In the absence of a rite in Western culture that certifies the passage to senescence, I have found mine in the debut in First of the children of players who signed in the Fantastic League. When I saw Thiago, Mazinho’s son who fell in love with Balaídos, with the Barça shirt, I knew that I was five minutes away from throwing myself into the sea on an iceberg like the Eskimo elders from Devil’s teeth.
Now I am finished off by Nico, scion of Fran, leader of Arsenio Iglesias’s Superdépor, Arteixo’s Ted Lasso. The Galician setback which led a modest club to rub shoulders with the greats and on the brink of retirement allowed themselves to be cajoled by a dying Real Madrid. In the capital, his methods were as crazy as those of the American coach in London. It was not read “believe ” in her locker room, but yeah good food, good nap and good rest. The goalkeeper Paco Liaño tells it in Branquiazul: Oral history of the golden years of Dépor. Arsenio saw his players as the children they were not. Almost all of them were in their thirties except Raúl, an anomaly like Casillas leaving the institute to debut in the Champions League. Now children in the elite are the norm.
When I see the beardless Pedri raising awards, I remember him after the match against Croatia in the Eurocup, exhausted, exhausted, emaciated like Michael Sarrazin in Dance, dance damn, after accumulating more minutes on his legs than anyone else. I do not see football is life.
This week Barça confirmed that they will not play again until 2022. Injuries have barely allowed them to do so this season. Perhaps if professional sports are going to be a children’s thing, what is needed are leaders of those who prescribed naps and not sadistic masters of ceremonies who let them dance until they burst.
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