The rare and the sublime

This Sunday was one of those Sundays, with the final icing on one of the strangest games I remember, not only because of the unusual three penalties against Barça, but also because of the variations of the script in the second half of a fast-paced second half, that it was not because of the game (barely ten minutes of braided plays), but because of the swing of the scoreboard, which seemed definitive when it wasn’t and many other things like that. It is not normal for so many events to come together in such a small space, although while I have just written this chronicle, the Augusta Masters, which is one of the stars of the evening, is still to be decided.

We have had the motorcycles, with Marc Márquez tracing the unspeakable and the impossible, and (let me have my share of a journalist born in Girona) the failure of those of Michelle in their attempt to reach the top of the Second Division, and, later, two main dishes: City-Liverpool and the Basketball League classic, which was not decisive, agreed, but which was exciting until the Barça emergence in the extension. We should only be talking about the duel between the leaders of the Premier, simply because it was a great game, a give and take of aúpa, one of those games that you look at yourself spellbound, all attacking, all at maximum power during the ninety minutes.

I remember those times when we liked to say that Barça played another sport, that this was not football but something else or that, in any case, if we agreed to call it that, we should conclude that the others did not play the same. Well that. City and Liverpool are in another dimension, which is summed up in the robust hug they gave each other Pep Guardiola Y Jurgen Klopp in the end, as if saying to themselves and to the world: what a festival we have set up for them.

And then it turns out that you have to see Levante-Barça. From the sublime to the rare. In the first part because those of Xavi it seemed that they paid attention to the novelist Fernando Torrent that, given a choice, he preferred a victory for Levante (for saving himself) rather than a useless victory for Barça in pursuit of a League that already belongs to Madrid. No soul, no momentum. Then came the three penalties and ten crazy minutes and a bit of calm and another five even crazier minutes.

A friend wrote me a message that said: “I still don’t know why we won & rdquor ;. I confess that neither do I. After such an intense afternoon, with Le Pen giving wings to a fascism already installed, my God!, in democratic normality, I take refuge in golf, which is relaxing and you can see views and green fields and where everyone applauds Tiger Woodswalked lame, risen from the dead.