I'm Spanish! What do you want me to do with you?

In one week, three examples remind us that football would be worthless if it ceased to reign in the volatile, stormy, and contradictory world of emotions. In chronological order and for different reasons: Luis Enrique, Joan Garcia, and Lamine Yamal.

The case of Luis Enrique is reminiscent of hypocrisy. It's like denying with your mouth the existence of the worm that eats away at your gut. How could you not congratulate him on his team's performance in the Champions League final? How could you not be moved by the clinging to the life that he and his family represent? But, alas, so many sugary words hid the bitter pill that so many of his detractors, with their voices and influence, have endured. These preachers were forced to be overjoyed at the victory of a national coach, a former national team member, to boot. But how many wouldn't have actually preferred to recount his defeat and hold him accountable for his persistent refusal to make the slightest effort to please them? And it's been noticed. Effusively greeting with your mouth the opposite of what you feel inside your throat adds points for the stomach ache. We recommend Pantoprazole, a proven protector.

Lamine Yamal's term threatens to be as long as Leo Messi's.

With Joan Garcia, the journey is darker: betrayal. One day you kiss the crest of the club that made you a man, and the next you're in bed with your worst enemy. That's how many parakeets feel who would now spit in his face. That's how it was with Figo in his day for Barcelona. Garcia, if he's a good guy, must be suffering his share. A traitor, when he's a good guy, needs time to convince himself of the inevitability of his action and forgive himself. Football , like life, tests, and so often passing is impossible. In this case, there's no medicine that can relieve it. Perhaps try drinking. And with time, it heals all. If love has been true, perhaps it will have a second, gentler flowering, far removed from the now-tainted passion.

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And finally, Lamine Yamal. The Blaugrana pearl who has managed to change the sexual and emotional orientation of a section of Madrid-based journalism. Better with France than with Spain! All to bolster the Ballon d'Or for Mbappé and not for his compatriot Yamal. Patriotism is removable. Wherever Madrid is, they should take off their red . The sacred character of the red and yellow only holds until a kid from Mataró crosses the path, who has given Barça the double and who aspires to snatch the Ballon d'Or from the hands of those who already believed they had won it. Here, rage and envy dominate the scene. Pantoprazole again and a lot of patience. Because the Yamal cycle threatens to become as long as Messi's. Only they'll have to swallow more quinine to endure it. In the end, Yamal can always tell them: Am I not Spanish? So that's it. Why do you expect me to win you over?