every play, pass, and attack with expert precision. He was an intelligent player with a keen eye for intercepting play and self-discipline that seemed to rival a saint. It didn't seem to matter how much he was knocked around or targeted by the opposition— and he was clearly targeted—he managed to keep his cool.

One of his eyes was turning purple and swelling at a rapid pace, and he had a steady trail of blood flowing down his eyebrow, but it didn’t seem to faze him one bit. Jude’s attention wasn’t on the medic or the referee shouting commands in his ear. He was too busy looking at you.