The Christmas it is a moment of brief tranquility in which a few teams take the opportunity to check if they are alive or dead. There may be confusion about it. Stuck in the dynamics of unstoppable succession of parties, they have almost no time left to think about how much there is in them of condemned souls that pilgrimage into nothingness, and how much of a hopeful future. Normally, if you have to ask yourself this question, it means that in effect there is nothing to do, that hope is only a facade, a nice graffiti on a wall, like the one that said Fucking mother poetry, and that the remainder of the season will serve to not take things so seriously, and perhaps start winning games from the peace of mind that there is nothing at stake, except fun.
It is part of the narrative pact, however, to say that you will fight as long as there is a chance to reach the objectives of the start of the season. Ultimately, you still have the subtle maneuver of modifying the objectives, replacing the once ambitious ones with more modest ones, and in that new radius of action, leaving you the little soul that remains.
In their desperation, the teams that hoped to be at the top, and even contest the title, always clung to the math. It is admirable. They do their math, as if they were just trying to buy a robot vacuum without jeopardizing their budget, and if the numbers allow a tiny hope in maintaining the discourse that nothing is lost yet, they cling to them. That’s the only good news: the triumph of science over faith.
It is never a good time to be finished. But to be finished so soon, without even January arriving, is terrible. You almost feel ridiculous remembering that in August you dreamed of the League, and you said it out loud. The beginning should always be the time to remember what that character in A Mole in the Sun used to say with euphoria: “I want to fly! I want to touch the sun! “, And then his wife, cooling her voracity, replied:” First eat the fried eggs. “
#alive #dead