I want to think that a good part of Real Madrid thinks the same as ninety-nine percent of the rest of the world: that the last three Champions Leagues raised by the white club rest on the shoulders of Zinedine Zidane and Sergio Ramos. In his own way, the Frenchman perfectly understood his role as a calm manager while the Sevillian was in charge of lighting that ancestral fire that turns a faltering team into the Imperator Furia of modern football. You can look at Cristiano Ronaldo out of the corner of your eye. It can be argued that the Kroos-Modric pair have ruled the important parties at ease. It can even be conceded that Keylor Navas used Marcelo as the guardian angel that one day, without flinching, the former Minister of the Interior, Mr. Fernández Díaz, introduced us. In short, many things can be said, all of them held in the grip of the ideal coach and the dream captain.
Florentino Pérez’s model has always been that of trading cards, in other words with the utmost respect, great templates that do not need great tactical displays to impose their quality, hence the European titles abound and domestic ones are scarce, where regularity is customary. to prevail over the flashes: speaking in silver, Madrid is a mother of the middle ground, but a beast when it comes to playing the titles to hosts. Zidane himself was part of the first rehearsals, a huge galactic who went to the president’s office when problems arose, never to the coach’s booth. “Luis doesn’t pass the ball to me, Presi” is one of the great phrases in Real’s history, but also the realization that the articles of the white team were not always the responsibility of Del Bosque. Under these conditions, Zidane agreed to train Pérez’s project up to two times, probably looking forward to changing some things and reinforcing the coach’s figure for the demanding future.
This is what is sensed in his farewell letter, at least: a text with that air of spite that usually accompanies the dreamer when reality breaks the parentheses. And it is also what can be seen after the president’s efforts to bring the Super League project to fruition, perhaps his last chance to perpetuate a model that is based on buying the best players in the world with a wide margin of error. . It has been enough for Florentino, for example, to fully succeed in the signing of Sergio Ramos to compensate many others without feet or head, but also some with all the credentials of success sealed that, however, ended up succumbing to altitude sickness.
Flying high is the custom in a club that uses sheets with the legend of Icarus so that the tourist does not step on the scrub, but that next season he will run the risk of seeking the assault of the skies with hardly any astronauts. While the elite of European football is armed under the unmistakable stamp of its coaches, Madrid redoubles its commitment to its insignificance, again in the hands of an Ancelotti who was already fired in his day for excessive hitting. In any other club, something similar to suicide could be anticipated, but Real have already shown us on too many occasions that they are incapable of dying even when they insist on killing themselves: a curse, after all, like any other.