An immense applause awaits Real Madrid tonight, when they take the field for the Clásico. City’s elimination has been greeted with an enthusiasm equal to that of the best historical occasions. In Madrid, winning (or eliminating) becomes routine, which is why the tuning fork of euphoria is only triggered on rare occasions.
The paradox is that he won against style, bottled up, doing something that bothered him when he had it in front of him, and that has happened many times. Let’s say in half a dozen games at the Bernabéu per season. A good and wise friend from San Sebastián tweeted me at the end of the match: “When the modest Real did it at the Bernabéu it was a lock and anti-football. Now it is called the low block (heh heh heh) and it is a glorious time. Long live Mourinho! But seriously, congratulations.” Another good and wise friend, this athletic man from Madrid, tweeted me, laconically: “Cholismo.”
So, they tell me, why is Madrid so happy?
Well, first of all because they eliminated the current champion, a team that after winning the treble last year invested 247 million in reinforcements compared to the single loss of Gündogan. Also, to say the least, because the rival coach was Guardiola.
But, above all, because Madrid also has its DNA: resistance to defeat. Something that Di Stéfano implemented and that continues to be his hallmark, a value recognized even among his worst enemies. Madrid never intended to cause Stendhal syndrome, but rather to win. Only players who cannot conceive the idea of losing survive in it. It is the condition sine qua non. Sometimes you lose, of course, but the idea is per se unbearable. At the presentation of one of my books The last minute, Jorge Valdano said: “We came back in self-defense.” In this team I have seen more exquisite midfielders succeed from break-and-tear centre-backs, but all of them are allergic to defeat. He who thinks or acts as if losing were something natural (which he is) in sport, finds himself discreetly set aside.
This provokes the furor of the famous comebacks at the Bernabéu, with a wild attack, “in self-defense.” At the Etihad the self-defense was Numantine defense, of the type that we have historically attributed to Real (since the times of Benito Díaz, in the forties, no less) and now to Atlético del Cholo. Against a superior team, Madrid assumed that role with the courage and unity of purpose it employs in comebacks, only this time applied to defending one goal, not attacking the other.
He passed those of Cain, but the way in which stars from great football nations (Brazil, England, Germany, Croatia, Uruguay…) dedicated themselves to the sacrifice of collective defense, whose materials are attention, commitment, humility, deserved recognition. And as fanatically as they can to score “the missing goal” at the Bernabéu. Except that they do it with the support of a stadium-cauldron in which the rivals perceive the ghosts of an unparalleled past, and this time they were in the opposite field, and against a superior team.
That explains the explosion of joy. I never saw Madrid play like that, it was new, they managed a record that we did not know and I confess that I found it unpleasant, but I found it recognizable in its primary characteristic: resistance to defeat. And he didn’t dirty the game.
As a cherry on top, they won the penalty shootout by coming back, a nod to tradition. And with a prominent role of four antidivos, substitutes in the initial cast of roles for the season: Lunin, Lucas Vázquez, Nacho and Rüdiger.
Madrid played like never before and won like (almost) always. Of course, from now on we will have to be more understanding with those who bottle up at the Bernabéu. And with the Cholo method.
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