The body remains suspended in the air, as if it were floating, but this is an ephemeral float. The artist cannot see the arch, but he imagines it. The companions look expectantly at his flight, his contortion, and smile mischievously. The others, the innocent adversaries, turn pale with terror. They are paralyzed, speechless, incredulous. And the public begins to get up from their chairs with the same speed with which that floating body gets into position, just as the ball falls from the sky and the legs draw fantasy in the air.
That is the Chilean, a maneuver that descends from the sky to the courts very occasionally, that does not distinguish a shirt, that simply chooses the mortal. The last enlightened in Colombian soccer It was Juan Carlos Pereira, from Millonarios, who scored the 1-0 against Cortuluá on Saturday, in a state of weightlessness.
It’s a stunt that not everyone can attempt; that not everyone can boast. It takes courage to propel yourself from the ground up into the clouds. You must be light as the wind and merge with it. The movement has to be fast, subtle and elegant. The legs must dialogue in the air: the right goes up while the left goes from below, or vice versa, depending on the artist on duty, and where the ball comes from. Everything will be in perfect harmony. The final movement will be missing: connecting the ball with precision, directly to the heart of the ball, to propel it far, to its destination. Hopefully online.
It is the Chilean, a maneuver that descends from the sky to the courts very occasionally, that does not distinguish a shirt, that simply chooses the mortal
They say it was born on the Peruvian lawn. They debate that his cradle is in the Chilean courts. In some parts they call it chalaca, and in others, Chilean. What is certain is that this marvel was conceived in the paddocks, in the quagmire, in every dusty field, and in Latin America. From there she crossed borders and oceans to become famous throughout the world. And if there were football in the rest of the universe, surely they would have already copied it there, after all, this work doesn’t seem like ours, it doesn’t seem human.
The important thing is that the work does not die, that it remains in force, although it is increasingly scarce. That makes it even more admirable. Hugo Sánchez, that Mexican ball prodigy, practiced it with devotion. It was his secret and unlikely move. He could improvise it when least expected, with the beauty it demands. Roberto Cabañas, another master of the pirouette, evolved it: she kicked from the side, in the air, and then they called her the cabañuela: a first cousin of the Chilean.
The body is still suspended, but it is already falling, it is getting closer to the ground. The arms are stretched backwards and anticipate the collapse: they look like the landing gear; a landing that must be perfect, just as precise and elegant as the takeoff. But few will see it fall. The eyes already lose sight of him and leave with the path of the ball, chasing his destiny, hopefully, that of the net. Whether he is near or far, it doesn’t matter. Beauty does not distinguish those obstacles.
And if it is a goal, the public, already standing up, will be able to clap their hands in loud and well-deserved applause; and the teammates will be able to congratulate the hero, and perhaps lift him up on their shoulders, while the rivals, poor naives, sit down to cry, humiliated by the affront of receiving a Chilean goal.
PAUL ROMERO
Editor of THE TIME
@PabloRomeroET
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