Grandma says that it was not an easy birth, normal: without knowing it, you were giving birth to a culé, like dad, which is the worst thing a Madridista can give birth to at eighteen. You had your moment for hope, so in love with the grandfather that he came to flirt with the white man, although I don’t remember anymore. You repeat it every time Barca win something and I appear at the door of the house with the scarf to give you martyrdom. But today is not the day, today is your day.
I’m in Madrid, six hundred kilometers from home, leaving dad abandoned to his fate, which is yours, celebrating goals as if your life depended on it. Your madridismo lowers us from the pedestal and your meals remind us that above all you are magnanimous, that you understand madridismo as a redemptive mission, that you do not abandon your loved ones or lose hope that God will also forgive these sins, those of football and the ignorance. My friend Manuel Jabois he always says that he does not understand those of us who have voluntarily given up happiness. You don’t understand it either, but you respect it. And as soon as you have the opportunity you remind us, don’t let it be said that you don’t try.
It wasn’t the best of ideas to teach you how to use the WhatsApp. You love to brag about champion in Europe and so rich it makes you want to block you so as not to succumb to the temptation to be happy for you, to tell you again -I don’t know how many times it goes now- that you are European champion and, therefore, you have well deserved to give yourself over to chocolate for one night . That should be your only renunciation of white. You prefer it with milk and almond. Or black and with biscuit. I’m sure you loved Florentine forgive you. Surely the gods of Madrid they understand that even the best of scribes can afford a smear.
European champion, mom. Enjoy it and mortify as much as you want, that’s what football was invented for. Grandpa left the boat in good hands. I remember that poster that he hung in the bar when my team, dad’s, didn’t even win the pins: “Silence, we are savoring Barça’s triumphs.” Your first message reminded me as soon as the referee whistled: “Dinner, my son. And if you’re not hungry, at least swallow: Hala Madrid!