More than the sports glories, which are far away and Parisian, Madrid from hours before the match showed the atmosphere of a Saturday that is not a Saturday. Or it was more than a Saturday in the bars where the city ends and becomes a forest, the bars were charging televisions in a racket of cables and sweat. And some retiree, Agustín Pacheco, made a late digestion of the shot with the ‘ad hoc’ television specials that reminded Glasgow, or Lisbon, or Amsterdam.
The sound of the aforementioned television echoing in the fiery street of almost June and in the avenues farthest from Chamartín, that there was indeed an emptiness there. Because the night can be long, and there is nothing better than a nap so that the heart rests and becomes like new.
For those comebacks that leave the body to drag, for glorious sweet drag. A silence, that of the afternoon, that anticipates roars.
The monument to Pablo Iglesias, the original Iglesias, endured the sun as the VTC arrived at the heart of Madrid, the Madrid that also sells flamenco, paintings and football in Tokyo like a trinity. And yes, flags on the balconies like Good Friday palms that may have been hung when the League: almost a world ago, and that’s how it seems that day that they beat Spanish.
Pedro, despite the torpor of the streets and the blurring of the heatwave on the horizon, had already made several (3) trips with his VTC to a Bernabéu that would be filled with real fans and virtual players. After the pandemic, playing without an audience, the restrictions… everything was indicating a new time.
And already, in the long Saharan straight from Nuevos Ministerios to Santiago Bernabéu, a white procession that was sometimes greeted with blue, Raúl González Blanco’s blue by someone who knows about prehistory or the former player’s fetish. A calé hesitated with the mobile that he resold tickets “for five euros”, and that they sold out as soon as they went on sale. But in the beginning it was the revelry, and then the more angular faces: the amateur type, who was aware of a historic night after several crossings through the desert. And since Madrid was a desert, there were those who dressed up as a Tuareg with two white elastics. One on the face and one on the chest.
The Subsoil unit of the National Police went about its work with smiles, fifteen meters in a straight line from Ricardo’s post, first resistant to the press and later, more talkative, giving the long rate of Madrid marketing. What was selling the most was the commemorative scarf with the colors also of Liverpool. Entire families were photographed, with the entrance well protected in Concha Espina. Distant firecrackers. Songs that came and went, and the ritual of the terrace in some, and the shadow closer at hand, in others. And Ramos shirts, which seem to bring the miracle. Or even twentysomethings dressed in white like a ‘juanramoniana’ bride
Football is ambient, time 0, which is like the third time of rugby. Everything had the air of a souk: the cardboard from the resales with a worn-out marker that fled to the press for the “100 euros per beard.” The thin ice of those who have a selectivity at the door and want one last breath before risking the future.
Víctor, Juan Pablo and some kids under their command were lovingly led by the hand to do just that: to “see the atmosphere”, 18 years old and coming of age on such a day as today. However, in the urinals they respected the shifts, and the nerves before the 14th were more party than fear.
In Paris, the previous revelry would surely arrive, which went to more, to much more as the songs became more thunderous and the lucky ones who were going to enter the stadium looked at each other with a code like winners.
The feeling is the feeling, and it is already thanking a little shadow. Ice that waters down, green yonkilatas like green (and white) was a Betis scarf hung on the terrace of an Andalusian tavern. For giving color or for Hispanic solidarity. Who knows.
Manuel Alcántara said that the charm is in the eve. And in Real Madrid, also in the previous hours. This has been the afternoon that may bring glory and a field under construction, filled as much as possible, where the ball does not roll. Where adrenaline, sweat, hoarseness and pipes will be mixed, perhaps, in the calmest merengue.
There is a double Madrid: the one that brings crowds to Chamartín and the other, where the goals are counted by a shout from a neighbor from the comfort of his home. The two lived and live together before the horns, in a desire, take over the city. At the moment, Santiago promises a ‘bath at dawn’ to his family. He does not clarify where or with whom.
Madrid is burning, it is interesting that Paris does it. A flare painted blue and gunpowder Marceliano Santa María.
