O. Dembélé goal (Valladolid 0-[1] Barcelona) 57'

Hey, I'm a pizza delivery guy. I drive an old crap sedan with a peeling pizza sticker slapped to both sides -- asked for a new decal, manager just laughed in my face. Needlessly to say I've found employment elsewhere, but enough about me. This is about Barcelona F.C. and what Dembelé did to me, and I'm only now brave enough to come out now.

It was a rainy afternoon in August when I witnessed an event that would change my opinion towards Barcelona F.C. forever. I've had girlfriends who went sour, relatives who've given up contact, but I've never lost a hero, never even knew it was possible, before I opened that door.

When I opened the door, I was hunched up under my small sports jacket. I must've looked like a jackass, smiling in their doorway. Ousmane Dembelé, my favorite forward, took the Meat Lovers pizza (large) from my shaky hands.

"That'll be sixteen ninety-five," I said, not knowing what travesty came next:

Ousmane didn't smile when he said thank you.

Ousmane... ONLY TIPPED 5%.

Mom used to tell me that the rain came whenever God cried. That day, every soaked lawn chair, every canceled baseball game, every useless car wash; all Dembelé's doing. God knew I'd meet my 'hero' one day in August and that tears would roll down my own cheeks to match the cold rivulets streaming down my jacket as Ousmane Dembelé slammed the door in my face.

Dembelé, everything Dortmund said about you was spot on. If you ever want pizza again, you better watch out, because the pizza business is a family. A large, quasi-Italian family. I might not be able to slip a horse head under your sheets, but you damn well better check your next slice of pie for my load.

My load of spicy red pepper flakes.

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