There’s something that doesn’t add up in Real Madrid’s narrative over the last few seasons: if the League is rotten, if referees eliminate you from Europe, not rivals, and if the Club World Cup was torpedoed by some official who didn’t want to adapt the domestic calendar to your universal needs, why does the Bernabéu take it out on its footballers and, on more specific occasions, even on its president? It’s a mystery that could be solved by asking Real Madrid fans one by one, but even for this, Tezanos’s blessed and bruised CIS no longer seems to have any real utility.
It’s worth remembering, before drawing wrong conclusions, that in that stadium Zidane was booed while Makelele’s tireless runs were applauded. Or that Fernando Redondo’s starting position was debated, as a significant part of the stands was convinced that the control of that Madrid team should be handed over to Luis Milla. At the Bernabéu, there has always been booing and debate because if the Chamartín club has any strength that distinguishes it from all others, it is precisely that: no one is given an easy ride there, be it Raúl, Casillas, Sergio Ramos, Del Bosque, or Plácido Domingo. One day, I understand not too far off and taking advantage of the 360º video scoreboard technology, the Bernabéu will end up booing itself for understanding that it has not lived up to the demands set by the most decorated club in world football.
Using the Negreira wildcard is all well and good for huddles by the coffee machine or for some press conferences: anyone can handle a good cold conspiracy and even back it up using Excel, because if anything abounds in Spain today, it’s ad hoc arguments and office software knowledge. But in the stadium, with emotions running high and the bullfighter’s pride making its way into every play, what they whisper to you in your favorite show about what happens in the offices no longer matters as much as what you see, with your own eyes, on the pitch. That’s when smoke screens, bad payer’s excuses, and even future hopes lose all their value. Because if a fan in any stadium in the world feeds on anything, it’s pride, and everything seems to indicate that the soul of the Bernabéu, at this point in the season, barely feeds on paninis, with the added disadvantage that they aren’t cheap either.
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The main focus of the white coliseum’s anger these days is Vinicius, who is accumulating reproaches. Many don’t seem to want to forgive his televised snub to Xabi Alonso, that “me voy, me voy” so close and yet so far from the “me va, me va” sung by Julio Iglesias, one of the most illustrious academy players produced by La Fábrica. Others simply don’t like his vital behavior, his theatrical excesses. And there is also a part that no longer sees in the Brazilian the famished idol who carried the team on his back when winter smelled of sulfur to turn into laurel in spring. Perhaps therein lies the key: the Bernabéu doesn’t boo out of caprice, not even out of vice, but out of survival. Because when everything becomes diffuse, someone has to turn on the lights in the room. And that someone, for better or worse, is still the stands.
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