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soccer is soccer

Ever since Bujadin Boscov, at the time coach of Real Madrid, said that bullshit about “football is football” and since I predicted in writi


Ever since Bujadin Boscov, at the time coach of Real Madrid, said that bullshit about “football is football” and since I predicted in writing that Spain was not going to win the World Cup in South Africa -which it did win-, I speak little about football. Because I’m wrong. The Catalan sports newspapers have said that Madrid, who played a round game against Liverpool, did not win the Champions League, but rather that the one who won it was their Belgian goalkeeper Courtois. As if the goalkeeper were a member of another team. When I venture a result I am the antithesis of Octopus Paul, I am always wrong, but this time I was convinced that my Real Madrid was going to win the Champions League. I know it’s easy to talk after the game, but I assure you that it was. There are mysteries in football. One of them is that one of the best central defenders in Europe, Nacho Fernández, is not called up to the Spanish National Team because the Catalan beach bar made up of Xavi Hernández/Luis Enrique/Iván de la Peña and Cía prefer two firecrackers: Pau López and Enrique Garcia. In short, Real Madrid won in Paris, despite Ceferin, his pomp and his works, the Champions League final, playing like a serious team and, in my case, putting them down my throat. There is nothing that excites as much as football. There is no sport that is capable of enhancing the attractiveness of the president of the Community of Madrid, Isabel Díaz Ayuso, even that of the feminist Rita Maestre, councilor of the Madrid City Council, than soccer. You don’t need the traitor Mbappé to win the Champions League, but a united team and a coach from another world. Madrid, the best club of the 20th century, increases its legend in the 21st. And I’m glad.