I have a friend worried about the possible repetition of Real Madrid – Barcelona from the last matchday, undoubtedly a remote possibility, but a possibility, after all. Actually, that friend is me. And, yes, my blind trust in Joan Laporta’s accusing finger leads me to believe that Barça could be right in their claim and that justice would end up forcing the duel to be repeated. Why and for what? These are questions for which I do not have an answer: the first, because it would imply extensive knowledge about laws (I am not yet on that screen) and, the second, because I do not fully understand this obsession with prolonging an agony that already lasts too long.
It has been a turbulent year in the home of Barcelona fans. The first with the Negreira scandal flying over the Camp Nou. And the last of Xavi Hernández as coach of the first team, if he is able to fulfill just one of the objectives set for him for this season: managing to leave at the end of it. That was his wish since the month of August, or September, if we trust his own words. Almost as much as lifting the Champions League trophy and leaving those who once doubted his qualities as a coach two inches away. That’s why we don’t understand that step aside, that little mouth of the last few weeks, while some of the many circles that swarm around Barcelona filter to us that Laporta wants Xavi to stay and he would now, suddenly, want to stay. And what I want? What I want no longer matters to anyone, luckily for everyone.
A football club that claims to be professional should not function in such a strange, dysfunctional, amateur way as this Barça of recent weeks. Trusting Laporta’s hunches has given us the best years of the entity, but even the most accurate hearts begin to lose their magic when illusion is abused excessively. Or perhaps it would be better to use its plural form: illusions. You can live off of them for a while, but not too much, not much beyond that crazy week waiting for PSG to visit. Or to think, firmly, I would almost say cruelly, that the chances of winning in the League were cut short, at the Bernabéu, by a referee with bad statistics and the manifest negligence of a majority of clubs that prefer to save a few euros a year rather than hire the goal technology.
In that image, that of Soto Grado explaining to Gündogan that the bracelet he wears is Ibizan, medicinal or a smart watch, but not too smart, we can find the perfect summary of what Barça’s season has been: first excitement, then amazement , disappointment and, finally, the most absolute stupor when you understand who you really are and what you have gotten yourself into. “It’s a shame,” Xavi repeated to himself in the Bernabéu press room, one-eyed with blush and, therefore, king.
Nobody knows what the coach’s continuity at the club depends on at this time. Nor is the almost atavistic need to stir up past ghosts—arbitrations, boxes, hunts, Madrid—to survive a few more months without having to make big decisions, at least in the case of the president. And why would anyone want to repeat last day’s match against Madrid? To finally pay more attention to Lucas Vázquez? I wish it were like that: we would all learn something.
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