The Clasico of Spain ended in a 1-0 Catalan victory thanks to an Ibrahimovic medical textbook finish (Anatomy 101). Still, weeks after losing 4-0 to Acorn State, Madrid put forth a productive if not polished performance. The blanquillos played with incredible self-belief, making Thomas the train engine appear a manic depressed truck driver attending his tenth consecutive first NA meeting.

Still, despite the major roster and morale improvements, moral victories mean zero points on the table. Granted, a loss at the Nou Camp should not derail an impressive start to the season, but this was a match where Madrid needed little Ricky to shine. And little Ricky merely played the part of withdrawn striker, every pass to a teammate an abdication of the responsibilities that come with super human powers.

Still, the match opened up nicely after the first goal, and I dare say the breathtaking 1-0 classico was a religious experience.

Leo Messi played the part of altar boy, doing some heavy lifting, getting little credit, and tripping over his own feet when he got his moment to shine.

Lass was the usher, scrambling from entrance to entrance and surveying all available aisles. He got two deserved yellow cards for fouls on Iniesta and Xavi, but he really deserved a standing ovation for not being derelict in his defensive assignments.

Ibrahimovic collected the offering. He came on at the half, did nothing for 44 minutes, but when Dani Alves whipped in a vicious twisting cross, he timed his left footed volley to perfection. Then, after emptying the offering into mysterious black sachels, he disappeared.

Andres Iniesta was the mother in charge of the one week service trip to Latin America. He covered every single inch with tenacious tackling and insistent, aggressive, and, at times, abrasive offensive forays. You donated ten more dollars than you planned. However, you are afraid of contracting malaria and will pass on Guatemala this time.

Xavi was the nun, content to leave the showmanship to the menfolk but quietly play the angles and pull the strings from a withdrawn role. His pass completion percentage was beyond chaste.

Sergio Busquets was the once Catholic priest turned Methodist pastor. His first few years went really well – he already had studied English in his native Colombia but then….then the wife and kids got their visas approved, showed up, and scandal ensued. Busquet’s rush of blood to the head could have cost Barcelona the game, but…didn’t.

Raul Albiol was the young adult ministry coordinator. He seemed to blend into the background, a good sign for a centerback. However, his picture perfect placement at the back of the Church after Mass means you could not miss him or avoid eye contact. He gets the job done, in his quiet, introverted way.

Gonzalo Higuain teaches catechism to the kiddos. You can barely keep up with your three year old for twenty minutes, yet el Pippita corrals thirty of them at one time and runs on rampages through Aesop’s fables for over an hour. At the end of class, the tired eyes and slouched shoulders only make Higuain appear that much younger, that much fresher. With such spark and energy, you know Gonzalo is going places and fast.

Carlos Puyol was the Church’s maintenance supervisor, ie, janitor. Granted, in true Spanish fashion, he is always late. Whenever a mess presented itself, about a half second before Higuain, Benzema, or Marcelo could pull the trigger, the terrifying sight of a flying Catalan shin cluttered the airspace. Better late than never.

Related posts:

1. The Real Real Madrid – Manuel’s Smoking Gun
2. Gonzalo Higuain, the Next…Gonzalo Higuain
3. Real Madrid v. Zaragoza – the Brothers Diarra