I told my partner Paniagua at noon that at night we would celebrate a three to one. At the beginning of the game, when Pedri put on his gloves against the cold of Montjuïc, I told those next to me that Pedri It was much more than a club, and we owed him some of those three goals that I tried to guess with. Paniagua.
When we were already 0-1 I continued believing in Pedri and in some more, because a Barça fan only gives up when, a few minutes before the end, the team is 1-2 and losing. With that dull joy with which we play football from the domestic spectator’s chair, I had witnessed the excited tie of Lewandowski and I had hoped, it is always like this, that Pedri would end up saving us from misfortune.
Albert Camus He has a memorable phrase in his best book, ‘The Stranger’, when that character full of hate confesses that he has already knocked on the door of misfortune. In a diabolical moment of the match, when Barça submitted to the law of its own disdain for defending as God intended, I saw how the third goal entered Barça’s net as if it had been sent by a crazy relative pulling the strings of the disaster from the balcony of Girona where the magician lives who makes the team of those colors now take out Xavi and all the relatives of this family disaster that we are gathering to shame or mock the times we live in.
Army without fear
It was a family disaster; At home they left me alone in front of the screen, and in the end, almost fifteen minutes before the game ended and already seeing the team sold in their esteem and in their lines, captive and disarmed by a fearless army, I came to write about a computer that, in another time, witnessed the speed with which the pen became the joy of telling how Pedrieither Messithey saved us from the nothingness in which my syntax and also my shame or my sadness now take refuge.
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Barça is already vulnerable from top to bottom, it disappoints us as we were disappointed at school when the plays that seemed to have been imagined by us did not come in the right place. Foncho or by Kubala, who were our idols of equally uncertain times. Many years have passed, we are older, we have less enthusiasm because now we are sad chronicling a family disaster.
And now? Now to swim to the beach, the salt water being the tears that correspond to this defeat that seemed to have been conjured a week or two ago, when Xavi, so we believed, had hit the key. The key was an illusion, just as this typewriter was eagerly waiting for a song of love to come out from these fingers to the boots of those who only got two wet today and it was for nothing. Illusions are also lost.