First, for those who doubt the role of the homegrown talent that  plays the part of supersub, let’s re-live a classic moment of American cinema. We shall call it the “Guti-Rudy Moment.”

Guti did get considerably more minutes than Rudy, but the effect was always the same – despite concerns over stamina and his first step, the Madrid faithful knew the blonde boy wonder was a wizard with the ball at his feet. Take a walk down memory lane and drool at the array of fake shot/slide rule passes.

Of course, in addition to the vision for the game, Guti was quite adept at using both sides of the foot. From taconcitos to taconazos, Guti unlocked defenses with cunning and guile. His first touch was impeccable, and one could see him tap-dancing the night away to this Little Richard’s classic “Tooty Fruity” (which happens to rhyme with Guti!).

So there you have it – Guti is gone. The Mourinho era has begun, praising defensive diligence and work rate over creativity and vision. Or perhaps this is just the sands of time running out on a fabled career, a 33 year old recognizing his legs can’t compete with players half his age. Either way, there’s no reason to be snooty or engage in cruelty when reflecting on Guti. He was Madrid’s super sub for many a reason, a role he played well and willingly.

Junito is the ghost at the far post. No, he is not some vomiting and yelling Exorcist ghost, crying for attention. He is the ghost behind the door in the Sixth Sense, invisible to the naked eye but terrifying all the same. You may see dead people. But centerbacks don’t see Junito. He lives in their blind spot. Junito lurks in the the fourth dimension between the offside trap, the keeper’s reach, and the defender’s ability to turn their hips or step.

The defenders raise their arms and yell “fuera”, staring at the linesman and praying for a raised flag. But the net ripples as their shoulders sag in defeat. Junito’s two footed precision make a veteran surgeon’s hands look clumsy. Some doubted the wisdom of Junito practicing his goal celebration before he could barely walk. They were wrong.

The only problem is Junito’s precocious talents and exploits off the field.

No, don’t worry – no mags yet on the horizon for Junito. While a remarkably handsome and dashing son of a gun, Junito’s once frequent piropos have given way to a singular focus on footy. And the result speak for themselves. However, his self-confidence, killer instinct, and lack of empathy for the opposition has transferred to the family mascot. Yes. Junito’s biggest future problem is with PETA.

A few week ago, we obtained a pet chocoyito. Junito is positively obsessed with the pet bird, constantly carrying our mascota around the house. The dilemma is that, while Junito’s first touch with foot  makes feathers feel like lead, his grasp of animals is a bit harsher. In other terms, he does not quite get the fact that this is a sentient entity with feelings.

The morenita de mis suenos and I have taken emergency measures for a variety of reasons. First, we believe in empathy and compassion for all living beings. Second, and perhaps more selfishly, I want to prevent any future public relations issues for Junito. Rumors of animal mistreatment could only cast doubt on his looming and inevitable transfer to Real Madrid. I’m not saying that Junito will be some buddhist-Baggio that rubs elbows with Popes, but I don’t want him to be the ruthless Cristiano Ronaldo of the animal kingdom either.

The big step has been to place our choyo in a gigantic jaula so that Junito cannot reach him. However, like a much much younger version of Pippo Inzaghi, last night we caught him snooping around the birdcage. Cristhian asked him – “que haces por aca?” Junito replied, “buscando leche.” The darting eyes. The mischievous grin. He knew the jaula was nowhere near the cocina or the refry.

I can see the same facial expression on HDTV ten years from now, smiling & winking at a linesman with a raised flag.

“Una patada a Xavi? Yo no fui….”

The first instinct is excitement. Surely Mourinho, the Portuguese genius, can form a winning sculpture out of the blanquillo clay. But I fear for this colossal clash of egos – can Mourinho truly change the Madrid culture? The fact Manuel survived the Alcocorn debacle to season’s end shows signs of improvement, but…but…but…

Sobriety takes over after the initial rush wears off. Your body ceases releasing endorphins and the first rays of dawn tease your weary eyelids. Del Bosque won two Champions Leagues but got sacked. Fabio Capello has twice won La Liga and been fired in the same season. It dawns on you that the days of aristocracy have ended in Madrid. The elite bourgeoisie doesn’t even invite this aging institution to play bridge on Sundays. A glance in the mirror shows an un-tucked tummy tuck and a sagging face lift.

Real Madrid is now in the aging “Paris Hilton” phase of empire.

The Di Stefano daze, Hugol shouts, and Zizou roulettes have exited the stage. With Raul and Guti soon out the door, only Iker remains from the Galacticos era. The dull Dutch counterattack earned Schuster a few trophies but also a pink slip when his lips became unsealed at a press conference. On the eve of a Clasico, he admitted that his depleted Madrid side would not win at the Nou Camp. For this cardinal sin, he was not only excommunicated, he was exorcised.

In a season where Pellegrini imposed an athletic attacking style and obtained a record number of wins and points, only one statistic mattered – how goo was Madrid compared to Barcelona? Not good enough. Not by a long shot. Can Mourinho into this world of moral relativity and forever change the balance? Or will he temporarily tip the scales in Madrid’s favor, winning a few trophies before returning to England for unfinished business?

An optimist would paint the signing of a super coach as the perfect remedy for a team that allegedly “underachieved” (despite a record setting season). A pessimist would point out that Mourinho’s Inter lost at the Nou Camp just as Madrid last November. Also, Jose will want his reinforcements. Although arguing against the replacement of Marcelo, Gago, and other quality but not world class players should cost Perez another small fortune.

Still, a part of me feels dizzy from the coach swap, as if I just got off the carousel and the ground won’t stop spinning. Or perhaps this is the confusion of awaking too early, the darkness of dawn disconcerting but soon dispelled by the first rays of sunlight.

Only three things are certain. Madrid will win. Madrid will win ugly. And those who disliked Madrid but mocked them for their success will now hate them. Jose will paint his million dollar players as victims of a biased press, he will blow smoke at the Catalan castle in the sky.

But how long Perez, or the Madrid media, will put up with Jose is another question. The Italian media, unimpressed by catenaccio lite, grilled him on tactics and refused to laugh at his sophomoric remarks. Will the Spaniards? Should they?

Still, this game failed to live up to the hype of a clasico. Messi did have handful of clear cut chances, only for San Iker to intervene, but ultimately Madrid’s full court press did cause problems for Barcelona “build-from-the-back” approach. Valdes, not used to seeing a forward run at him full speed, booted his fair share of balls to the sideline. A moral victory? More like a morale victory by immoral means. But I’ll take it.

Still, Xavi and Messi function in perfect harmony on another plane. They don’t actually play on the same field, mind you. Rather, they float about three feet off the ground, disappearing and re-appearing like those apparitions in a painfully drawn-out film based on a bestselling novel. He who shall not be named…

At the 60 minute mark, when Guti came on and provided a bit of imagination from the midfield, I thought – I thought I thought – I hoped that I thought that I thought… Madrid could pull out a draw. A goal seemed possible with Ronaldo running free down the left but unable to find his shot. Then, like Mayweather waiting for a mistimed jab, Pedro stuck a dagger through the Madrid backline to make Brutus wince.

As per usual, the Madrid media machine will call for Pellegrini’s head on a platter. I hope Perez resists the temptation, because I could not envision this core of players performing that much better.  Plus, with midweek Champions League ties eating up minutes, the Cules could easily trip up in La Liga against minnows.

Still, millions of pounds can buy players but not a team. This off-season, Pellegrini will need to call the shots and plug holes, as he did at Villareal. While Robben and Schneijder dance into the Champions League semifinals, Madrid must look beyond “name brand” players to push jersey sales.

Merengues the world over can hold our head up high – this was no 6-2 spanking. But still, spending tense Saturdays engaging in wishful Barcelona schadenfraude seems more like a punishment than a past time.

As the collective footballing conscious surfs the Somalian-Pirate infested internet waters in search of streams, or the lower class with middle class pretensions pay for cable, I….I will be not watching the game. Yes. I am not watching the game. Instead, I am relying on my input of the game on my readers. Yes. YOU. Your tweets are all that I will see, feel, touch, and smell as Madrid duels with Barcelona.

I also will be at the beach, with my feet in the sand, the sun on my chest, and hopefully a delicious chocobanano in my mouth.

Please don’t lie to me. Please don’t hurt me. And be descriptive in your tweets!…..

Epilogue

On the plus side, I will be able to write a neat little match recap of the game soon after. I can create a nice little chronology of short sentences that detail the main events of the game. Such as “Gago coughed up possession in his own area, Xavi sprung Iniesta, who squared for Messi to score.” Or “Sergio Ramos jumped really high, headed a ball, and scored a goal. An own goal.”

But seriously, I’m by nature an optimist, and if Madrid wins I can yell to my hearts content, and if we lose then I can crawl into a closet and cry. If we were at the beach, well, the riptide and asphyxiation is so tempting this time of year….

Shady Selections

Well, the vote is final. 2 in favor of going home to watch the game, 1 abstain, and 1 against. This post has been an utter failure on many levels – also, I did not manager to get a luscious dark Irish-Mexican freckle-tan or obtain a delicious chocobanano.

To further complicate matters, Fernando Gago is starting for Madrid. While it speaks to Madrid’s depth that Lass can go down and we have a pretty skilled replacement, this is the same Gago that begged for a move in January. This is the same Gago that really was a poor sport in the Argentina-US friendly at Giants stadium not too long ago.

I hope Gago does well and exceeds expectations, but really, this game fills me with dread more than anything. It’s like getting out of jail on December 23rd after serving 10 years for a felony that you plead guilty to. The night of the 24th you aren’t smiles, you aren’t pleasant, you’re just bummed….bummed that you know your stocking will be full of coal and nothing more.

The Dilemma

So, everybody else wants to see the game life. The World’s future greatest footballer for Real Madrid? Junito has voted for traditional consumption….. And the missus? Well, she likes to see the long flowing locks of one Leo Messi. She also votes for live consumption. My daughter, Angie, is a disinterested neutral. If I can convince here to vote no, on the premise she can make sandcastles, I just may be able to pull off this stunt…..

The Up/Down Debate?

I will be updating this blog and my adventure to Padre Island with a new perspective – that of the vertical. Yes. Readers will no longer have to scroll down to read the latest chapter as my experiment unfolds. I have but one simple request – do not livetweet this or live tumble this. AND DO NOT liveblog this. Just tweet as if I were an unsuspecting fly on a wall….

Prologue

Why? Why am I electing to devoid myself of the pleasures of sight? Is this one of those weird Catholic things? No. I am doing this because of Fredo. No, not Frodo. No, not Bedorrarci. Fredo.

You see, Fredo and a certain Dunmore introduced me to the world of “teletext.” Granted, when my mom found out I was hanging out with such sly players, she got worried. She knew that the purely textual consumption of an event is addictive, like a WorldCupBlog liveblog while at work or an ESPN gamecast of a baseball game.

So here I am, at your textual mercy. Is Cristiano Ronaldo’s hair iguana-like in its glory? Did I put on enough suntan lotion or will my unique Irish-Mexican tan-freckle make an appearance? Only time will tell….

I don’t want to come off as too conceited, but I am 90% sure that one of the following three possibilities will occur: (1) Madrid will win, (2) Barcelona will win, or (3) Neither team will win.I GUARANTEE that both teams cannot possibly win. Not a chance. And you heard it here first.

Of course, something odd or bizarre may come up. And the strange happens more than we would like to think  (or fathom).

The cavalry, not to be confused with infantry or chariotry, historically had the distinct advantage of collective mobility. This mobility allowed the forces to outflank, overwhelm, and surprise, sometimes all at once. Additionally, the psychological impact of a mounted solider on adversaries should not be underestimated.

From Asia to the Middle East to Europe, the use of cavalry raised and ruined empires. Similarly, Real Madrid has a roster chocked full of talent from across the world, with Malis, Argentinians, Spaniards, Dutchmen, and Frenchman. Some have criticized General Pellegrini for not instilling a patient-passing approach like at Barcelona. However, the lack of ten foot sideways passes should not hide a coherent game plan: run. Then, run harder.

Make no mistake – this edition of Madrid, despite the cashsplashery, is not “Galacticos Part Two.” Cristiano Ronaldo may dazzle with step-overs like the Brazilian Ronaldo before him, but the team lacks a proper Zidane to spin spells on the field.

Instead, Pellegrini has tossed caution to the wind and focused on mobility on and off the ball. Madrid is not a team built from the back, but rather a tireless unit of attack. Just as the defeat at the Battle of Carrhae taught the Romans the importance of the cavalry, last season’s dreadful 6-2 showing at home forced Madrid into its current incarnation.

The problem with the cavalry is the double edged sword of mobility – if you push bodies to spot X, then they leave spot Y vacant. If Arbeloa overlaps Ronaldo, or Diarra pushes up to the support the attack, then that leaves Madrid exposed numerically at the back. While Iker Casillas can stand on his head from time-to-time, the cavalry is inevitably a high risk-reward endeavor.

Still, as Khalid Ibn Walid learned at the Battle of Yarmouk, the greatest asset of the cavalry is its ability to regroup mid-battle. While this Madrid side has hemorrhaged early goals, the blanquillos have also treated fans to various remontadas.

Against Sevilla, Madrid conceded two soft goals before the cavalry regrouped, licked it winds, and galloped back into battle – unleashing a furious rally that ended with a now famous 3-2 victory.

Against Sporting Gijon, the cavalry got caught too far up the field and the Gijonese countered, springing the offside trap to eek out a goal. However, news of this golcito soon reached the front guard. Enraged, they trampled the hapless Gijonese. Higuain delivered the mercy blow, but first ran rampt over soldier after solider.

On the eve of the clasico, with Real Madrid and Barcelona level on points, the fate of La Liga hangs in the balance. But which tactics will determine the battle? Will the cules slither about the pitch with slick passing, slowly asphyxiating the merengues? Or will Madrid run over, under, through, and around the Catalans…

Villareal was not always a potent force. Once a modest regional club, they took a gamble on acquiring a wayward Juan Roman Riquelme. The Argentine star who had shone brightly with Argentina had failed to convince the Nou camp faithful. Questions about temperament and work ethic surfaced. But in in his brilliant right foot Villareal saw a leader and a glimpse of the future. And it was bright.

Roman led the yellow submarine to unparalleled and unfathomable heights. Standoffish, temperamental, fueled by a silent kind of rage that drives most men mad, Roman commanded fear in his own locker room and on every blade of grass he touched. But fear bred respect. And winning.

Roman did not engage his enemy in hand-to-hand combat. Rather, from his central command station, near the center circle, Roman grasped his bow, extended his arm, and unleashed a flurry of arrows. Is there anything more beautiful than the flight of a well shot arrow? It depends on your perspective. Is the arrow flying at your head?

Riquelme could thread a needle through a strand of yarn in the blink of an eye. His arrows flew with neither power nor force, but rather by forming a part of the wind, gracefully riding a gust to the back of nets or a teammate’s foot.

But Roman was not the only one. An Uruguayan accomplice, Diego Forlan, similarly preferred to attack from afar. With throngs of arrows falling from the skies, many opposition chose to set back and hide behind shields. And sometimes, to put it simply, it worked.

While both Roman and Diego have left Villarea, Roman’s bodyguard – the tenacious Marcos Senna, continues to carry the torch. Now the captain of the yellow submarine, at least one of Senna’s feat has equaled the once great Roman. And his precision from distance is unquestionable.

While Villareal has struggled outside of Iberia, the new generation has started to string their own bows. The Italian-American Rossi has a deceptively straight shot. Still, despite this proud tradition of long distance trajectories, the new breed has shown a strong preference for hand-to-hand combat.

The old Villareal methodically struck from afar, but Joseba Llorente prefers to feel the cold sensation of skin giving way to steel. Nilmar likewise prefers the intimacy of a sword striking shield; he closes in on the enemy patiently and precisely, then delivers the finishing blow in the blink of an eye.

While the young generation has shed the archers’ legacy, the warriors’ spirit remains, and Marcos Senna guides the next generation on its path to glory. Or the Europa league.

The ambush, like the entrapment of Barcelona, seeks to defeat prey while conserving energy. The ambush requires extensive planning, organization, and coordination. To successfully capture their prey, each and every part must move with precision and in sync. And, of course, the predator must deceive the prey.

While the Valencians do not gift elaborate wooden Trojan horses to opposition due to size constraints on the field (plus it probably wouldn’t work a second time), they do cede lots of possession. That is to say, they swindle the opposing team into playing with the ball in midfield, luring them out of their own half as a spider spins a barely visible web. Then, when the ball crosses the halfway line and reaches a wide winger, they pounce.

The Valencians attack with a swiftness of mind and collective understanding. Defenses tremble even in possession, knowing that David Silva, Juan Mata, and David Will can tear to threads the most organized of back lines. And although they play possum to deceive their prey, they do not cower before giants like Madrid and Barcelona.

The most famous ambush of antiquity if the Battle of the Trebia River, when Hannibal laid a trap that slaughtered thousands of Roman cavalry. With this victory in hand, Hannibal appeared posed for a famous and crushing defeat of the Romans. But…there was one problem. Despite the relative success of the ambush, scores of well disciplined Roman troops broke through the rear. After a few months, Hannibal found himself with depleting resources and isolated.

This underscores the risk of the ambush – if the prey does survive, you find yourself exposed and in close quarters. Valencia suffered the same fate in the Champions league final in successive years to start the decade, humiliated by Real Madrid and narrowly losing to Bayern Munich on penalties.

While the era of Angulo and Canizares has passed, the tactical principles of the ambush once again threaten to rise Valencia to new found heights. The incredibly shift David Villa continues to torment defenses in Iberia and abroad with the sketchiest of approaches: walking among them. That is to say, Villa rarely runs at a defender, instead standing shoulder-to-shoulder and even walking at times. To the untrained eye, he is flojo. But while his legs may not move, his mind never stops….