It was a historic day in Vigo. And Vigo is one of those cities to which the adjective “historic” fits like clothing that is not its size. But it was: a historic day. In the city there was no talk of anything else. When a modest team can achieve a feat, football sneaks into the cracks of all conversations, accommodates them and widens them. On June 15, 2003, Celta could qualify for the Champions League for the first time in its history. And, almost metaphorically, our rival was realism. Some 9,000 Real Sociedad fans had traveled to Vigo that day because, if they won the match, they could win the League. Basically, in Balaídos two epics faced each other. All the cabals, dreams and frustrations of the world faced each other.
Everyone in Vigo wanted Real Sociedad to lose that night. From the stands of Río Bajo, myself, a hysterical teenager, recited in a low voice a kind of prayer created with my sister, both of us allies in our absurd superstitions: “Win, win, win, win, win.” The prayer was quite basic, as you can see. What I never imagined was that there was also a footballer on the Real Sociedad bench wanting Celta to win. What I never imagined was that sitting right in front of me, on those benches that took away my visibility every day, there was a Real Sociedad footballer mentally conjuring a forbidden wish: “Lose, lose, lose, lose, lose.”
That footballer was Zuhaitz Gurrutxaga and in the book Subcampeón (KO Books), written in four hands with the journalist Ander Izaguirre, Gurrutxaga tells how his anxiety, depression and severe obsessive compulsive disorder prevented him from enjoying anything that did not have to do with a defeat. While all of San Sebastián lived with expectation and euphoria the possibility of winning the League title in 2003, he lived it like true hell. Celta won 3-2 that June night and something in Gurrutxaga calmed down, like an extractor hood that goes off.
Gurrutxaga apologizes many times throughout Subcampeón. He apologizes to the fans, to the club, to teammates, and it seems that he also apologizes to himself. You would never say sorry for pneumonia, but 20 years ago—and still now—you did feel like you had to say sorry for a mental illness. 20 years ago—I still do now—one used energy to understand what was happening, and also used energy to conceal it. The true epiphany of someone suffering from mental illness is realizing that the illness does not define them, it is just something that is happening to them.
We are not used to the person who recounts an episode of anxiety, depression or obsessive-compulsive disorder being a footballer, a person destined to have it all, a young and successful guy, someone so well paid that he could even buy himself happiness if he wanted to. But Gurrutxaga explains it throughout the book without complexes and with an overflowing sense of humor. He explains how on one occasion he even faked an injury to leave the field.
He explains how at night, restless in his bed, he wished that his workouts would only consist of running; run and get away to a place where no one knew that he was a footballer. He explains how he only managed to enjoy soccer when he played in a small town of 3,000 inhabitants, Lemona, because barely a hundred spectators attended the games and the pressure faded. He explains, in short, that you can succeed and lose. That you can fail, but being a failure is a completely different thing.
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2023-11-13 04:15:00
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