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The earnest question of whether
Lionel Messi could do it on a cold, wet night in Stoke has persisted as a cliched joke for a few years now. So when Barcelona surprisingly sold Bojan, a 24-year-old once hyped as the next Messi, to Stoke City, the only explanation was that Messi personally asked him to go there on an expedition to see if the conditions in this mythical place are as challenging as the fables suggest. This is Bojan's third letter back to his friend.
The days are getting shorter and the leaves are falling from the trees like tears from my face. I have only started one match since I last wrote to you two months ago. I am quickly learning that English football truly is as cruel a place as the legends say. Maybe even worse. With that said, I hope you are well.
This has been a very confusing time for me. I knew the cold, wet nights would be the ultimate test, but I had no idea that even the semi-warm, mostly dry afternoons would be this bad. Since I have been spending so much time on the bench, Mr. Hughes has given me his mobile phone to hold in case Pep Guardiola calls him to ask for advice during a match. But Pep never calls. I am starting to think that Mr. Hughes is not as close with Pep as he has led me to believe.
Despite my personal troubles, the rest of the team is performing fairly well. You will be happy to know that my wish upon a star for The Crouchie's enchanted broomstick limbs to produce goals has worked and he has since scored exactly three of them. I asked him if he would do the same for me, but I don't think he heard me since he is so much taller and I thought it might be rude to climb him like a beanstalk in order to get closer to his ear. After all, we are still just getting to know each other. Perhaps I will ask Princess Abbey to pass along my request since she is smaller.
One friend I have made already is Steven N'zonzi. He is French and he gives me pastries to eat while I sit on the bench. The only problem is that Charlie Adam, who is most definitely not my friend, usually takes them from me before we leave the dressing room. He calls them his "tackling fuel" and he chews them with his mouth open. I have started avoiding all local bridges out of fear that Charlie Adam lives under one of them with the rest of his troll clan.
As hard as I have had it, Mario Balotelli, my friend from our short time together under the rule of the Bunga King in Milan, has it much, much worse. The English sorcerers have cast a spell on Mario that makes all of his shots go straight up into the sky instead of into the goal, as he intends them to. I can tell that Mario is also very frustrated, but I am certain that we will develop enchantments of our own before the cold and wet nights come.
Yours in bravery,
P.S. Tell Shakira to send all of the ingredients she used in the potion that made Pique like her.
Previously in Letters from Bojan: The incredible journey begins
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