Barça begins to weave its impregnable narrative in the week of reflection

This week was shaping up to be the first of the new year without a match in between. Bad news for Madrid. There's an air of the end of the season, of civilization vanquished, of time running out that's falling heavily on us .

The lads want to have a dream. La Liga. Games are decided by statistical goals , a bit of fibbing. It gives the impression that there's nothing at stake, even though there is . Those goals drive that Turkish commentator, who's now like the voiceover of a generation of Real Madrid fans, to a paroxysm. "Whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo." The man shouts at the top of his lungs, seemingly calling for a holy war against the club's enemies, who right now are exactly half the world.

Barça wins justly. They don't charm, they don't crush, they don't lose, they don't let themselves be beaten. They're a team that knows how to control their impulses, but not their opponents when they're serious and organized, like Inter. They can count on Lamine's imaginative and frothy goals and the presumption of innocence, frame by frame, that the Blaugrana team is always granted . Surely this comes from the fierce battle with Madrid, and that struggle is felt in the great fields of the imagination, which is where football is truly experienced, as a moral dichotomy, good versus evil.

The Barça of the youth academy, of the jubilant game that belongs to the ragged ones of this world like Yamal, against the great predatory club that survives by plundering fishing grounds , conspiring against referees and creating fictitious entities like the Super League to establish a centuries-old oligarchy.

The tribute to Cruyffism

Of course, this is a lie. We know it, and it must be explained again and again so that the Blaugrana narrative doesn't become dominant. But for those who hate Real Madrid, reality is just an excuse to fit the childish fable they're trying to tell. In fact, they constantly use the word "lordship" to mock it or compare it to an old Real Madrid nobility trampled on by the current club .

Indeed, Real Madrid never spoke about the referees; that was the tantrum of Atlético fans or Barcelona fans. But, ever since Cruyff, Real Madrid fans felt they were always fighting on the opponent's field. The Spain of the autonomous regions needed a team in each small state, and that team needed a rival . And the only possible rival was Real Madrid. Cruyffism was elevated as a superior football ideology, an ideal to aspire to—replacing the vulture's fifth, let's not forget—and Barcelona won four tainted leagues and a spotless European Cup. The former affection for Real Madrid turned into hatred, and Los Blancos went from being a chivalrous ideal to a declining empire. In reality, these swings in the appreciation of Real Madrid, empire or shipwreck, come from the same way the club reinvented itself under Bernabéu and then under Florentino Perez.

Real Madrid bets against the world. It's all or nothing. That's why a dynasty of suns can be followed by a couple of seasons where the feeling is of irrevocable decline, with commentators shaking their heads at the institution's drift as if the club were a family member who once didn't fill us with pride and now embarrasses us. But if the Chamartín club should know anything, it's that you have to stay the course, with determination and malice, without turning your back on the dogs barking with their asses pressed against the door. And that usually ends with the sacrifice of spring, with the Champions League returning to its rightful owner, with half the planet anointed with joy and the other half suddenly disinterested in that absurd sport—where the same people always win—that is football.

That feeling among Real Madrid fans of fighting in the opponent's half was confirmed during the Guardiola era. The anti-Real Madrid fan's expressiveness became obscene. At every stadium, there was a guillotine to finish off that violent and rapacious team that conspired against the team of Xavi and Iniesta, favorites of the children and mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. The referees joined in the celebration, and the Catalan team went years without conceding a penalty . Only Mourinho stood between happiness and Spain. The Portuguese took away the innocence of the Real Madrid fan base. He forced them to explain themselves, to take sides, and to think about football. He spoke about the referees for the first time. Like in that movie about the body snatchers, Real Madrid fans realized something was wrong with the referees and Barcelona. With the referees and Real Madrid. There was no justice or equity in the treatment. At any level. And you couldn't say that in public, in "serious" places, without being labeled an extremist, a lunatic, or a conspiracy theorist. A tangle of words, moralizing, and self-serving lies had taken over the narrative of Spanish football, and what José Mourinho did was shed light on that neurotic plot. He put words to what he sensed, something that hurts a great deal in our country of silences , banal conversations, and innuendos. That, and he endowed the club with true competitiveness, meritocracy, a passion for work, and pure realism.

The memory of 2010

It was something of an Enlightenment. And as such, it foundered on the one thing José couldn't understand: mystique . That heartbeat that goes beyond reason that allows Madrid to survive in a Champions League semifinal when all fears are knocking at the door.

But everything else settled, remaining in the club's heritage, until this season , where cacophony and dereliction of duty have been the script that Ancelotti has scrupulously followed.

Times repeat themselves. Negreira is a name that now resonates almost like something mythological. That intuition of the Madridista was true . Mourinho's diatribe against Barça and Unicef ​​wasn't the outburst of a madman, it was proof of his lucidity. Now the Catalan club has chosen UNHCR to clear its conscience. The UN refugee agency is a partner of UEFA. We're back in the wormhole of 2010. The vultures are circling Madrid once again, as if the body had already begun to decompose. The tale of Barcelona's wonders returns , as do the blackouts, war, and famine. Lamine has now been officially crowned the best in the world. With his left foot, he heals the sick and resurrects the dead. Vinícius is a broken toy. They couldn't kick him out, but they've expelled him from the firmament, turned into a walking mockery, as if he'd committed a nefarious sin that no one can explain . Referees, once the nation's most beloved figures, are now being called into question. Their children are insulted, and the blame, of course, lies with Real Madrid. We're returning to the old narrative, the narrative where Madrid is a public service with no way of defending itself. And so RMTV should be showing Barça finals (except for the one against Steaua) and Atleti's Champions League matches, although those have been discontinued for reasons that have been impossible to elucidate.

Madrid's defense

Meanwhile, the season continues irritatingly. A small midfielder of Turkish blood has become the team's moral compass. Ancelotti isn't going to continue. His press conferences are lackluster, and he sometimes makes statements of a strange cruelty. Endings at Madrid are never pretty, and the Italian knows the underside of the deck—of all decks .

The final act remains: the match against Barcelona . The team has no defense, but it has added a young genius to the cause. Barça is navigating the edge, right at the place where sirens become monsters and an eternity enters every minute . The league seems impossible, but it's crucial to win this match so that the virtuous fable doesn't become a colossal wall.

And to pass the time, which is always the most important thing .