A reminder: Barça lost 0-4 against Real Madrid last Wednesday, which would already be Wednesday all week. In the shirt shop I had bought an anorak with the colors of my team, it was so cold in the stands. A great friend, Carles, whom I don’t give a last name just because he would be missed, gave me the way to get into that amalgam of difficulties that he has today. the football bureaucracyto which I do not have access simply because I am older than my grandson, who did have (a very smart Real Madrid player) the keys so that I would not sink into the maze.
Once inside I felt cold, something like asthmatic asthma, we smell cold and fear at the same time. The coat eased my trance, and I even sang the hymn, as I learned from the records of the voice of the artist I love the most, Joan Manuel Serrat. I felt happy, the boy was twelve years old. One day, a few years ago, on the same stairs, he looked at me with tears in his eyes: “Grandpa, don’t bring me to this field anymore!” The nuestros, we, the we had won 5-1, an unforgettable result that was soon forgotten.
Then the game started, seriously, and some things happened that general chronicle of the disaster has been commissioned to review or celebrate. Within the limits of the review is now mockery, something that dominates areas of the sports memory as if what was said, to play is to participate, is practiced among the fry, where winning is not the end of the game, but the game, the smiling consequences of the blessed game.
But that’s life, a media shield in which we all participate, like golden turtles, imitating, imitating, until the final defeat of journalism. After the game I felt that I had to toast with the grandson, I forgot about the circumstances of the result (It’s funny: meanwhile, a boarding school for Balde never left my head, which seemed to inaugurate another era that would last for at least a century or a minute), and then I wrote, at dawn, some strange things that They left me certain occurrences of the stands. Among them, that from minute 10, minute 10!, what symbols do the fans have, the presence of Messi. As if he were seeing him from the sky that the same ones who kept quiet when he cried that day when he had promised him 10 was going to be 30 in Paris, with a downpour, as in the poem by César Vallejo, Sotil’s poor relative.
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Now that I have returned to that atmosphere that was like the cherry that every aficionado has to suffer, like the drinks that Quevedo recommended to bad readers of poems, the beginning and some paragraphs of a poem that I love you fully entered my head. give away on this day after the tragedy. It is Jaime Gil de Biedma, who never played football but is from Barcelona. “That life was serious, one begins to understand it later…” I became a soccer player at the time when I wasn’t even Giving birth He was saved from misfortune, and I continued to be a Barça member until this holy Barça minute of my life. I sang the hymn the other day, when nothing exalting was expected (nothing!) (this is from a poem by Celaya that Paco Ibáñez sings like God), and now what follows from the poem hits me: “Like all young people / I came to take my life ahead / I wanted to leave a mark / and leave to applause”… Ugh. “Getting old, dying, were just/ the dimensions of the theater/ (…) And the unpleasant truth looms./ Getting old, dying/ is the only plot of the play”.
Tonight will be Sunday, a starless day follows the days to come, and it is better to hope that none of them find us crying in earnest at the edge of a field that closes behind you like the coffin of a throat.
