Far from the sweat of the results, three flashes have given me back the scent of evoked football that I sometimes think is lost forever. One: the return to the court of Christian Eriksen with the Brentfordafter his cardiac arrest European Championship, thanks to an automatic defibrillator and an overdose of passion in his heart, he has shocked me. This is not a show to have fun until death, as she glimpsed Neil Postman in 1985, without having seen ourselves drooling amid a hubbub of series and televised matches from all the world’s leagues on platforms; nor to get out of the way like the suicidal Uruguayan soccer player, Abdon Porte, who did not want to witness his own decline, or risk his life on a whim. It is a virtuous combination of medical advances and enthusiasm to continue demonstrating what he knows how to do best in life. A body and a soul recovered.
Two: in a flash of another time, USA took to Minnesota a match against Honduras key to go to Qatar World Cup. Thinking of freezing the hard-working Central Americans in the winter of Midwest, ended up winning 3-0 at 17 degrees below zero. Perhaps that temperature is not convenient for health and could have been suspended, but, in the abstract, within the law, the gesture seemed endearing to me: it reminded me that football has become what it is because it is played on all pitches and seasons, across all races and continents, hot or cold, rain or snow, muddy, wet or high. The ball equalizes us.
Adama controls a ball against Pedrosa.
Gorka Leiza (DIARIO AS)
And three: a friend of the classic battering rams, yours truly, I can barely stand that other cunning fad of the false 9, these weeks I have been denying the lying 4-3-3 with which several teams who place midfielders or interiors deceive us position of the (supposed) extremes, without overflow by band or centers to the area. Suddenly, I saw Barça play Adama Traore glued to the lime, putting balls to it Basrain a Barcelona that, against the blessed Spanish, instead of the pretended soccer of touch and values, accelerated every time the international winger looked for the center forward’s head. So I thought: there is hope.