Magadalá was a lost village and I didn’t want to miss it. We hatched a plan. As there was no electricity in that small town in the south of Mali, the only way to see Barça-Madrid that night was to travel for miles. My friend Abdulaye asked a neighbor for a motorcycle and we headed to the crossroads with the main road, 45 minutes of dust and sand, to find a gas station. That liquid would be manna: the fuel would allow us to turn on a generator and thus feed the only television in the town. Two hours later, dirty and stained by the ruts of the road, we entered Magadalá like emperors. We had petrol and we would have started.
When we managed to turn on the TV and connect a more pirate channel than Bluebeard there were already half a hundred neighbors, two goats and three chickens in front of the screen, waiting for the show to start.
Zacarías, Abdulaye’s older brother, was exultant. The last time he had seen a classic, he said, had been in Bamako, the capital, and in the Pleistocene: Cruyff was the coach on the bench. In the end the party went wrong, of course. The match was a drama, Barça controlled, missed many chances and Madrid scored and won.
Yesterday, Barça rewrote that game. He played better, had chances to win the challenge and lost it because he was un-Rolling Stones. The party demanded to have sympathy for the young devils and bet on them. Fermín left the field for a blurred Lewandowski and, when Camavinga’s back trembled with Cancelo’s brooms, Xavi preferred to put Raphinha on that side, who since arriving at the club still hasn’t dribbled a broom and, in instead of dribbling, the Brazilian overruled Lamine Yamal. The young Blaugrana pearl was sent into exile on the left side, forced to receive inside and from the back to leave room for Balde’s advances. goodbye magic
That’s where Barça lost hope, and also with the trembling of Oriol Romeu in the center of the field, unable for weeks, without De Jong at his side, to transmit a minimum of firmness.
Then Bellingham happened. To cheer him on, the white fans sing him the Beatles’ song Hey Jude and yesterday the Englishman dressed as Liverpool. We culers looked at the 5 white rubbing our eyes, because in him we see the most similar to Zidane, but the French at least did not score so many goals. The kick of the first goal was a canvas in front of the Olympic Stadium: “Nice to meet you”. The second, the summary of why Madrid is the reincarnation of Satan: bad control by Modric in the last minute that generates a perfect parable and goal of the new merengue devil.
Yesterday in Madagalá it was not necessary to go to get gasoline to turn on the generator. Electricity arrived in the town two years ago. everything changes
Unless Madrid wins, without much deserving it, and with a comeback goal. And because he has the fifth Beatle, en.
