How terrible Real Madrid’s Saturday night must have been for the worst news not even to have been the bathroom in the second half or the four goals from Barcelona, but rather the usual racist purulence that in a corner of the stadium (this engraving, know how many more) he dedicated insults to Lamine Yamal and Raphinha such as “fucking black man”, “fucking Moor” or “selling handkerchiefs at the traffic light”. It’s amazing how much garbage you can accumulate in your head to pay a very expensive ticket and lord it over like a Nazi in front of a 17-year-old boy who is painting the face of your team. Racists who, who knows, set themselves up as captains against racism when the one insulted is Vinicius Junior. And the problem begins when you subject your appreciation for human rights to your football passions, when you don’t understand that it is much less violent to see your team lose by four goals than to see people wearing the same shirt as you, cheering for the same players as you. you, celebrating the same goal (annulled) as you, calling a black player a “fucking black man”, taking out the uncomplexed racist inside to show it in all its splendor, which is usually in helplessness and frustration. It is much more urgent to remove this scourge from the Bernabéu than to win: the second is only football, the first is much better for all of us. Winning has always been won—you win, you lose, and you win again—but for a black player to visit the Bernabéu (or play at home, because who knows how those heads sick with hatred will fare if the team collapses? ) knowing that there he will not be insulted because of the color of his skin, that greatness goes beyond football. If they close the stadium because of those racists, fantastic; Maybe then, next time, their teammates shout at them or take them off the field themselves before they shut it down again.
As for the game, it is difficult to understand how elite players, the fastest forwards in the world, fall like rabbits into the offside trap that Barcelona has been anticipating all season. Some prodigious teenagers shooting the line with a tactical intelligence greater than that of the European champion, without their legs shaking and drowning, again and again, until they demoralized Madrid in the first half. Carnage, some of us thought, in case Barcelona left ten highways behind the goal with Vinicius and Mbappé smelling blood and fresh feet. Carnage, Flick thought at half-time when he moved the center of the field and climbed the highways from his goal to Madrid’s, dismasted and broken physically and mentally in such a way that half the squad already excused themselves from going offside when the culés ran to the center of the field. There were a couple of moments when Dani Olmo and De Jong seemed to be playing alone, so much space was in front of them. This 0-4 is not the 0-4 mirage of two seasons ago. There is a greased Barça that believes it and a stuffed Madrid that has stopped believing it, perhaps believing that 0-2 are always, like last Tuesday, synonymous with a great night and a comeback. Barcelona’s slap was heard throughout the stadium and the only poor consolation for the silent fans who came out to the Castellana on Sunday night is that the humiliation occurred in October, with room to change things that we did not know had to be changed. (Mbappé’s aim, but not only) and others that, due to poor squad management (signings in defense), can no longer be changed.
