A decent portion of Pep's teenaged years were spent watching. He trained, he studied, he read ravenously, and he watched. From the rising stands of the Camp Nou, transported into collective euphoria or madness or grief as one more face in the crowd; from his station behind the goal, following the flow of the game as if he was one of the active participants instead of a mere ball-boy; and most often on the sidelines of the training pitch, as attentive to the movements of the ball as to the conversations that went on. On the training ground, he listened as Venables encouraged Pichi Alonso to shoot, and later, as Aragones challenged Mark Hughes to do more, and do it better.
In the beginning, he had gone because it warmed something inside him to see his team in the flesh. The potential for learning occurred to him once he began to understand a bit more about the game, and then he filled out two notebooks with scribbled observations and thoughts every season.
(As far as education went, La Masia was comprehensive, but Pep believed in the value of extracurricular work.)
Things changed again once Cruyff returned. Pep went to watch one of his training sessions, meaning to get an idea of what his coaching style was like, and completely forgot why he was there once Cruyff joined the team for an exercise in the middle of practise. Up close, there was something mesmerising about his grace on the ball, undiminished by time, that conjured up memories and worked powerful magic, especially on a Cule. Most of Pep could only admire.
That other part of him, the part that never stopped thinking, woke up at Cruyff's voice, pitched to carry to the whole squad clustered around him on the training field. He didn't sound like any other coach Pep had ever heard speak. Something about that clarion tone, and the certainty in it.
When Costas told him to switch positions at half-time, Pep thought nothing of it. After all, that was what training games were for, and the switch made sense in terms of the team's performance. He had tried to fix the disconnect between the defence and the midfield by telling Chapi and Sergi to push further up the pitch, and that did improve things a little, but having a midfield pivot would be even better. The only problem, as far as he could see, was that they had nobody on the pitch who had ever played in that position before, but if the coach thought he could do a decent job, then he was game to try.
The second half went perfectly fine. Playing as the pivot demanded a bit more defensive skill than he actually had, so Sergi had to bail him out a couple of times, but other than that, it was okay. So there was no reason for the feeling of restlessness beneath his skin, as if there was some bigger difference to the 45 minutes than just a change in playing position.
As if - he realized as he looked up and glimpsed a flash of a tan coat in the stands - someone had been watching him very, very closely.
His suspicious were confirmed when Costas caught his eye as the rest of the team were heading off to the showers. Chapi almost certainly noticed on his way out, but he said nothing. Everybody knew Pep liked talking tactics with the coach.
"What's going on, mister?"
Costas had this way of looking at him that was almost guaranteed to make him blush and look away, the affection and pride in the warm gaze making it too difficult to return. That expression was there, now, but it was tempered by something that looked like a cross between surprise and worry.
"Cruyff wants to see you."
Pep managed not to make any embarrassing sounds, but it was close. A couple of deep breaths helped. When he replied, he almost sounded normal.
"I thought I saw him leave the game. Okay, did he say now?"
"Yes, now. He's probably standing outside. Go, don't keep him waiting," Costas said, all but shoving him towards the door of the changing room, grinning all the while.
Pep nodded, inhaled deeply, and went.
Predictably, Cruyff and the concept of waiting didn't seem to know each other. He had taken to walking the length of the pitch, stopping now and then to check the state of the grass. Pep shrugged to himself, jogged the short distance up to Cruyff and waited for him to transfer his attention from the pitch.
After a minute or so, he straightened up, fixing Pep with a steady gaze. The restless feeling under Pep's skin reared its head again, and he had to resist the urge to fidget, or to open his mouth and probably say something very stupid.
Cruyff saved him by speaking first. "So you're Guardiola. What did you think of playing the pivot?"
"It took a bit of adjusting to, but I think I could do it permanently, if that's what the team needs." He hesitated, before adding, in a softer voice, "I'm not convinced that it is."
Cruyff gave a slight nod. "Did you tell Costas that?"
"Not yet. I plan to the next time I see him."
"That's fine. But I saw other problems during the game," he began counting off the points on his hands. "Your body isn't up to playing in the primera, your tackling is atrocious, you're far too slow, and you can't shoot."
There was nothing cruel in his tone, merely the air of someone stating the blatantly obvious. Pep wanted, rather desperately in that moment, to look down. But pride didn't allow for that.
"I - "
What? He's right.
Cruyff cut him off with an impatient shake of the head. "Fortunately for my sanity, you're smart. You didn't need me to tell you all that, you already knew it. You never stop trying to think up ways to compensate for physical weaknesses. That's the right mindset for a good player."
His appraising look was about as comfortable as a dissection. Pep resisted the urge to spread his arms for inspection and settled for merely raising his head. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what his face looked like.
"Thank you. Sir."
Whatever screwed-up expression was there made the corners of Cruyff's mouth turn up, almost enough for it to be called a smile. Maybe a smirk, if his eyes were different.
"Most important, you can work with me. That's enough to start with."
"You barely know me." Shut up, shut up, what are you doing? "For all you know, I could throw tantrums with the best of them. I could be worse than Milla."
There. That was definitely a smirk. "No, you're not. I can tell."
With that, Cruyff turned and began walking away.
"Attend first team training tomorrow. You know when it is. And start thinking how a pivot should fit into our formation."
* * *
The first time he met Ronald, it didn't go that well. Partially because Ronald was injured and being injured made him surly, partially because Pep just didn't look like much out on the training field. By then, he was pretty much used to making a very forgettable first impression.
Guillermo introduced them after morning training with his arm securely wound around Pep's shoulder, beaming as if Pep was his kid brother. Which he was, sort of, in the way that all cantera kids were.
"Ronald, this is Pep. The boss says he's spoken to you about him already."
"So you're Guardiola. Huh. Johan wants you to replace me and Milla?" Pep just smiled like he was about as green as he looked, but Guillermo was always a bit overprotective. If looks could kill, Ronald would be a puddle on the grass. As it was, Ronald actually shrank back in the face of Guillermo's righteous indignation. "Er, no offence, kid."
Pep held up a hand to keep Guillermo from replying for him. Thought about what he should say to a man like Ronald Koeman. Who was not just a player to Cruyff, but also something of a friend, if what he had seen and heard was correct.
"Of course, I understand. The mister is gambling a lot on someone like me, especially given the game of chicken he's been playing with Nunez for a few years now. That's what you're trying to say, isn't it?"
Koeman started, wariness creeping onto his face. "...woah. Right, I'm sorry, let's start this over. Who are you, really? Guillermo?"
Guillermo knew better than to open his mouth this time.
Pep held out his hand, letting his smile become about equal parts amused and rueful. "Just a simple Catalan boy from the cantera."
Ronald shook it.
Watching first team training did nothing to prepare Pep for experiencing the real thing - the first time Michael did something amazing with the ball and then passed it to him, the first time he tried a shot on Zubi's goal. The first time Cruyff told him exactly what he was doing wrong before he'd even realized he was doing it.
After that particular incident, Guillermo and Jose Mari, amongst others, gave him such obvious looks of relief when he turned up normally the next day that he had to ask.
"Why is everybody looking at me like that?"
Jose Mari laughed sharply at the barely-concealed irritation in his voice. "We're all just relieved the boss hasn't managed to scare you off."
Pep frowned harder. "You mean piss me off. Wait, this is about Milla, isn't it? He couldn't stand the mister so you're worried it's going to happen to me."
That kind of concern was...laughably off-base. He wasn't sure he could explain why just yet, though.
"No one likes losing a canterano, kid. Especially not to Madrid. But if you ask me, the only problem with Milla was that he didn't wait long enough."
"To understand. No one likes talked to that way unless there's a reason. With the way we do things, that reason sometimes takes a while to show up." Jose Mari casually reached across and ruffled his hair, letting his hand fall to rest on one of Pep's shoulders. "You get that better than any newbie I've ever seen. I can see why the boss picked you."
Then again, maybe he didn't have to explain at all.
* * *
Pep's first couple of games were fairly ordinary. The team around him was made up of so much talent and inspiration and graft that all he had to do was not screw up. Then Deportivo came to the Camp Nou.
At half-time, he marched right up to Cruyff and said it, as mildly as he could, just as he would have done to Costas if he had still been with the B team.
"Depor's fullbacks are destroying us."
The rest of that sentence - why aren't you doing something about it? - was swallowed back with an effort. Even so, the dressing room got awfully quiet all of a sudden.
Cruyff stared at him for a long, long moment, expression unreadable. Pep tried very hard not to twitch. It felt like everybody else was doing the same thing.
"Say I have a good reason for not doubling up on them. Tell me what it is."
Pep really didn't want to answer. From the way Guillermo was shaking his head at him behind Cruyff, the reluctance was written all over his face.
There was really no need for Guillermo to worry. Pep knew this wasn't about what he wanted. He gritted his teeth and returned Cruyff's stare.
"Because...because neither of them can cross."
How can you be comfortable relying on that? If they get one decent ball in -
Cruyff seemed to be waiting for more, but he damn well wasn't going to start blurting out more ill-thought out criticism. For a moment, nobody moved, and then the delegate stuck his head into the room like he expected it to be bitten off and told them it was time to get back out there.
Cruyff inclined his head at the door until most of the starters showed signs of getting up and making their way out. Pep knew he was just waiting for them all to go first, but it didn't help him feel any less tense about having to walk past Cruyff to get to the door.
He was secretly heaving a sigh of relief for having made the most uncomfortable two meters or so without having a breakdown when Cruyff clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"See me right after you get out of the mixed zone. I'll be in the closest open conference room."
* * *
It was a wonder, really, that he got through the rest of the match without incident. The Depor fullbacks did keep giving them trouble, and one of them even floated in a cross that could generously be called half decent, which made Jose Mari give up a corner and almost cost them a goal. But it was only an almost.
Not enough if he was going to argue tactics with Cruyff, and not enough to convince Pep that he'd been wrong to speak up.
The conference rooms always made him have to bite back a grin. It was - mostly - the far-too-comfortable blaugrana coloured armchairs. And the pictures on the walls. This time, though, he could barely find a smile to put on his face.
Cruyff didn't like challenges to his authority. He knew that, had known it before he had ever played for the man, so why -
No, he knew why. He just wasn't sure it was a good enough reason.
If he'd been allowed, he would have dithered in the doorway like that for a while, but Cruyff just wasn't that patient. So he got a quick, sweeping hand gesture that somehow managed to say 'come in' and 'sit the hell down' and indicate the unoccupied armchair at the same time.
Cruyff didn't wait for him to settle down. "You're here because you only gave me half the answer."
"There was more? I'm - " He gritted his teeth. Forced himself to sit up straight and look Cruyff in the eye. "I'm not sure."
The frustration in Cruyff's eyes hurt.
"You noticed that neither fullback knew what a really good cross was. That's fine. But think. Why do I always play 3-4-3?"
A few months ago, one of the Catalan journalists had asked, after one of their crazy 4-3 wins, whether the formation was too risky.
Cruyff had left him the journalistic equivalent of a stain on the floor of the press room.
"Because Barca has its own style. We can't - we don't change for anybody."
He said the words like they were one of the unchanging truths of the world, and the hard, sharp smile that Cruyff gave him in return was enough to make him shiver.
Shiver, and somehow feel warmed at the same time. "I. I apologise."
For the first time that night, Cruyff looked surprised. "What for?"
"I shouldn't have spoken up?"
"Was that a statement or a question?" Cruyff snorted, leaning forward and resting his arms on the edge of the coffee table. Up close, his eyes were dark and narrow, but not cold. "I shouldn't even have to tell you this. If you think Hristo needs to track back more to cover a dangerous fullback, don't wait until half-time to tell me. Ask him to do it."
"You think he'll listen to me?"
"That's not my problem. You know what to do."
Pep felt himself smile, wide and genuine with a flash of teeth. "Absolutely. Sir."
* * *
Having Chapi around, when he finally made his way up to the first team, was a relief. It wasn't that Pep was uncomfortable amongst the older guys - he was pretty much the opposite - but he didn't need to censor himself around Chapi.
The first time he saw Pep telling Ronald - just a little bluntly - to stay put in his own half when all the forwards and midfielders were attacking, though, he didn't really get it.
"But that's Ronald Koeman! You can't talk to him like that!"
"I don't talk to him like that. Well, unless we only have 30 seconds to chat while the Albacete keeper's rolling around pretending Julio assaulted him."
Chapi choked on a laugh. "Right. You're kind of terrifying sometimes, you know that?"
Pep knew his smile was a bit too sharp, but he didn't care. "I count on it. We're young and nobodies. How else is anyone going to listen to us?"
* * *
A stupid defensive mistake became a goal for Oviedo, they ended up drawing 1-1, and Cruyff was furious. At him.
"What were you doing?"
I didn't give the ball away for that goal, Pep didn't say. There was really no point, and besides, it wasn't in him to blame other people.
At least Cruyff waited until everybody else left to start on him. Pep just wasn't as smart as the rest of them when it came to getting out of there fast to avoid being ranted at.
"If a team-mate makes a mistake, you should have prevented it."
"But - " Pep blinked, a lot. Arguing was worse than useless. He knew that. Okay. Okay. "Why? Explain it to me. Use small words if you have to."
Fine, so he was angry too. Dropped points made nobody feel good.
Cruyff's mouth twisted. It was almost a smile, somehow cruel and fond at the same time.
"You. What do you think you're supposed to do?"
"On the pitch? I play my game, like you tell me to."
The last time Cruyff gave him that frustrated look, he was failing to get the man's entire footballing philosophy.
"Your job is to get the best out of yourself. My job is to make that work for the team. That's what I'd usually say to one of you. But you're more than that."
Cruyff had a way of looking at people that made them feel as if all the air was being sucked out of the room. Pep had been on the receiving end a lot, but it didn't seem like something a person could develop immunity to.
"You are my eyes and ears and mouth on the pitch. You are responsible for the whole team. And I wouldn't lay this on you if I didn't think you could do it. Never forget that."
What could anybody say to that?
No one could accuse him of not taking Cruyff's words seriously. So that was probably why it took him a while to really calm down after Kaiserslautern.
In hindsight, he really should have seen the trouble they had in Germany coming. The knowledge was soaked into his bones - just as the sky was blue and the earth was round, Barca never won without suffering.
It sounded like gospel in his head. When he offered it as an explanation for why things had gone so badly to Cruyff, though, the look he got back was worse than the usual disapproving expression. That one said 'you're being incredibly disappointing', but at least it didn't have any hint of contempt in it.
"That's the fucking problem. You can keep thinking that, being inferior and winning nothing and crying over it forever, or you - we, Barca - can be better."
* * *
With Cruyff, it was never just words. Sometimes it just took Pep a while to understand. After Kaiserslautern, he spent a lot of time thinking about everything and never really got it until Wembley.
More accurately, it was the moment, right after he trudged off the pitch with 7 minutes to go until the end of extra time, when he saw Cruyff put his head in his hands.
"Please, Barca, don't go crazy now."
It was a whisper so soft that no one should have heard it with the noise from the crowd. Probably no one was meant to, but Pep did spend a lot of time paying attention to Cruyff.
So he got it. Right then, instead of 10 minutes later, when he followed a broadly grinning Cruyff onto the pitch and yelled himself hoarse. That was a different lesson altogether.
After all, playing the game and knowing how to win weren't the same thing.
Cruyff didn't really relate to him the way he did to Ronald, as friends who just happened to work together. They were pretty much like any other manager and one of his players, except for all the conversations they had outside of training.
Some of those conversations were even simple idle chats, but for the large part they talked about the team.
"Hristo's getting along better with Romario. I'm hoping they'll eventually be able to actually talk to each other for longer than 5 minutes."
"Civility is as good as we're going to get right now. Fine, what else?"
"Chapi's a bit low on confidence. I did what I could, but..."
Cruyff spun his chair slightly until they were face to face. That ever familiar look of frustration was creeping back onto his face. "If you have something to say, then spit it out. I don't keep you around to have you flounder like an idiot."
Pep rolled his eyes. "That's my point. His confidence is low because of your criticism. You could try softening it."
"He knows what I mean by it," Cruyff said dismissively, about five seconds away from losing interest.
Pep ran a hand through his hair - tugged, hard, for a second, as if the brief moment of pain would make him feel less like hitting something. "He's young. He thinks everything you say is the word of God. I can't tell you what to do, it's just - "
"You are anyway. Why else are you here?"
And that was actual amusement, in Cruyff's voice and in the sudden warmth of his gaze.
It was times like those that made Pep feel as if he knew the answer to that question.
They got absolutely thrashed in Zaragoza. In between getting angry at himself, picking over what they could have done differently, and trying to make the other guys feel better, Pep watched with the usual feeling of horrified fascination as the press set to tearing Cruyff apart.
That was the drawback to being so good at jerking the newspapers around - the journalists remembered every single time Cruyff cut one of them down to size and were all just waiting for an opportunity to give a little bit of their own back.
Even so, it was an extraordinary press conference. The pointed nature of the questions aside, he had never seen Cruyff talk like that, with the kind of honesty that made him seem vulnerable. Cruyff spoke about his belief in the team despite everything, how it stemmed from all he knew about his players, all the hard work they had done.
Pep watched as those statements were replayed and endlessly analysed on TV and found himself - moved. Even though he was far from the target audience.
When he finally got to talk to Cruyff again, they were all well on the way to putting that disaster of a game behind him, only focused on getting the next game right. Or at least that was the official line.
That was Cruyff's idea of a greeting. Pep was so used to it that an actual greeting would probably be shocking and unpleasant.
"Hard to say. My hunch is that we're all still feeling a bit off."
"I thought so," Cruyff nodded, looking up from the newspaper he was flipping through. Paused, at whatever expression Pep had let onto his face. "What is it?"
"What you said at the press conference. Did you." Oh for - stop wincing and spit it out. "Forgive me if I sound amazingly naive - did you mean it?"
Cruyff looked briefly taken aback. "Of course. Why else would I say it?"
"Even with the way things are now..."
"What about it? If it's not working, make it work. Wallow in self-pity on your own time."
As usual, there was nothing vicious about the words. Just Cruyff, being matter-of-fact about Pep, and what he wanted Pep to do.
Sometimes, Pep felt a lot older than his 23 years. "It's not that easy. You know it's not that easy."
"Nonsense. If I say you can do it, then you can," Cruyff said lightly, looking directly at him.
* * *
A lot of things got done in a football team without the need for conversation. It made sense - they were trained to communicate through gestures and body language, after all, and players could be a reticent crowd. So Pep fixed things up between Hristo and Txiki by playing a game of 3 a side with the two of them and some of the physios, and got Julio back into something like his usual mindset by getting soundly beaten by him at two rounds of shooting practise.
He was getting fairly good at that kind of thing. Which wasn't to say he didn't still prefer the methods that involved at least some talking, hence getting Ronald to help him with his freekicks.
"You've got to blast it. Come on, Pep, what are you afraid of?"
"Quite a lot, really," Pep said, looking up from where he was standing over the ball and smiling to show that he wasn't being serious. "What about you, Ronald?"
Ronald came close enough to elbow him in the ribs - gently - for that answer. "Right now? I'm afraid of what the mixed zone will be like if we lose this next game."
"Come on, Ronald. This is Barca. Don't tell me you're getting sick of the dramatics."
Ronald snorted, but his lips were twitching. "Yeah, well, I don't have a gift for it. You probably look forward to press conference duty."
"It's just another part of life for me. Like, say, breakfast or lunch, just with no food and more people asking questions. There's no point in disliking something like that."
"See, I can't think like that. At most - hang on, at this distance, you need to put a bit more bend on the ball - anyway, it's a price I pay to do this. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Saturday night, Ronald," Pep said, and hit the ball like he meant it.
It arced through the air, moving back towards the goal - slamming into the post with a loud thump.
"Nice. Very nice. Yeah, what about Saturday?"
Pep smiled up at the afternoon sun. "The floodlights. The colour and noise. All the stuff you're actually here for. That's when we don't have to be afraid of anything."
* * *
On Saturday, they won 8-1.
Anytime Charly had to bodily drag him out of training had to count as a bad day. Even worse, he was pretty sure he knew why.
Just the look on Charly's face -
Pep took a couple of deep breaths and gently pried Charly's hand off his arm.
"What's going on?"
"You've got to - Gaspart's office, go, now, I think he's still screaming - "
"Who? What the hell is going on, Charly?" Pep asked, though he was all but certain of the answer, and already walking down the right corridor.
He just - had to hear it from someone else. Potentially catastrophic events were funny that way.
"It's Johan, last I saw he was smashing a chair, for God's sake go and calm him down!"
Pep stopped walking.
"Gaspart just told him."
"Yes, what else do you think? I'm not even going to ask you how you knew it was coming - "
His voice didn't want to work.
"We all saw it coming, Charly. Including you." That was better. Now if he could make himself sound a little less cold - "Go back to training. I'll handle it."
* * *
Pep didn't let himself pause at the partially open door, even though every part of him wanted to. It wasn't even the raised voices he could hear from two corridors down, one speaking perfectly proper Spanish and the other with gradually worsening grammar as his voice rose.
If he heard Cruyff say it, it would be real.
The sight that greeted him wasn't that unexpected, thanks to Charly's warnings, but Pep still had to pause to take it in. It wasn't everyday that he saw one of the vice presidents' offices in this kind of state.
It wasn't everyday that he saw Cruyff in that kind of state.
" - you worthless bastard!"
"Johan. Johan. Now, be reasonable - "
Gaspart shut his mouth with a loud click at the murderous expression on Cruyff's face and glanced down nervously at Cruyff's hands, which were clenching and unclenching on the edge of the desk.
Pep braced himself and told his voice to behave. "Excuse me, Mr Gaspart."
Cruyff was breathing very loudly and not moving.
The desperation in Gaspart's eyes twisted his relieved smile into something frightening once he saw who his rescuer was. "Oh, Pep! Good, good, you - "
"I think you should leave, Mr Gaspart. Please."
Pep held Gaspart's eyes, counting the seconds in his head. One...two...three...
He didn't really want to know what his face looked like right then, but it was enough. Gaspart nodded stiffly and backed out of the room.
He had made it nearly to the door when Cruyff turned suddenly and hauled a paperweight at him, scratching the door frame. Pep winced as Gaspart's face flushed with anger and swiftly shut the door in his face.
When he looked again, Cruyff's hands were clenching on the edge of the desk once more. The tension in his back was obvious even through his jacket.
His voice was scraped raw. "That. That fucking imbecile. I - "
And far too loud. The sound-proofing in the offices wasn't that good.
That finally made Cruyff whirl to face him. Pep immediately wished he hadn't. There were some things people just weren't meant to see, and one's manager - teacher, mentor - with that look in his eyes was one of them.
"I will not – you knew this was going to happen!"
True enough. And that was just one of the reasons why he had to do this.
"So did a lot of other people. So did you. This is Barca." He didn't recognise his own voice. All he knew was that it was the right one. "One day the same thing will happen to me. Don't blame Charly, he's got it hard enough as it is."
"Those ungrateful bastards know nothing about football," Cruyff snarled. "They'll run this club into the ground."
Pep suppressed a shudder with an effort of will. "Not if I can help it. Mister - "
Cruyff laughed, sharp and vicious. "Not any more. Thanks to that grasping idiot. Where would he be if not for me?"
You know what you mean to this club. No one can take that away.
He could say it. He was perfectly prepared to sound like the naive kid he wasn't, if it made things at least a little better.
"Johan. I - I - "
The corners of Johan's mouth turned up. Not enough to call it a smile, with that much rage and bitterness in his eyes, but close enough. Pep was so shocked he completely lost the thread.
"Stop it. You were doing so well before. Keep going with that. You know what you have to do - no need to get all sentimental about it."
Wasn't that the truth. Pep had eyes, and he was always watching. He saw what was happening in the last two years with crystal clarity. He knew this club down to his fucking bones.
For the first time in a long time, he looked away from Cruyff's penetrating stare. Away, and down, and shaking with the force of - everything.
"I already told the press. This is my last coaching job. So I'll be around, keeping an eye on what happens here." Steps, then Cruyff's left hand landed on his shoulder, and he was tilting Pep's chin up with the right. "You'll be captain next year or the year after. Think about what you're going to do with all that power."
There. It was probably a bit wobbly, but it was a smile. One that felt like it belonged on his face. "I know."
Pep still didn't sound like himself. Something about the clarion voice. The absolute certainty in it.
"Sure. I want to and I'm capable. Only you don't have the balls to give me the job." - alleged conversation between Barcelona president Joan Laporta and Pep Guardiola, before Guardiola took charge of Barcelona B in 2007
"Guardiola is ready." - Johan Cruyff to Barcelona president Joan Laporta, early 2008
Pep smiled at the caller display.
"Thank you. And for the recommendation."
"Hm. No need."
"Still curious about what I'm going to do with all this power?"
"I can guess."
There was absolutely a smile in that tone.
"Keep watching. Let me show you."
And his own.