I was thinking about Real Madrid’s efficiency and how this gave them an advantage in the Champions League, an advantage that was reflected in the 0-1 half-time score. I was distracted wondering if the classic hell of German stadiums was going to effectively balance the mystique of Bayern and Real at the start of the second half. I was thinking about whether Tuchel was going to touch something, Ancelotti seemed not to need it, his scheme to stir up the hornet’s nest and convert the Allianz Arena, oh sorry, the Bayern Stadium, which in the Champions League is determined by UEFA. I was, to be honest, messing around with the TV remote control when, suddenly, Rafa Nadal appeared in an exciting fight with an inspired Lehecka to whom my tennis ignorance gave neither country nor reference. And there I stayed.
I don’t know anything about tennis but it seemed to me that the Nadal myth needed company, even if it was from a distance, even if it was on TV, even if it was against all my superstitions that advise, I think I’ve already told you this, to stay alone for a while in the match because if you stay longer there are always a couple of lost points, a possibility of losing service, a ball that touches the tape and stays on this side, all of this is conditional, they don’t know it but we do, because I , maybe you too, we were connected in that exact second, in that fatal game.
The fact is that, in a new demonstration of the relativity of time, in what for me were a few games, a few minutes, things got ugly in Madrid, the match was going with a favorable result for the Czech tennis player and my finger. Thumb decided that we had to go to Munich, where I expected to find the start of the second half and what came out was a 2 to 2 on the scoreboard and 10 minutes left in the match. Yes, I did not stay to see the public’s tribute and the Madrid tournament to Nadal, as if my mind said that if there was no tribute there was no end and, therefore, the next time I reconnected with tennis, Rome could be A magnificent moment, I would meet the triumphant, winning, overwhelming Nadal again and that thing in Madrid would never have taken place.
When I saw the spectacular start of the second semi-final, with that Borussia Dormund against PSG that started with the yellow wall singing at the top of its lungs that of You’ll never walk alone that we always think dyed Liverpool red or Celtic Glasgow green, I thought that could be it, the one from Gladiator is not bad either, a perfect soundtrack for these tournaments that seem like Rafa’s last visits to places where he has made history.
Although, maybe and just maybe, we should dedicate that soundtrack to us, who have walked in the distance with Nadal, who have suffered and enjoyed so much with him (I can already tell you that May is an excellent month in France when Rafa jumps onto the slopes of Roland Garros and the legend continues to grow) when it seems that we are going to be left a little alone in that journey that is fueled by the dreams generated by these types of legends.
Yes, I know, we have Carlos Alcaraz, who will continue to make us dream. But those of us who once had Miguel Ángel Nadal’s nephew in the locker room, surpassing his Real Madrid loyalty, feel that with that glorious ending through which Rafa parades, our youth, some of our dreams and many battles fought are also leaving. Some even victorious.
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