“A shrinking Madrid” | Marca.com
LIn the afternoon, cloudy and empty, it gets dark as the streetlights open their eyes and the time for the game arrives. The bar welcomes 15 Madrid fans who mumble doubts about which team they will see, Inter or the waning, like the moon, of Alavs. It smells like silence. Smells like sour pandemic.
At first a prudent joy nurtures the Madrid heart. When Asensio shoots at the post the screams remind of old times. In rest people have faith. Then an anguish is born because Madrid falls apart.
The goals are pual crossing the cold of Kiev to the bar of a bar lost in La Mancha. Stupid mistakes turn into angry protests. This team has no peace, lives at war with itselfsays my colleague looking through the window scattered clouds that reveal the waning moon.
The implacable flash of fire in the night, on the dark gray asphalt. A column of fiery quince attracting the retinas. The immense speed of the blidos, flashing like lightning of many colors, red, yellow, green, black, blue … The fire rising in a column that appears to be an amber tornado.
When we know that within that fire there is a human being, Romain Grosjean, intuimos la ms terrible catstrofe. Bonzo forced the French runner into that mass of fire. But the Nomex, turned into a second skin, managed to make the pilot in Bahrain emerge from the flames unscathed. It seemed like a miracle until we learned of the power of science. Without the Nomex he would have burned to the soul. Today he has already left the hospital.
Tuesday of pain for some and almost joy for others. After Madrid, Atltico feeds the spirits of its fans. They reached the end all but one who likes to see whites when they play badly. And with that neighbor’s joy of defeat, the Athletics puff out their chests and tighten their cheeks while Carrasco or Joao Flix make the Bayern defense dizzy. And there is a giant, Sle, who is like a squad of defenses compressed into a body. What a shame the marker so meager, those goals only of spirit.
In the murmur of joy someone, very prudent, said that no merriment, it was Bayern. And they all realized that passion and speed that the Germans put, tireless roadrunner. Damn Mller, clever and nimble, scored that goal that was no surprise to anyone.
Double bed, television and an armchair in an adapted living room. A small, grim bathroom outside the room where he died. Windows boarded up with Durlock. The room of the last breath white, with hardly any ornament: a pot with a plastic plant, no clinical bathroom, unimaginable as resting place and death of one of the best players in history.
Empty shelves. Bare walls. Gaunt bulbs, no lamps. Narrow stairs that the genie could not climb on the shattered knee. A garden with a basketball net and a skeleton goalkeeper, perhaps made of wire. A house not at all adapted to a sick person, like Maradona was. Sad ending, as Ruggeri says: “If you saw the place where Maradona died, you would die”.