Opinion

Not everyone is as lucky as I am. Because everyone (or almost everyone) has a godfather, but mine is red-and-white. One of the real ones, one of the cool ones.

I know he has many godchildren, and when he first became my godfather, I wasn’t very aware of what was coming my way. When I first offered him my arm to walk down the stairs to the auditorium at the Metropolitano, I was very clear that I could learn many things from him. That day, his supporters’ club was receiving a well-deserved tribute for years and years of loyalty to the Club, and as we descended those steps, he told me about his beginnings in short strides. He was taken to the front rows, as befits a member whose number is below 300, and at that moment, I already felt a little orphaned.

I am screwed, like everyone today, and my escape is to write and get the anger out of my chest.

We were foolish to think that we could move on even knowing that we were playing against the whole universe. The pre-match was already warning us: on their field, on Thursday instead of Wednesday because it suited them better, with tickets rationed, the press acting as their cheerleaders, and to top it all off, that hanging banner that at the last minute served to heat up what was already boiling. The match was just a formality to add the icing on a series of infamies and blunders that ended in scandal, a victory that they already had closed beforehand, like so many others.