Take a deep breath. And try to hide your disappointment.

We often approach the past as we do societies, creating a metanarrative with a set result in mind, reducing the individual and autonomy to mere wheels in the cog of a grandiose machine. Looking back at World Cup 2006, we always knew that Totti would bury that penalty kick against Australia with the Italians a man down and fighting for their life. David Terezeguet’s shot will always kiss the post, gifting Italy the title. Yet in the moment, we held our breath and said our respective hailmary’s.

To repeat the obvious – this truly is a golden generation of footballers for Spain. It seems like yesteryear that Figo was turning Puyol, Xavi was coughing up balls to Frank Lampard, and Sergio Ramos galloped up and down the flanks in Sevilla. Flash forward to 2006, when Spain held a 1-0 lead over France in the quarterfinals and dominated possession. Only a collective surge from the veteran midfield trio of Makelele, Vieira, and Zidane could asphyxiate Xavi and company, but you knew the seeds of greatness had been planted.

Tiki-tak. Juego tram tram. The Spanish game has a number of adjectives, some positive, some negative. My preferred metaphor has always been the anaconda – the furia roja keeps the ball and slowly wears down defenses both physically and mentally, preferring a safe pass backwards to a risky attack. Over the course of 90 minutes, a gap or two will open. A defender will slip or not step and commit an error. And then they squeeze their grip.

The Dutch defense grew tighter and compact as the game wore on, with De Jong and Von Bommel practically holding hands in the later stages and Schneijder rarely foraying into the attacking half. Robin Van Persie, starved of service, almost completed disappeared from the match. The only hope was the soccer equivalent of the Hail Mary, a long pass to Robben over the top. And it almost worked.

Robben the goat. Iker the savior. Take your pick of blame and credit and label the players as you deem appropriate. The harsh reality: the ball did not enter the net, and relying on balls over the top of Pique’s head was a low percentage strategy to begin with anyway. The red card for Holland was the stage cough, the forshadowing of an imminent demise. When the Dutch defense finally opened up and Iniesta got a half chance, nobody doubted he would bury it. This was a man that two years ago had dashed Chelsea’s dreams with a wonder strike deep in injury time.

Clutch. Brave. Persistent. Pick your label and place it on Iniesta, whose presence added an offensive spark to Spain when compared with last summer’s Confederations Cup. When looking back at World Cup 2010, Spain’s first star, and this golden generation of the furia roja, Iniesta’s right footed strike will fill the eyes with a shining example of timing and technique.

It’s a mere puff of the pipe, but it’ll have to do.

From the audience perspective, the German counterattacks play out like a creepy killer carefully entering and walking through the house. As the masked villain slowly tiptoes down the hallway towards the bedroom, we flash to scenes of the impervious back line, taking a shower. Will Heinze step in time to rule Podoslki offsides? Oh no...he’s decided to use conditioner and can’t hear the killer turning the door handle to the bedroom!

On the other hand, with enough possession and half chances, the victim always manages to kick and punch and wrestle her (or his) way out a window, only to find that she’s stranded on the roof. She manages to wriggle down a nearby tree, but you know the killer is already hiding in the backseat of her car. In this sense, the German victory resembles the finality of surgery, where anesthesia dulls the pain until the very end. Instead of seeing the victim’s eyes as the knife enters the abdomen, the last ten minutes of the match we witness slumped shoulders and half-assed runs. The curtains slowly close and soon the credits role.

This game presented a contrast to the Argentina of 2006, which I argue was built like Dunga’s Brazil. That albiceleste side packed the midfield with Maxi, Mascherano, and Cambiasso – all of whom worked as ball winding bodyguards that in turn supplied Riquelme. The emphasis on possession and organization yielded a draw against Germany, which they won on penalty kicks. This Argentina side rode on the backs of three strikers, sacrificing meaningful possession for offensive forays. Mascherano ran his tail off, but the trifecta of Higuain-Tevez-Messi failed to seriously trouble a packed German center.

The few moments of danger came from Dimaria, which is the closest proximity to a winger that Argentina has produced as of late. The lack of width, and notably of overlapping runs, was the antithesis of Brazil’s over-reliance on the galloping Maicon. Yet neither served either country in their quest to advance past the quarterfinals. For all the talk of nationalism, of how importing foreign players dilutes national teams, the two largest suppliers lost to the Dutch and the Germans. And in 2006 they lost respectively to France and Germany.

So the only answer is for the respective Argentine and Brazilian leagues to open up a large pipeline for German, French, and Dutch players. Or something like that.

Regardless, the press will jump on Maradona for the lopsided defeat. Still, he took his side as far as Pekerman four years ago, albeit losing in emphatic fashion. The Argentine questions of “por que no puso a Milito” will cascade throughout the internet, but such tactical substitutions and ruminations will amount to little. The Germans on their day are always one step quicker, jump an inch higher, stay composed in the box, and are a few steps behind you with a shining dagger in their hand.

However, this was not a case of the swashbuckling jogabonito Dutch vs. the boring Brazilians. The Holland on display fielded three central midfielders, Schneijder, Von Bommel, and De Jongo, two of which are more janitorial than artistic. Up front, Van Persie found himself isolated as Kuyt’s chronic lack of pace and Robben’s left leaning proclivities starved him of quality service. Did Gio overlap Robben even one time during the course of the game? Cruyff’s total football is dead. Long live the Cruyff.

So, if we cannot fault for philosophical impurity when facing an equal evil, what can we say? Well, Felipe Melo had a terrible season at Juventus and Gilberto is on the wrong side of 30. Was this truly the rock solid center around which to construct a team? Of course, Elano’s injury and Ramirales’ suspension deprived Melo & Gilberto of a reliable sidekick, but Von Bommel and Schneijder recently faced off in the Champions League final. Comparatively, Melo lost to a miraculous Fulham in the Europea league quarterfinals and Gilberto took the Orient Express East across the Mediterranean a few years ago.

We could also play the Brazilian keeper blame game, a historical favorite and emotional crutch of a nation. If only Cesar had been stronger in the air, then Melo’s indecision would have meant little. Just like four years ago, a clever setpiece bamboozled the Brazilian backline for the winning goal. This time, instead of Roberto Carlos adjusting his sock, Juan and Lucio bit on the Kuyt header, allowing the elusive Schneijder to head freely from five yards.

Yet these two moments underscore a larger problem – the lack of clear cut chances by Brazil. Kaka, Robinho, and Fabiano rarely combined, their heels, flicks, and feints smothered in a sea of orange. Kuyt hustled and bustled to neutralize Maicon, and suddenly the lack of a Plan B became apparent. Nilmar and Gilberto Melo are good players, but not game changers. The cries for Pato and Ronnie fell on deaf ears.

Still, Dunga is the loneliest man in the world today. His Brazilian team, built on European organization and discipline, failed to out-European a well disciplined and disciplined European side. In a tense game of few clear cut chances, one can watch the replays over and over again with no clue as to who will win or who should have won. The game was not a game in any sense of the world, but more of a mixed arm wrestling – staring contest.

If Kaka had kept his sole shot low, the streets of Rio would be filled with samba dancing fans draped in green and yellow. But Brazil blinked first.

Wesley Schneijder is that abrasive guy who kinda shadows you at social events. You show up to a protest, a rally, a meeting, and guess who is there, standing just behind you. Oh, what a coincidence. Hello subtly abrasive guy who makes believe he is your shadow. Yes, of course the two of you will exchange brief pleasantries while your mind hums along, searching for exit strategies. Oh, you forgot to take your nonexistent son to the emergency room for heart cancer? Gotta run. Oh. His son has the same problem. Sure. A carpool would be great. Shit. Subtle.

Martin Demichelis is that guy who always starts fights and ends up in a hospital. The local sports franchise is playing an important game. As such, you and a few of the crew head to a local pub, sipping away on some fruit flavored beer when the pony-tailed prince of paupers arrives. Within minutes, he is chest to chest with a guy twice his side. The bigger man tries to avoid trouble and backs off, but le pony follows him outside, where he soon finds his nose broken and himself lying in a pool of blood. But when you hear his side of the story, he at least landed a few punches before the guys’ friends intervened. Friends. What a novel concept. Delusional.

Jose Mourinho sits at the front of class and won’t stop raising his fricking hand. Congratulations on having done all the reading last night and now, at 8am, sharing every detail of every paragraph plus your thoughts. Why let anyone else speak? Why let anyone else take credit? Dialogue? But monologues make for such potent stage work. Dramatic.

Diego Milito you start to hate but then you laugh out loud. Who is this guy? He just kinda walks in, and then, bam, he gets one or two passes and spins gold out of hay. What the……oh, you can’t stay mad. Look at that sheepish grin. You fool nobody. Go ahead. Pat Diego on the back. Give him a high five. Slap him on ye olde buns if it suits your unusual manifestations of masculine bonding. Lovable.

Mark Von Bommel is the driver who never checks his blind spot or uses his turn signals before changing lanes. What’s that? There are….there are other people on the highway? You may…you can hit them if you run around recklessly with no regard for their well being? No way. Total shocker. I thought you could just hop on the expressway and it was Lord of the Flies meets law of the jungle meets an R rated version of Lost. Sorry about the fender. And the shin. And the foot. And the thigh. Dick.

Was this a season of disappointment? Of competitive balance? A two horse race with an overpriced and underachieving show pony stealing headlines? Has the European soccer planet shifted gravitational pull towards the Iberian peninsula? The story lines abounded, and a few refreshing moments shall wet your appetite before the MOST IMPORTANT EVENT is explained.

The global economic collapse caught up with the Premiership, as managers at the very top and bottom grappled with interest payments taking the place of player acquisition. Manchester United did not renew Carlos Tevez’s contract, losing 20 plus league goals. The Red Devils rode Wayne Rooney as long as they could, falling just short in the league race. Liverpool, forced to pinch pennies, failed to sign a quality striker and capitulated after injuries to Fernando Torres.

Chelsea declined to buy Kun Aguero in the January transfer window, instead relying on the eventual top scorer Didier Drogba and in form Nicolas Anelka. Despite a loss, at home, to Jose Mourinho’s Inter, the Blues beat United at Old Trafford and blew everybody else out of the water, scoring more than 100 goals by season’s end.

Arsenal were and were not a contender. The injury to Robin Van Persie left the Gunners dependent on Nick Bendtner, the soon-to-be-world’s-greatest striker who is not quite yet the world’s-greatest-striker. And the injury to Cesc Fabregas in the Champions League did not help matters.

In the battle for Fourth, Manchester City went from a collection of individual talented miscreants to a band of undersized misfits. Roberto Mancini welded the diminutive Craig Bellamy, Carlos Tevez, and Shaun Wright Phillps into a fierce attacking talent. They managed to thrash Chelsea at Stamford Bridge, but lost at home to United on a Paul Scholes header.

And they fell short of fourth, losing the second to last game to Harry Redknapp’s Spurs. Yes. Spurs will soon play Champions League football, the golden city of Jerusalem should fall from the sky any day now, and the temperature in Hades is a refreshing 4 degrees Celsius. Still, we all recall the price of success that Pompey paid after Redknapp’s spell.

At they very bottom, Portsmouth entered administration as allegations surfaced that the club missed one too many ransom payments. Faced with impossibly high interest rates from the ransomers, also known as “bankers”, Pompey bit the points deduction bullet but, in spite of itself, has managed to reach the FA Cup final. However, the EPL did not care to throw its weight behind a Championship participant in next season’s UEFA cup. To the surprise of nobody, Portsmouth missed the deadline for the application.

The soccer blogsophere entered the realm of the Securities and Exchange commission, with bloggers brushing up on their accounting and MBA for dummies books. The debt cast light on a clash of anglo saxon cultures, as American owners lived by fast and loose franchise “principles” while the English public clamored for public trust. To be continued…

Still, the biggest story was not the John Terry scandal that rocked the English media. Nope. JT’s infidelity only served to distract and mislead the puritanical public. JT’s sexcapades were smoke and mirrors to cover up the canary in the mine, the bird of victory that chirped and tweeted well before Wayne Bridge got betrayed.

I speak, of course, of the infamous Stamford Bridge Colgate-Gate. While Chelsea won a home victory, a fan was caught brushing his teeth at a match. And we celebrated. And we cried. And we wondered – why? Why? Why did this poor fan wait until arriving to the soccer stadium to brush his teeth? Did he just eat a foul odored snack? Did he actually apply toothpaste and water, or was this a dry run? Was gingivitis a legitimate concern?

At the time, we laughed at the signs of the Blues championship with bewilderment and skepticism. Surely this was  a PR stunt, we told ourselves. After all, if the International Panel on Climate Change cites non-peer reviewed blogs as secondary sources, then all is well on planet earth? And thereby planet premiership?

But we were blind to the smoke spewing from the Chelsea volcano. Only now, covered in molten lava, as the odor of our own burning skin fills our nostrils, can we reflect on this omen of omens, this sign from the Gods. As our corpse melts into a summer of World Cup entertainment and probable disappointment, we would do well to the remember our brush-in with “The Brush” of the goddesses.

The temptation after a 3-1 victory is to overreact. For the record, I believe that Barcelona could have tied this match with slightly better finishing, and can win 2-0 at home. However, the nuts & bolts & predictions seldom interest me – rather, my problem is philosophical. How can I describe the etymology of this game? Here’s a few stabs…

First, the prisoner of the ideal. I could paint Mourinho as the shifting tactician – everyone, including me, expected catenaccio, but his Inter side came out in a 4-4-2 with guns blazing. Guardiola, however, is handcuffed by the weight of a 4-3-3 dogmatic system. He cannot make changes because change is the antithesis of everlasting & eternal beauty. To not play the Dutch way is not to play at all in Barcelona. Thus, while Ibrahimovic may scream for a mobile striker partner like Bojan, Guardiola’s hands are tied to the mast. He had to field the winger formation for the sake of fielding the winger formation.

Second, the land of chance & happenstance. This game was the product and end result of cosmic luck, a joke of the universe, a random series of events with no purpose or meta-narrative (aside from this one). Had Samuel missed an early tackle on Messi, Barcelona would have cruised to a demoralizing 2-0 victory. And that actually happened in an alternative universe that is only slightly less random and more weird than this one. Trust me.

Third, the price of beauty. Twice, Barcelona has taken the lead in away matches in Europe. Thus, the beauty and positiveness of their patient passing approach requires the exertion of energy – energy which trades off with the latter stages of games and the art of defense. To paint a picture, one must utilize resources such as an easel, a canvass, etc. To play beautiful football, Barcelona must use their physical energy. And they have played so beautifully so early on in these European encounters, that the energy sapped trades off with defending and the latter stages of matches. Sale vi!

Fourth, the failure of the individual. Samuel E’too was “traded” for Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Zlatan played a poor game, which hindered the Barcelona attack. Thus, rather than being a failure of a system, tactics, or an ideal, the crushing weight of the defeat must fall upon the Swede’s broad shoulders. E’too played a decent game, creating chances and pressing in the midfield. He also has scored in two different European Cup finals. Zlatan has yet to shine on the biggest stage.

Fifth, a group of 11 men played another group of 11 men for 90 minutes and scored more goals than the other. For the record, this is the meta-narrative I am most comfortable with.

Well, you could microwave popcorn. You could probably even pour yourself a refreshing glass of water or perhaps a delectable carbonated beverage of your choice. Maybe, just maybe, you could even unwrap the scarf bound to Mancini’s neck. Surely in mid-April, his neck is no longer cold. But is he like the mythical pale & beautiful woman from grade school lore, whose head is only kept on by the narrowest of threads? Perhaps he has a rare condition called cuello-cold-itis, in which poor blood circulation makes for extreme discomfort when not properly covered?

Oh yes, the match. Well, City’s barrage of small & crafty forwards continued to dribble and dribble, aided by the late substitution of Shaun Wright Phillips. Of course, this posed a dilemma – with so many free kicks won, who among that bunch would actually win a header? Mancini subbed on Patrick Vieira to said effect, and a Van der Saar miscue almost gifted City a win in the later stages. The flying Dutchman failed to soar far enough to snag the ball, instead palming it delicately into the 8 yard box much like you would place a newborn into a crib. Only Nemanja Vidic, who managed to stop a point blank shot and pass out of danger while sitting saved United’s skin.

Of course, Van der Saar did have a fantastic save off a Carlos Tevez free kick in the first half, so maybe, just maybe, this 40 plus years old veteran with a few titles can be forgiven. Maybe. For all the talk of Tevez revenge, though, the majority of action manifested itself in the dueling-handsome-devils of Craig Bellamy and Gary Neville. Pessimists would call the individual antics “petulant.” Optimists would label them as “scrappy.” Still, if you are ever walking about town and see two ravenous chihuahuas fighting over a bone, try not to stare. But you will fail. At least don’t stick your hand in there.

Oh yes, the game. Well, as you gleamed from a mobile phone sports-ticker application, United won 1-0. The goal was from Paul Scholes. Surely this was one of those classic piledrivers off a setplay, with Giggs teeing him up and the Brandy Dandy unleashing a shot with more venom than all the venomous snakes and venomous spiders of the world combined, and those snakes and spiders to have been subject to creepy secret-government-lab venom enhancing drugs. No. No shot with a foot. No venom. No spider. No secret lab. I’m afraid to say…it was a header. A Paul Scholes header.

Now I know what you’re thinking – a ha! Exactly as Sir Alex planned. A tight game, a winning goal in injury time, the title race trolley continues to the next stop! I hate to break your heart, but Sir Alex did not diagram this play. In fact, I’m sure when he saw a meager 3 minutes of injury time, he checked his watch and thought – “Bloody hell, I have 32 minutes by my count.”

Still, with 30 seconds left in the game, Patrice Evra presumably whipped in a cross and had no clue it was headed in Paul Scholes’ direction. The City defense, knowing that Paul Scholes was in the box, checked out mentally and began to ruminate on their summer plans. “Well, Kolo wants to head to Miami with the missus, but the guys are heading to Tenerife for some golf, hmmmmm.”

Paul took advantage of the time and space to prepare himself spiritually and mentally to channel the Karma spirit of the deceptively fast & bouncing header. The ball did not strike his head. His head did not strike the ball. Rather, the two merged briefly to share the same plane and dimension before – whack – the hand of the Karma spirit guided the ball to the back of the net.

Scholesy, of course, leaped up in celebration and ran to the visiting section. He was just glad he didn’t break his nose.

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.

He has done neither. And he has succeeded with fantastic aplomb.

The Alcocorn hiccup aside, Madrid trails Barcelona by 2 points. The games, the goals, the endless and relentless storm ahead of progress. But exactly has Manuel done? It’s quite simple – he has imposed a style of Madrid that is Madrid. Madrid no longer plays like a lost puppy sniffing for scraps. Madrid now plays like Madrid. Allow me to elaborate.

You are a Barcelona fan. You believe their short-passing game is an emblem of “culture.” You set down the New York Times theatre review every Sunday for one reason and one reason alone – to obsess over Xavi and Andres Iniesta’s sideways ten foot passes. You occasionally shout at your wife – Did you see the completion of that ten foot pass? She wisely ignores you.

Barcelona’s style of the play is Citizen Kane, brilliantly deceptive and seductively boring. You could fall asleep at any segment of the mirror-as-metaphor scenes, and wake up to still follow the central question: what is rosebud? Similarly, when watching the Catalonians, you could fall asleep at any time and wake up to ask – who will complete the next ten foot sideways pass? The central question remains: when will they score the goal?

The Madrid of Pellegrini is an 80’s era Steven Spielberg Indiana Jones film. Metaphor? Ha. Social commentary? Ha Ha. Pure, simple, emotional enjoyment? By the boatloads. If Barcelona plays the cello to a delicate crescendo, then Madrid bursts and shakes like a Colt 45. But Madrid does not pause to reload.

In the 6-2 victory over Villareal, two moments come to mind. In the 65th minute, a Kaka poach-pass gifted Ronaldo a gilt-edged chance. CR9 fluffed it spectacularly, but raised his hands in disgust to nobody. The cameraman did not have time to capture a closeup of his anguish because, simply put, the rest of CR9’s teammates continued to aggressively pursue the ball.

In the 70th minute, Marcos Senna, the symbol of Villareal’s rise to Spanish and European prominence, laid down on the pitch in a sorry state. He covered his face with his jersey. He would barely walk the rest of the match. Simply put, he was exhausted. He had just failed to catch up with the fleet footed Higuain, and the Argentine’s goal would not be Madrid’s last.

So what has Manuel done? He has rotated the midfield like a game of Russian roulette, with Guti, Granero, and Mahamadou Diarra getting bit parts but playing them to perfection. He also has instilled self-belief. With a simple task – score more goals, Madrid rarely shrugs their shoulders in self-defeat. Defeat is a distinct possibility in a game of 90 minutes, but not in a spiritual sense. Not under Manuel.

Pellegrini has injected urgency into Madrid’s approach, emphasizing athleticism like a certain popular league across the pond. Granted, the obvious criticisms. (1) When Madrid bombs forward, they leave gaping holes at the back. This is true, but Pellegrini’s solution to conceding a goal is to score another one. Mathematically, he is correct.

(2) Sustainability. No team can run for 90 minutes. This is also true, but Madrid’s deluge of goals in the later stages shows either a strong fitness regime or a youthful & large roster. Or both. Also, the power of the mind to overcome physical limits should not be underestimated – adrenaline is powerful shit. Really powerful shit.

Lastly, Manuel is merely a caretaker for expensive players. And Madrid’s spending is itself not sustainable.

I concede this may be the bank-breaking version of the Galacticos Part Dos. The books may be imbalanced. But I’m just a fan. I just want to watch a great game. I want to see my team win. I want to enjoy myself. After all, that’s the fun part of a roller coaster – you don’t look down until you have to.

Just when you think the debt crisis and stupid national associations and horrific terrorist attacks can ruin the sport you love, a game, a performance, a single act can part the gray clouds hovering over your little plot of land. This game had every season to suck – Madrid had lost at Riazor since before you can remember and it opened with a Granero goal. Yawn.

Yet Madrid never stopped going forwards. True, at times they did pass sideways more than we’d expect, but the blanquillos rained fire and brimstone upon the Deportivo goal. When Kaka put Guti through, you just knew that Guti would find a way to not score. But then Guti blew your mind wide upon like a point blank Colt 45.

Guti’s heel pass sent a wave of giggles sifting through the Madrid universe on a scale unseen since your grade school science teacher forgot to zip his fly. I myself could not stop laughing and kicking my legs for a good ten minutes. And yet Madrid continued to bomb forward.

Karim Benzema, to his credit, is the too-cool-to-arrive-early to the party type. And he plays it too perfection. He just sat back and pounced on both Arbeloa’s cutback and Guti’s cheeky heel.

Yeah, Karim also has that silent-Zizou-French Algerian thing going on, but not in the “I’m silent because I’m better than all of you combined” sense. No, his is more of a “silent because I plan on scoring a lot of goals” sense. The distinction, while subtle, should not be downplayed.

Xabi Alonso continues to wait a half second too long when passing, yet his stubbornness on the ball more then compensated. At various occasions, Deportivo’s midfield buzzed at his heels, but Xabi swatted them away with his rhinoceros legs like the flies they were. And Raul. Well, Raul still has a pulse. But when you come off for Drenthe, the writing is not on the wall, it’s on your forehead.

Ramos almost went a game without conceding a penalty  via reckless challenge, but in a game this pulsating, this vibrant, this alive, such empujoncitos are best forgiven.

So thank you, Madrid, for helping me to forget about balance sheets and supports trusts for 90 minutes.  And thank you, Guti, for the giggles.