A technical hitch so this updated blog I wrote from Madrid has arrived somewhat belatedly.
I watched the second leg of the Champions Leaguue semi-final tie in a bar in Mostoles, a sprawling satellite town south west of Madrid.I was not the only journalist here. A crew from Spanish TV had beaten me to it- and I could see why they had chosen this godForsaken neighbourhood, of all places, to find ‘atmosphere’. The bar has a reputation as a rather convivial lion´s den. It is shared by a local FC Barcelona fan club- and a rather smaller contingent of Real Madrid followers. The atmosphere, here at least, was dominated by the chants of the majority Barca fans, defiant in the knowledge that this was a space they felt reasonably secure in.
In sat in the Barca section, sharing beers, ham and cheese with a group of cules and Carlos, an enduring friend from childhood who, as a Chelsea and Real Madrid fan, regularly takes issue with my football blog. It was that kind of evening.
The game, as it turned out, was one that in the main restored two of world football´s greatest clubs to a stage where each was allowed to play to its strengths and a wealth of talent and skills transalated into entertainment.
The Nou Camp, without the presence of Mourinho-he watched the game from his hotel-was like a stadium that had exorcised the devil. All the demons in words and action that had accompanied the first leg and which had tainted El Clasico was forgotten as both sides got down to the business of playing good football.
Sure, there was one questionable referee decisioun-the disallowed Madrid goal after Pique had handled Cristiano Ronaldo-but this match will thankfully be remembered for something other than loose fouls and easy diving.
It was intetresting how the TV cameras at one point focused on Valdano, El Buitre, and Zidane -the civilised arm of Real Madrid-watching the game. No gesticulation or badmouthing there, just respect. There was some riveting bold and open attacking football by both sides and missed chances. There was mighty duels betwen individual players. There was magic in some of the passing and running with the ball. There was some spectacular saves by Casillas in particular -a Mostoles kid- and two good goals, one by each side. This was a Real Madrid that was unshackled and a Barca that rediscovered its harmony. This was a game where the referee policed with equanimity, using cards only when justified and allowing the ball to flow as best it could in adverse weather conditions.
This was a game where artistry shone through the mud, when it was hard to tell whether the players´shirts were soaked with sweat or rain such was the commitment shown by both sides. The sight of players slipping and sliding through the water and still managing to control the ball undderlined their brilliance.
And the heroism and the nobility of this encounter found its maximum expression in the last two minutes when the stadium rose as one to pay tribute to Abidal as he took to the field. Having defied death, the player engaged in the poetry of life.
In a week when Bin Laden was killed, it was good to see Abidal brought on again for sunday’s clash against Espagnol. He prayed like a good muslim just before running out onto the pitch. invoking a God that is tolerant and respectful. Had Real Madrid not thrashed Sevilla earlier, this was a game that should have secured the championship. But Liga champions Barca will be-no doubt-as Manchester United will clinch the Premier League. I am hoping luck will bring me a ticket to Wembley. I can’t wait. to see another epic clash between two great clubs . I would like to say, as Gaspart did befor Barca’s last final at Wembley, that I will throw myself in the Thames if a Blaugrana victory is again secured. But then I am not so mad, or such a good swimmer.
