I made the mistake of starting to take a nap starting Nadal’s second set against Norwegian Ruud. And when I woke up, Nadal was no longer there. Half an hour ago he had won his 14th Roland Garros. Fourteen. The magic number of Real Madrid this season. And to think that this was Cruyff’s number. I searched for videos on the networks to find out how the new feat had gone. The most I found was the last point and no repeats. Television rights stuff. In return, the internal signal of the tournament had the detail of showing us a moment of the locker room tunnel before the match. In these images we can see a Rafa Nadal possessed by ambition and professionalism, warming up as if his life depended on that game. Meanwhile, next to him, Casper Ruud, winner of zero Roland Garros, remained almost static, like someone waiting in line at Caprabo before paying some Filipinos. I am going to say something that for many will be a sacrilege: Rafa, he would be for me. You have made me very happy. I will never forget your deeds. First against Federer. Then against Djokovic. Now against who comes. Thank you for your perseverance and for your humility. For the values ??you have transmitted to the sport.
But I don’t want to imagine what the best Spanish athlete of all time is going through to keep playing and keep winning. He told a press conference that he does it without noticing his foot, so anesthetized that he wears it. It doesn’t take much, Rafa, really. You have given us much more than we deserved to those of us who, from the sofa at home, have made the greatest effort to yell at you “come on, Rafa” while we poured ourselves another beer.
Perhaps in the antipodes of what Rafa Nadal means, there is another public figure who has accustomed us to return all the balls that come to him. With self-confidence, with ingenuity, with bravado, apparently without much humility. I’m talking about Gabriel Rufián. Forgive the triple somersault of going from “let’s go, Rafa” to “let’s go Rufi”, a cry of encouragement that the independence movement should have coined in its best times. Those years of Junts pel Sí, with Convergència and Esquerra sharing lists and rallies. Those years in which Rufián was the scourge of everything that did not smell of independence in 18 months. And although they looked at him out of the corner of their eyes, they applauded him, they laughed at his thanks, because at that moment Rufián was useful to them. He was just as lazy, but with the others. Not with them. So everything was fine.
But Rufián was turning. The turning point could have been the day of the presumed declaration of independence, with his famous tweet of the “155 silver coins”. Without naming him, he was dedicated to the treacherous independence movement that Puigdemont himself represented for a few hours on that October 27.
Over the years, the Republican leader in Madrid has been gaining sympathy in the ranks of parties that at other times were his voodoo dolls. And at the same time it has become the scourge of the hyperventilated independence movement, which according to some is led, much to his regret, by Puigdemont. To which he can, Rufián hurls some volleys that have led him to the extreme of having to apologize for calling the former president who proclaimed the supposed republic “moron.”
Rufián must be thinking: “If only I am what you wanted me to be”. But he no longer plays. Dr. Junqueras’s experiment has gotten out of control and now, that it is beginning to be useless, his ex-adulators argue that he is only representing himself. It was a matter of time, Gabriel. They made you believe it, but you were never one of theirs.
