Today I cried

Yesterday, a reader told me "you write the note as it was a poem? jajaj, puto, wrote a story ... "I was thinking about that. In truth, I took it as a real compliment, because in fact, is what I try. Football, for some, are twenty-two morons running after a ball, which is like saying that "Guernica" is a messy pile of strokes on a canvas ...

Football, like painting, music or literature is art, it is emotion, joy, happiness or joy. But not always, because you can only talk about art when stocks are running real virtuosos. And that excites me, moves me, makes me mourn.

How to explain? For those who learned to kick rather than walk, to walk to school who was kicking a stone all the way with "three fingers", to whom he saw an arc in each culvert or slept clutching the first ball of leather, these bursts of Football is much more bulky than a result or a simple rout.

Not even look at the result and try to see beyond the goals. And in this reading, I notice that many of us, the fans speak, we have regained the illusion of hope, we thought we definitely lost.

Because today I knew that despite Basile, the Bielsa, the Passarela, the Riquelme or Grondona, our illusions endured the heartbreaking failures, they were ruthless succeeding one after another.

Because today, our throats the cry knotted recovered, and with it the comfort and relief. Today, the "Marado, Marado" exploded simultaneously in the voice of all those whom we had stopped. Today, we witnessed the miracle of redemption.

Today, we again believe in playing, on the dribble and in the channel. Today, mysticism, magic and pride back to wear blue and white. Today, football returned. Today, the team played for the national squad. Today we read a story of a happy ending. Today I cried.

It's late, I go to sleep ...

Photo: Mauro Alfieri / Nation

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