“I’m not going to leave Spanish football,” said Marko Dmitrovic (32) this summer, just in those days when his last move was being announced: he was leaving Sevilla to join Leganés.
It was going to be his fourth experience in a Spanish club, after his adventures at Alcorcón, Eibar and Sevilla.
Yesterday he ruined the life of the Barça vanguard and lethargic the culé fans. As soon as he cleared the shots of Lewandowski and Raphinha or stopped the tempos, he slowed down the Barça rhythm. He dawdled before serving, froze the beat and, without doing much, entangled Barça, hairless and stressed.
Football also thrives on day laborers of this type: on souls that play with the rival and the referee, claim success through mischief and end up driving everyone crazy.
There are moments in which the silhouette of a goalkeeper, even without fanfare, grows to reach cyclopean dimensions: Dmitrovic was the identity of Getafe and also the goalkeeper who, reducing his work to the job, unmasked this Barça.
cold mantle
Dmitrovic dallied before serving, froze the rhythm and entangled Barça, hairless and stressed
(…)
Beyond some specific action, Dmitrovic’s spirit spread over the stadium, infecting his teammates who had formed a barrier in the area and overwhelming the Blaugrana, who could not find a way to break through and began to lose their senses. With 24 minutes remaining, Marcus Sorg ordered the substitution of a frustrated Lewandowski.
By then, Barça already looked helpless, unable to turn things around: there are those who reinterpreted here echoes of recent setbacks, against Celta, Las Palmas or Betis. In recent weeks, Barça has not been able to beat any of them.
Marko Dmitrovic could have gone to any of these teams, classic mid-table teams in our football.
“In Spain I feel like family,” this football nomad insisted in the summer, who has already played for eight European clubs and also for the Serbian national team and who, as a child, had stood before his parents: the Subotica of his childhood. He was too small (at the beginning he played simultaneously in three categories of the local club: no other kid in town wanted to play between the sticks) and Red Star was tempting him.
“If you don’t let me go to Belgrade, I will never speak to you again,” he says he told his parents, both his father and mother were employees in an engine factory.
I was fifteen years old then.
–And they let him go?
–I understand that it was a very hard decision for them. But I wanted to be a professional footballer and Red Star was giving me that possibility.
He also says that that first adventure was going to be brief, conditioned by the crisis of the capital club, and that that is why, in 2013, he went to Hungarian football, before moving to English club Charlton and, finally, arriving in Spain. .
By then he was 23 years old.
And yet, his objective was already clear: he had barely been in the potter’s club for a month and he already spoke Spanish.
(Serbian’s ease with languages is legendary; Djokovic handles Serbian, German, English, French, Italian and Spanish.)
Within a year he was called by Eibar: there he finally jumped to the great First Division showcase, and then he projected himself even further, to Sevilla, here with relative luck, since in the Pizjuán he played little, overshadowed as he was by Bono and Nyland, barely 34 games in three seasons, and that is why in the summer he told his agent:
–Find me a way out, but let it be in a Spanish club.
He reached paradise yesterday: Dmitrovic was a polar breeze stretching over a frozen stadium.
#Dmitrovic #symptom
