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.

Truth be told, the long pauses have come about for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, I have come under a brutal attack from both the general audience and family members. Some people think its preposterous to predict that a three year old can ascend to greatness. The “naysayers” say too many things can  happen between now and five, when Junito signs his first professional contract. Of course, the old Brazilian refrain that the good looking boys get girlfriends and the ugly ones get good at soccer has a kernel of truth. Still, I managed to be dashingly handsome and decent at pelota, so surely Junito can just take things to the next level.

The more stinging criticism, though, from closer quarters, is not so easily dismissed.

The illustrious and super secretive inner circle has roundly criticized me for heaping a hefty dose of expectations on Junito. Granted, I think some of my training tactics have been misunderstood. Junito and I do watch a lot of tape, usually classic mid-90’s era Serie A, and I do remind Junito that he too can pivot like Van Basten if he sets his mind to it. However, I am not trying to push Junito to compare himself to Van Basten. Far from it. Van Basten merely won a few domestic titles and the European Championship. If anything, Junito should try to top that by twenty.

Rather, I want Junito to focus his young talents on refining his technique, balance, and first touch. He should emulate the masters in form only, sketching Picasso’s shadows but painting his own masterpiece. I read this great NYTimes piece on the Ajax academy, how they focus on polishing a few diamonds and not so much on winning worthless youth league games. And that is my approach with Junito.

Still, I will concede that the super small sized Madrid jersey with “Di Stefano” on the back may have been a tad exaggerated. A tad. But despite the grueling hours of video sessions and training, despite the endless pivots and pirouettes and headers, I swear you can see the diamond shining through.

From a player development perspective, the only problem is that Junito has skipped a beat. Rather than focusing on his positional sense and kicking of a ball, he just pushes other kids around, runs a lot, and says “Soy musculoso, soy fuerte.” While as a youth coach I understand the importance of laying a strong foundation of fitness, I think Junito is skipping a step or two.

But as for the strongest indicator of success, love of the game, all signs point to yes. Anytime we watch television and surf past a channel showing soccer, Junito cries and pleads that we watch pelota. And he constantly pleads for me to take down his arquito so that he can echar goles. So I’m just following his little lead, reading up on sports nutrition and even hitting the gym myself, just to dar el buen ejemplo.

“Ya mido y peso mas que Xavi….grrrrrrrrrr”

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?

We could resurrect the Mourinho as “dark lord,” a tactician who will win at all costs. But that leads to the next question – where will Mourinho be next summer?

If Perez signed Kaka & Ronaldo in part because their namesake sold jerseys, then what attire would Mourinho promote upon arrival? A dark and long coat? A Russian journalist offered Jose a crown, but the Portuguese astutely refused the obvious photo shoot setup. Still, how would the sly and sarcastic boy from Iberia fare in Madrid?

Well, the negative tactics…the negative tactics just do not fly in Spain. While the Italian media may dissect his every substitution and grant a standing ovation to a 1-0 victory, the cerebral fades into the aesthetic exterior in Spain. To win in Madrid is not enough – just ask Del Bosque and Fabio Capello.

Pellegrini led Madrid to a record breaking season in La Liga. Still, in a sense, his positive football undid the blanquillos in the Champions League. A compact and counterattacking Lyon took advantage of the galloping fullbacks, nicking a counter and then absorbing pressure. The Pellegrini approach can be described as Sven-lite: calm, composed, and always in control. At least of himself.

How would the Madrid press react to a 1-0 loss in the Camp Nou when Barcelona had over 70% of possession? Would Marca and AS take kindly to parking an airplane in front of Casillas? Mourinho’s defensiveness in press conferences belies his disdain for positive futbol purists. But can his ethos of “success at any cost” coexist on the same plan as Perez’s flashy “high costs equal success”?

And then there is the game, of course. Many Azulgrana faithful and PSV fans will recall Mark Van Bommel. The Dutchman is capable of a brilliant through ball spells of sharp possession, and totally disappearing for spells. Schweinsteger, to his credit, has adapted well to playing centrally. But can these two go toe-to-toe with Real rejects Cambiasso and Scheijder?

Robben, of course, has shown why he holds the label as World’s Best Player Made of Paper – when the injections reduce the swelling in his tendinitis ravaged knees, the Dutchman is unstoppable. But if Maicon diligently marked the elusive Messi, one has to wonder if Robben’s bags of tricks can fool the Brazilian.

So as you watch the game and count the players sold by Real Madrid at bargain prices, as you sweat alongside Pellegrini while Mourinho works his magic, just remember…the two teams playing one another are Bayern Munich and Inter. The merengues will have to wait another year.

Still, Junito’s national team selection has one distinct advantage – I am not a candidate, as I am a human being, not a nation state. Thus, I reasoned, no evil can come of this. I was wrong. The expected and the unexpected merged into a vortex so profound, so deep and convoluted, that if you wiped your pink finger on the surface’s rim, you’d be elbow-deep in abyss in the blink of an eye.

Allow me to explain.

As you may recall, Junito is a brilliant goalscorer, handsome playboy, and future champion. Thus, his success at the World Cup is a surety. However, his national team is a question mark. Junito lays claim to three different nationalities: Mexico, the US, and Nicaragua. Rather than place the burden of this huge decision on a still developing three year old, like any responsible father I polled a group of strangers on the internet so that they would decide for us. You were one of those strangers. And you voted.

I then painstakingly counted each and every ballot, even the handwritten ballots that were mailed from as far away as Guam. I also tried to get a read from Junito on his personal preferences. The other day, he alleged that he took a taxi to Mexico, obtained a magical stone, and then gifted said magical stone to his mother. Only upon further investigation did I realize that no such taxi ride took place, and Junito’s claims to the stone remain unproven. He has alleged that the stone turns into a huge giant that is larger than any dinosaur, but thus far no eye witnesses have corroborated said transformations.

Still, I read between the lines and interpreted his creative musings as an affection for his Aztec roots. BUT, he still prefers gallo pinto, the traditional Nicaragua dish, to any combination of hot cheese-hot tortilla-ground beef-jalapenos. He also dislikes hamburgers and french fries, so the US is out of the question. Although, to be honest, he does enjoy the caja feliz toys.

Could Junito play for three different national teams like Real Madrid all-time great Alfredo Di Stefano? Unlikely. I anticipate him getting capped before his older sister’s quinceanera, which means no U15 or U17 shenanigans. Nope. Junito will burst onto the scene like Michael Owen, but with the lasting power of Paolo Maldini.

While Mexico loves players that skirt the nationality lines, I have one big problem with Junito following in my chicano footsteps: the word “raza.” Nobody has every satisfactorily defined this term for me. I hear it all the time as in “hoy hay un juego en la tarde, pura raza“, and I think – if I said the term “pure race” in English and had a shaved head, I would probably be talking about a minutemen meeting or something. Shudder.

More importantly, the contours of the raza have not been sufficiently elucidated. Is my Nicaraguan wife a member of la raza? Or is la raza just a synonym for Mexican? Repeated emails to the Real Academia have not been answered.

Still, I cast but one vote in this election and let the majority speak. And speak they did. Drum roll please….The winner of the Junito’s-future-national team-election is…..

Pitchinvasion.Again. Yes. You read it correctly. Pitchinvasion? Pitchinvasion. Again. Check out the results:

I know what you’re thinking because I had the same thought – isn’t Pitchinvasion a website, not a nation state? But our analysis can’t be so shallow – in the 21st century, as technology blurs the lines between nation-states and non-state actors, isn’t it entirely possible that Tom Dunmore will rule a big chunk of the universe? After all, he has a soccer blogger trophy case to make Ryan Giggs blush.

Plus, Pitchinvasion has a scarf. And the line between a scarf and a flag is a very fine one, one that is begging to be crossed.

So, there you have it, I try to run a fair & square election in the hopes my readers can guide my toddler son’s future professional career, but Tom Dunmore’s excellent Pitchinvasion gobbles up the votes like a meth using cookie monster. At least unlike the UK, there was a clear majority. And don’t worry, no legal wrangling on my part. I know how twisted anything resembling an election or award can become when it involves the soccer blogosphere.

That little take taking on a, oh, let’s say, 80% Clarence Seedorf, is none other than Daniel Maldini, of the illustrious Maldini heritage. He is also Junito’s mortal enemy in European Cup finals. In 2024, that is.

A lot of Americans head to Europe with the attitude that by sheer talent and determination they can take down the millennial-established aristocracy. After a year of hustling for work and no cent to their name, the weak-willed inevitably track back to the States, tail tucked firmly between their legs. The problem is brash arrogance. The solution is quiet confidence.

I can appreciate a little trash-talking among players, but, ultimately, Junito’s feet must do the talking. He must also learn to use his body in the offensive and defensive halves with cynical aggression. Case in point: this pickup game between the Zidane family.

The most surprising part of the video is not the obvious technical gifts of Zidane’s sons, but rather that he waited a whole two minutes to commit a cynical yellow card foul on his own five year old son. And by the fourth minute, only staring session into a solar eclipse could blind the average joe to the inevitable red card. And the trash talking…I wonder who Enzo learned that from?

Still, despite the potty mouth, I am glad that Junito will have  true Diez in Enzo Zidane to feed him delicious thru-balls. If the two of them are going to defeat the well-drilled AC Milan back line captained by Daniel Maldini, the combination play must be instinctive, rhythmic, and without hesitation.

Will Pellegrini still be Madrid’s manager at that time? I’m not quite sure. But I do have a good faith belief that Carlos Ancellotti will be back coaching at Milan by then, and, of course, the gentleman Berlusconi will still be owner and probably prime minister of Italy.

Junito has traded in his Huggies for calzoncillos (underpants)! The new influx of cash has led to an all important purchase – a Real Madrid jersey. However, I have come under criticism in some quarters for my treatment of Junito – am I inculcating him in some sort of blanquillo-obsessed cult?

Keep shooting, people, because the arrows fall off this iron-thick skin like a drop of water. The word “culto” means “cultured, educated,” in Spanish, so I will just pretend that instead of cult, you wanted to say culto. Yes, I am indoctrinating my son to be cultured and educated. What an astute observation!

Still, due to some financial distress, I was unable to get Junito an official Madrid jersey. Additionally, there were some cleaning concerns. The all white shirt must not be sodden, and Junito has not yet mastered the use of the silverware. Granted, the important thing is that Junito wear the shirt with pride and aplomb. But the fried cheese stains probably make the spirit of Puskas cry.

Despite a nose for goal, I have a confession to make – I still harbor hope that Junito can develop into a withdrawn striker/false nine. The shining example of grace for my money is Dennis Bergkamp of Arsenal fame. The Dutchman struck a fine balance between the amazing assist and the elegant goal.

There’s just one little stumbling block: the Ajax academy generally does not accept youths under the age of 5, but I do have their number on my cell phone. I haven’t cared call them, but it would be a shame to miss such a call because I thought it was a solicitor and didn’t answer. I could return the phone call, but I would hate to imperil Junito’s development in anyway.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking – the star of Real Madrid…at the Ajax Academy? Right now I am not impressed by the Madrid youth system. The “cantera” is appalling. Granero? Come on. Thus, Junito’s initial career path has two possible projections – either the Eredivisie, ala Ronaldo, or the Portuguese Liga, ala Ronaldo. He could dabble in the Premiership or maybe Serie A to cut his teeth, but nothing long-term. A post-35 deal in Qattar is also a distinct possibility.

Still, seeing as Junito is too young to start lifting weights, I have focused heavily on his cognitive development. Recently, he was able to recite the entire “burrito song” with no assistance. For those of you anglos, the burrito song refers to a “small donkey” who does not know the vowels. It is an excellent method to teach the kiddos the “vocales” in Spanish. Junito has excelled, as expected, but I am not sure he is ready to dive headfirst into the stormy ocean of consonants.

For now, to ensure he becomes a student of the game, I am emphasizing an exacting and rigorous approach to writing his own name in cellophane blocks. Absolutely, positively no taking a bite out the blocks. Not even a little bit. Junito, to his credit, has responded positively to my draconian, Fabio Capello, taskmaster tactics. As you can see…

Junito: English for “Mata-Barca”