Atlético 1-Mallorca 2 | Kubo of cold water to Atleti

Staggering, like disfigured Frankenstein, the Atleti fell with a crash on the grass of the Metropolitan. With the body, again full of holes where once it was impossible to find them. Unity, solidity, a goalkeeper who performed miracles routines. Lost the team in that search for another Atleti, more vertical, with more artists and less gregarious, an Atleti that does not reach that or is the other. Between two waters in which he drowns. Not even the Metropolitan is impenetrable. Full of leaks, which all his rivals take advantage of. It did not need too much a Mallorca that arrived with seven consecutive defeats in the legs. One set piece and one counter. ‘Kubo’ of cold, icy water, to accompany with trembling teeth that coming trip: Oporto, a December with Madrid and Seville. Simeone was stepping on it with his left foot from minute nine of the game.

At that moment Savic fell to the grass, hand behind, asking for change, an omen. His best defense out. On the bench, his only healthy center-back, Hermoso, took off his tracksuit and came out, cold, to a party that had, for a long time, Cunha as the protagonist. The rojiblancos came out in their most classic version, a 4-4-2 with what Cholo had, without Carrasco, without Giménez, with rest for Suárez and Lemar, with Kondogbia next to Koke in the pivot. De Paul and Correa were the interiors and, ahead, that unpublished couple: Griezmann and Cunha. One (Griezmann) moved freely opening the field. The other (Cunha) came into the game like an exhalation in his first start. That won bit by bit, with goals, hunger and that Costa air but fine. “With you, Mattheus Cunha,” he yelled at every action. It was his first title and he celebrated it with a catalog of hunger, strength and desire. He received his back, he turned, He connected between the lines and opened spaces for the despair of Luis García who, in twenty minutes, saw his players unable to flock or play a ball.

Atleti did not seem to accuse the lack of a man as important as Savic. Of start. He kept filling the minutes. With corner kicks, chances for a Lodi to attack, with a scissor attempt by Correa in the small area. But he was taking steps backwards, unconsciously perhaps, and suddenly night fell on Oblak’s goal. It was suddenly, too. That night that brought darkness, all fears and doubts. A play by Dani Rodríguez made the way. Caracoleó and filtered a pass towards Abdon between the centrals that nobody knew how to stop. His shot, distant but powerful and tight, opened another path. And the soccer players from Luis García Plaza would parade through it to the new world. A new world in which Atleti disappeared, in which Lodi showed all its seams behind, in which Mallorca lived at Oblak’s feet. And shaking every time Kang-In caught a ball. With the right, with the left, always looking for Oblak’s net. One was stopped by the goalkeeper, masterful, with a handball hand. The other went high, a foot from his squad, hissing like a bullet. The night had been so sudden that it brought with it whistles. Shy, but increasingly growing, as the break and Atleti came, there were only two lines left. Oblak’s hand, that Cunha beginning. The rest, nothing. Again decomposed between his own fears, another first part 0-0 as a new classic. There are already 13 this season.

Second part traced. And the ‘Kubo’

The rojiblancos traced the beginning of the first half at the beginning of the second. Pushing Mallorca in its area. Showing the incisors corner to corner, lateral center to lateral center. At the hour, the double change of Cholo: De Paul and Griezmann outside, João Félix, back, and Lemar, inside. As soon as the Frenchman stepped on the grass, he sent a ball to Cunha so that he could repeat the beginning: control, shot with the inside and ball out by centimeters. The game was played only in one direction. The one that Cunha’s shoes showed. The goal would be in his boots, almost by surprise, amidst a commotion that followed a double cut and a pass from Correa. The Brazilian launched the toe of the boot, from the ground, to hole it. The ball bounced off the ground and returned to kick again, the final one, the one that Reina failed to clear and when Russo did, from inside the goal, the ball had already crossed the line of lime.

Luis García’s changes came just after. While Simeone gave orders, from Oblak to Lemar, to contain Maffeo, their incorporations killed, Kubo, Ángel and Battaglia entered Mallorca and the night would appear again, suddenly and by surprise, at Cunha’s party. Now it would be final.

Kang-In raised his hand to be the beacon that would lead his teammates down the path of the first part: that direct book was requested that flew as a remote control to Russo’s head among six rojiblancos. He jumped like a colossus over Beautiful, unappealable, to pierce Oblak’s suit. An Oblak that he caught running backwards, an Oblak that seemed to stay in the middle, showing, again, his most human profile. Full of cracks. Like the once iron uncerity of Cholo. It no longer exists, it left, it is not known where. Like the impenetrable air of the Metropolitan. Today all the rivals sneak in. Even that Mallorca that only needed a handful of minutes. And that against Kubo who was running for his particular derby and who beat Oblak again, so fragile, so inconsequential. He only showed strength in his gloves to hit the grass helplessly after Kubo’s goal, the 1-2. I would not change the end, no matter how much he ran to kick that corner that João sent high, at the night that looms over the rojiblancos before the final trip to Portugal, amid so much doubt and shadow.