I always knew, or rather, feared, that this moment would come. The moment when your legend, your favorite player of all time leaves your team for good. No longer would he wear the shirt you learned to love. No longer would he wear the armband he was born to wear. Not another single minute of him in the ground in which he's been playing forever.

My history as a Barça fan, and later as a member, started just when Xavi was getting his first minutes in the first team. Bored with our local football, I declared my local team was not brave enough to do what they needed to do to be great. So I abandoned them. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

I was a good Chilean girl who never did anything wrong, maybe the most rebellious thing I did over those years was to become a Barça fan. This meant I started following a side that rivaled the team all my country rooted for. There were Madrid shirts all over the streets in Chile then; the adventures of Zamorano, our national icon in Madrid, were followed in detail on the news, television and radio. But somehow I stated, in the middle of all my growing admiration for football in general, that I liked football, not this show. And one fine day I saw Barça play and then it all changed forever.

So, when I truly started following Barça in a manner only a culé would do, even a culé from abroad, Xavi was starting to get some playing time, making space for himself in a team and midfield dominated by Pep Guardiola. A rough start it was, with the press picking at him by saying he was not good enough to be the new Pep.

It was a rough start for me too, in those long university years, with many walks through the desert, maybe a bit like Xavi's. Between tests, awful results and tons of work, I just couldn’t miss a game. Barça was, still is, my connection to what’s important in life, to joy, pride, friendship, family.

Then one day, off to Barcelona I went. I decided I couldn’t live just dreaming about the Camp Nou, dreaming about walking up its stairs to discover that beautiful green pitch, so off I went and witnessed probably one of the worst seasons our team has ever had: 2002. Every game was worse than the last, but I felt I couldn’t leave them alone. And over those years, with no more hope beyond getting to the Champions League the next season, there was someone who held it together. And that guy was a young midfielder who almost broke his arm once to win a game against Espanyol (the “relegation war” it was called, because the losing team would end up in the relegation zone). That day, on my birthday, eons of years ago, I knew he had something special. Like he was going to mark an era. Not only because of his extraordinary vision and intelligence in playing the game he learned to love since he was a child, but because of that night in Montjuïc, when he fought for his team with a bravery only known to those who truly feel those colors.

He led that team from the relegation zone in 2002 to the UEFA Cup places, and then onto glory in years to come. But he had to overcome many, many difficult times. Under his leadership, the team abandoned the black waters it used to navigate and went into the light -- the light of sacrifice, football and pride.

We, as a team and as a club, abandoned our persecution complex, our classic “everyone is mean to us” attitude that masqueraded so many of our grey years. And that was thanks to many men, but mostly one, who vindicated our way, our style, and took it to the world. Playing mig toc (with half a touch), playing a passing game, giving the ball to a teammate as often as needed to attack and defend, were no longer matters of shame. Small players were no longer pariahs. Intelligence, vision and the sense of a team were the trades of his game and ours.

We grew, with him as our leader, to be one of the greatest teams of all time. Our football started and ended on his feet, in his mind. Of course we won many titles, but the important thing is that we were remembered. And we will probably keep doing so, winning titles, because he’s changed us so profoundly that we no longer want second places any more, as we used to in the ‘80s. We want to be the best, in the best way possible, because he taught us that.

His real influence in this team goes much beyond the passes, the occasional yet important goals. He made us proud of ourselves, of our style, our history, our game.

But when I read the last paragraph I wrote again, it seems like I’m writing for a magazine. I should probably stop writing about what Xavi means to Barça, and write what he means to me. And here it is. He has been with me since I started to love this team and has drawn me back to it when things got difficult to bear. When I wanted to quit, because of the disaster of a board of directors that we have, he always reminded me of the reasons that once made me love this club. Because we are a family. A dysfunctional, complex, vocal, bipolar, loving family. A family that is losing its heart as we lose him as a player, and we will need to learn how to live without it. It’s not about finding a replacement for him, just learning to live without him. Without him coming to the rescue, as he came so many times this season. Without him taking us back to our roots when our football became too “direct” (and too stupid, for that matter) and we started losing our purpose.

Every time I discovered one stupid, vengeful and self-centered decision by our board, every single time they damaged our club’s principles or image, he came to the rescue. To my rescue. Everything he did in a football ground, everything he said, the way he led this group of amazing football players, made me feel that not all greatness were lost. That there was hope. That there was something this club still has to make him stay.

So at the same time that he declares he will come back one day, I declare that I want to stay on board. Stay and make the club the best it can possibly be again in all standards, to welcome him when he decides to come back. Recover our roots, our principles, some of the things we might have lost over the last few years. Those that are his as well. It will be incredibly hard not to see him again in my next visit, knowing that last year’s game against Granada was the last time I saw him. But it will be one day less until his comeback. One day at a time and the time will fly.

Thank you, Xavi for always being there, all the time. For leading in good days, and carrying the team and the club on your shoulders, in bad times. For inspiring us. For giving this club a purpose. For giving us hope that, no matter what, as you so eloquently put it, we’re still the best club. If you think that, then so do I. And if we made you happy all those 17 years, you can’t even imagine how many people you have made happy and proud.

Torna aviat. T’esperem el que faci falta.