Barça lost from the start of the match, and then dedicated itself to improving the result. He did it, the latter, as if he were returning from a field of flowers, passing the ball, dribbling, making appearances, as if he were completing a course on the uselessness of the useless.
The famous book of the very important Italian writer Nuccio Ordine ‘The usefulness of the useless’ alludes to the philosophy contained in the books that teach us to think and do, based on knowledge that seems useless but has a noble, deep, extraordinary purpose. And except for one thing, the team he leads Xavi Hernandez last night he embraced futility in all its extremes. There was no fainting in the loss, as if the team had to purge a wrongdoing and chose this game to confess to the world.
Everything was unfortunate, except for some things. The best thing about the game, if you allow me to rescue this hyperbole, was what the very gentlemanly coach of Real Madrid said when the Barça disaster ended and the quality, or opportunity, of the whites was put at the top. Ancelotti said that the result was too big, in view of the opposing team’s play. He also added that some mocking excesses of his own do not correspond to the respect due to the opponent, so quickly defeated.
Things that comfort
These things comfort us Barcelona fans, just as we are happy about the recoveries (of health and balls) of Pedri, who spent the entire time on the field trying not to embarrass, for example, Kubala, and even his coach, who in his active life as a footballer always made his excursions through the countryside profitable glories. See Pedri, or your colleague De Jong, oa Lamine Yamal when it was in play, or at Joao Felix last night, were reasons not to throw away all the affection (indelible, of course) that one owes to the team one cries for.
The self-criticism began, this time, outside the field itself; Joan Laporta, closely watched, it seems, by a famous magnate who wants to see him out of the box, and from history, it was the most strange expression of the conflict, as if he were dreaming that he was no longer himself, but someone who cast Missing, in that luxurious setting, were some pistachios or anything that would take away from the air of defeat with which Barça took to the field.
Barça is my team, naturally, and last night it was too; In fact, I waited until the 90th minute (when the match ended: the referee was blunt, the Barça humiliation ended at that moment, leaving no more useless ridicule) to get rid of the bad fate I experienced before starting to write. He said Neruda: “I start writing and foam comes out.” What you read is tear foam.
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In the end the Barça players hugged their executioners, as did Xavi with his equal, with whom he spent more than a minute whispering.
Now it’s up to Xavi, this man who was so much at Barça, repaired the old car that didn’t start last night, or when it started it was already late and the white garage was full of imponderables. He sees Barça even though he is dead, that is my song today, which avoids crying because it would also be useless to let oneself be carried away now by what is already an excessive illness.