Yes, I know that today is the anniversary. Ok, here I go. In 1984, a commando made up of 12 of the best men in the Spanish army were imprisoned for a crime they had not committed. They quickly escaped from the prison where they were being held…. Wait, wait, this may not be understood by those who have not seen the film. Team Aa series that was a hit precisely in those years. Good thinking. I’ll start again.
Forty years ago, a group of enthusiastic youngsters set off for Los Angeles without much thought about their goals. The fact that the game was being played at the Forum, the Lakers’ home ground, was a real thrill for them. For most of them (eight), it was their second game after finishing fourth in Moscow, where, by the way, they were bored stiff. The preparation was a bit chaotic, topped off by a couple of disastrous games in Mexico that ended in brawls…Stopstop! You’re talking about one of the great milestones of Spanish sport. Give it a bit of epicness.
(Gloria Serra’s voice). It seems like yesterday since that morning when 12 future legends of Spanish sport met in a hotel in Madrid. The tension was palpable in the air. A couple of days before the start of the training camp and during the final of the League between Real Madrid and Barcelona, a fight broke out caused by let’s call him X (I don’t want to give names). Everything seemed calm, until Juanito de la Cruz insinuated that Fernando (it was not clear which Fernando he was referring to) was a bad person. Without giving us time to stop him, Fernando (I don’t remember which of the two) punched him, to which Solozábal, who was very deceptive with that childish face, responded by grabbing Llorente by the hair… Hey, hey. What are you doing? That’s a lie. There was a meeting, but it lasted five minutes because there was no problem to solve. As you asked, epic. I’ll try again.
Who would have told these 12 heroes, acclaimed by thousands of people at Barajas airport on their return from Los Angeles, that the silver medal would be a burden that would weigh on them for the rest of their lives. Because from that day on, many of them did not know how to digest success well and began a descent into hell. Their lives are clear examples of the dangers of succeeding at an early age… No, just leave it. You’re freaking out too much.
That medal didn’t change them one bit, this group is doing fine, they’ve had good lives (unfortunately a short one like Fernando Martín’s) and it’s possible that some have gotten more out of it than others. All normal. But let’s see, is it so hard for you to talk about this moment that instantly went down in the history of Spanish sport?
My problem is simple. I have been writing about that summer for four decades on every occasion. I have approached it from every possible angle to the point where I don’t know if there is anything left to tell. I have written about who we were and how we were. I have also written about our unawareness of what we were achieving and the impact our victories had in Spain.
Yesterday I watched the final of the semi-final against Yugoslavia again and at the end of the match our reaction was only a little more effusive than if it were a match between singles and married people. A hug, we’re off to the locker room. And I’ve made up my duel to the death with Michael Jordan in every possible way.
But yesterday, Saturday, was a special August 10th and of course, I am not going to remain silent, knowing that perhaps in 2034 I will not be as presentable as I am now. I will limit myself to two thanks to life. One for having been able to be part of a group that neither time nor distance has been able to diminish my affection for them, but rather the opposite. And another for being in the memory of the lives of a few million people who still thank you for that great summer they spent with family or friends thanks to a group of nice kids who played basketball very well.
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