The parallels are inevitable: César Luis Menotti led the Barça bench (1983-1984), just as Johan Cruyff would later lead it. Menotti was as thin as Cruyff. Menotti smoked as much as Cruyff.
Although, unlike the Dutch Flaco, the Argentinian Flaco never quit smoking; never, until recently, when he was in and out of hospitals, afflicted with intense anemia.
There are more differences. Flaco Cruyff was a legend at Camp Nou; Flaco Menotti, not so much. Not as much, at least, as he had been deified in his Argentina, in that Argentina that flew over the Monumental in Buenos Aires, a stadium wrapped in toilet paper, bittersweet World Cup triumph in 1978, with Kempes opening his arms, Menotti floating on the bench and the political prisoners dying a few blocks away, losing their nails, their teeth, their lives.
Menotti the footballer was applauded as much as he was despised. His style was praised, his exquisite game, just as he was pointed with the finger. He was so skinny he wouldn’t go down in the mud. It was more magical than rocky. He was bohemian.
He was as a footballer, he would be as a coach. His enthronement as selector in 1978 elevated him to the international sphere. Thanks to Maradona, lucky adoptive son, Menotti jumped into Spanish football. That Barça became Argentinian, even though the project was hard to come by: free rein to creativity, both on and off the field. It lasted a year. He made more attempts in Europe, but none took root. He was more of a prophet in his land. Certainly much more than Cruyff.
