I remember well the end of that Cup final, the one in 1988.

I remember that final sitting on Fran’s sofa, merengue like his father, both meringues to the core, neighbors, rivals and friends, how we lived those finals between chocolate bars.

I was 17 years old and everyone in the neighborhood played the quintets by heart.

On the Barça side, Solozábal, Epi, Sibilio (may he rest in peace), Andrés Jiménez and Norris.

On the other, Corbalán, Biriukov (or Biriúkov, I never knew how to pronounce that last name), Alexis, Brad Branson and Fernando Martín (may he also rest in peace, like Sibilio).

We often played basketball in the community garden, and we often imitated those guys. We ran around like Biriukov (or Biriúkov), we entered, rigid and efficient, like Epi, we offered elegant layups like Sibilio, we shot threes with our left foot, like Solozábal.

I see myself at Fran and his father’s house, suffering and shouting in a low voice as the game progressed, a dizzying exchange of flags, I also see myself silent at the moment of the left-handed Solozábal’s triple, a prodigious triple on the horn, a wonderful outcome that would hand the title to the Blaugrana.

(And how President Núñez cried in the VIP box of the Pisuerga Sports Center in Valladolid, how much magic there was in that cry).

Ah, the electricity.

I remember the moment of high-fives with my defeated hosts, to go out onto the landing and descend the stairs in respectful silence, four floors (or maybe five) to the house and, finally, appear in our living room and, then yes, cry!

(I wonder what happened to Fran and her father).

(…)

This Sunday, while watching the Martín Carpena clash in Málaga, I have been reliving echoes of that ’88 final. I have been reliving them during the first three quarters.

(And even more so when the cameras were focused on the stands and there appeared, gray-haired, Epi, Norris, Jiménez, Antonio Martín or Romay, people from that time).

During thirty minutes of real play, I have seen Satoransky dancing, Brizuela adding triples and Vesely and Willy Hernangómez standing up to the white giants, the forceful Yabusele and Poirier and the infinite Tavares, how to overcome those arms that rise to the ceiling of the pavilion.

During those first three quarters, Grimau’s Barça has allowed itself the luxury of flirting with victory, always connected on the scoreboard, sometimes ahead, and contemplating those struggles I had a dream: I saw Laprovittola resolving with a triple at the horn or Jabari Parker rising among the white giants to close the victory with a dunk.

But none of that has come.

What has happened is that the depth of the white squad has shown off.

The rocky Campazzo (MVP of the final) became enormous, and in its wake Deck and Musa emerged, and Chus Mateo’s entire system ended up proving superior, too much for a Barça that, as happens in football, manages several steps behind his eternal rival.

I will console myself by surrendering to expectations, perhaps more positive in the case of basketball, because just as Mbappé’s silhouette begins to whiten, Roger Grimau’s people can now prepare to count on Ricky Rubio, a genius with personality, a basketball player destined to solve a final with a triple on the horn or an assist that allows us to return home smiling and shouting, like in those days, those of solozabaleo.