Leo Messi laments at the Bernabu.
Life could be summed up in a unique scene. That is, as usually happens in our existence. Better to forget and put on something else than to wonder about the reason for the disapproval. Vinicius, always tormented, always wandering between that indivisible border between genius and ridicule, grab the ball again on the shore. The boy lives with a curious sentence. It is an extreme unable to match the rattle of his legs with the orientation of his feet. But he never gives up, hence its great value. Semedo, namely why, he went for Benzema. Y Martin Braithwaite, who had never imagined being in sas, opted to attend the events at a distance. Vinicius remat quin knows where, and Piqu, perhaps fed up with shrinking water in his area, he ended up beating Ter Stegen, since the German had not overthrown the rivals. And if that was not enough, Mariano I wrote the epitaph.
What happened in the Santiago Bernabu was nothing more than the classic of decrepitude. Because there was neither rigor nor order. Neither serenity nor madness. Simply, a handful of men in search of a plank in the immensity of the ocean that would allow them to survive a little longer. Hence Barcelona, on a night when Messi never recognizedMarcelo celebr that Foreman I could knock down Muhammad Ali– and in which Griezmann I returned to his catatonic state, I did not know how to take advantage of that few minutes of the first act in which Quique Setin intuy some of your aesthetic dreams. Or that Real Madrid, despite its unstructured game, despite its limitations in execution, will find its escape in the troubled way of Vinicius.
Real Madrid, who had started the night with the gesture of those who intend to emulate a fortress that is not such – erect head, numb heart -, suddenly found himself chasing the ball. The clock had just marked the 20th minute, and the Barcelona players started a pass ritual to which the Bernabu fans opposed the whistle. Perhaps warning that this progressive Barça dominance in rival field could perpetuate white despair. Why Sergio Busquets direct and open in the channel as in the old days. Why Arthur dare to challenge his pubis by winning an open field race to Kroos. And because, at least for a while, the attacks ended where they should, in front of Courtois. The goal, before the break was reached, saved up to three duels in the sun.
Yes well Setin and Zidane They opted for the presence of four midfielders in search of a stubborn control of the board, the intentions – or, rather, the obligations – of one team and another had nothing to do. Barcelona tried to fit into the network of passes to Arturo vidal, whose extremist football seldom takes him away from the utmost disapproval. Real Madrid, with Modric in the bank – nothing lasts forever, well you know Rakitic-, I was not calm either in Kroos or in Isco. Footballers made to send, not to recycle.
But what was seen in Barcelona in the first act was nothing more than another contradictory exercise. Without a third striker, because beauty never married well with anguish. San Paolo had already stripped a fangless team in the Champions League and with a tendency to get lost in the face of any difficulty. Real Madrid only had to return to pressure, pride and something as simple as faith so that the entire Setin team collapsed. Without forces for redemption. Without ball or ideology to claim. And now without leadership.
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