Before the decisive game against Rayo Vallecano – a milestone in Barça’s recent history –, nervous and eager for this near-final to begin so that I could be among the European aristocracy, I took refuge in the French elections, to find out, around eight o’clock , if Macron finally spared us Marine Le Pen’s triumphal speech. Macron won on the street (well, not so much), but he could not avoid the speech, because the daughter of that Le Pen who began to get into the fight for the presidency twenty years ago has already achieved, in large part, what he wanted. That France was divided in twowhich is what the extreme right loves, hoping that one of those two, sooner or later, will be theirs.
A decaffeinated Barça
So I took refuge in Paris, while the anthem of Europe was playing, Beethoven’s Ninth, the Ode to Joy, and Macron advanced, with the Eiffel Tower in the background and with shouts from his followers, who were not exactly happy, but a bit monotonous and ritualistic. Like in the Camp Nou. I changed the channel and found myself with an equally ritualistic and monotonous scenery: lhe shouts of encouragement from a hobby that no longer knows what or who they are cheering for. Nor for what.
During the game I was tempted to go back to France, but all the fish was already sold there and I stayed with Barça. I still don’t know why. Even now I wonder why I decided to attend this accumulated hardship, this merciless nonsense, this permanent sadness. Okay, in the end we could have drawn. And? Ten minutes a little intense for hide a colossal ridiculous. Today, without Pedri or Piqué (the hope of the future, the link that links us to the past) this team does not know how to play football or know anything, bland, decaffeinated, boring.
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It is likely that both Aubemayang and Dembélé, who I don’t know if they voted as the French they are, were also aware of what was happening in Paris. If not, the detachment in the field and the lack of concentration are not understood (well, Dembelé a little less, but harmless). And it is not understood that you are not capable of score a goal against Vallecas in 195 minutes. Because not if they remember that six months ago we lost (1-0) there and then Koeman was blown up.
Since that October, everything has happened and we have lived through cyclothymic times, from the initial euphoria for a Xavi renewing essences to new and terrible depressions, through the Bernabéu festival and, now, through three very painful defeats in a row. At home. I don’t know if Xavi will have the courage to repeat that we are on the right track. The October Defeat meant a change of course. We have lived in the illusion, effectively, of righting the ship that was adrift. But it is still out in the open and with headwinds, similar to the huge hail storm on Sant Jordi day. And with the Champions still to tie.