Santa Eulalia was a kind of precursor of Greta Thunberg. At the age of 13, he ran away from home (in Sarrià, the chronicles say, but, of course, then, in the 3rd century AD, Sarrià did not exist, nor did the Three Towers, and even Sant Gervasi was about to be developed) and stood before the Roman prefect of Barcino to reproach him for the terrible persecution of Christians to whom the hosts of Diocletian, an emperor who was especially cruel to the disciples of Christ, devoted themselves to.
Eulalia did not give in and, since she was 13 years old, the prefect could not think of anything better than to crush her with 13 tortures. I say she looks like Greta for his impetus and for his youth and for his fixation with the untouchable truths, although the maximum torture that is known of the Thunberg is the supposed and tragicomic arrest by the German police in a coal mine. I will not relate the detail of what he suffered Eulalia (Among other beauties: burning embers, dislocated bones, a barrel full of nails and crystals, with her inside, running down a street), but by faith she earned the title of saint. And she goes and after centuries, they take away the title of sole patron for the benefit of the Mercy.
This Sunday it was Santa Eulalia, that girl who “made the seraphim fall in love”, so sweet, the Laia glorious that “watches over the people of Barcelona” with “vigorous firmness”. In the “goigs” that exalt her figure and her suffering, she is asked to watch over Barcelona and avoid “bad wind gusts”.
Up to here the hagiographic section and the saint’s note.
The influence of the saint
On the night of Santa Laia, in the Ceramics stadium that now shines yellow to the marrow, Barça did not experience the torture of the patron (it is not a question of disrespecting her, poor thing), but that such a strange and common feeling (except in a few cases) of having done enough merit to live off and having to reach the end counting the minutes that remain, walling themselves in defense, that defense that has only conceded seven goals in the entire League.
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A Uruguayan, without an aura of sanctity but almost, saved Barça from “monstrous iniquity” (I follow the song of Laia), becoming not only a stronghold, but an authentic reincarnation of Eulalia, willing to disguise himself as a central defender to watch over, in this case, the Barcelona fans. The truth is that the portentous concurrence of Araujowho emerged from nowhere, who was always where he was needed, who governed the area with the distinction of a marshal, if he had reached Reina’s goal with a little more success, beyond the delicate play that ended with the goal of Pedri.
It was not torture, of course, but it could become so next Thursday (during snack time) with a Manchester United that arrives grown and in the pomade of the Premier leadership. Let’s hope that the influence of the saint (via the heavenly Araujo or through other blaugrana seraphs) have the eighth regulation.
