August 23 has been the month of torrid nights, of the children of celebrities who dedicate themselves to butchery in Thailand, of the devastating fires in that heaven on earth called Maui (Hawaii) that I visited 13 years ago, of parliaments that they change their president, of the tourists who head north, of the princess who dresses in khaki (Leonor), of the death of Putin’s last enemy… But, above all, it has been the month of 23 women who made Spain the world champion of women’s football for the first time in history. From the fucking world, from the whole fucking world, as two of them said so well, Jenni Hermoso and Sara Paralluelo.
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Veteran readers will remember that we already said in this corner many months ago, before the World Cup, that at home Martínez we were already fans of the soccer played by women; that it was not an ephemeral fashion but that it had come to stay; that the communion between the players and the fans was such, as was their desire to party, that it should make the teams in the men’s league think; that Joan Laporta would do well to go to the Johan Cruyff stadium more often (where they almost always play) just like Xavi and his players; that more clubs and more sponsors are needed to believe in this sport and that the professionalization of women still has edges to resolve.
This way they will understand why Alexia Putellas, Aitana Bonmatí and company have been the best of my August on call. His triumph, moreover, has served to make visible that part of Spain that has already had enough of the drunkenness of misunderstood manliness of the Luis Rubiales of life. Profanity, always offside and abusing his authority -what if it is not kissing a worker on the lips, regardless of whether she consents or not, has fun or not, mocks the moment or not hours later- Although hold on to a chair that you dishonor with your presence, sooner or later you will fall because the whole fucking world, the one that the 23 have conquered, will turn its back on you.