As young children, we sincerely believed in a world of perfect communication between our parents. When mom said no to ice cream, we scurried over to our father. His first question? What did your mother say? Predictable, stable, coherent, only in the early stages of adolescence would we see hiccups in the assembly line of authority.

The central command of Real Madrid resembles your dysfunctional family, but also, more entertainingly, the command-and-control structure of the Cold War Era United States and Former Soviet Union. In a land of mixed signals, incorrect appraisals, missed messages, and pompous egoes, what can a humble madrileno do? What have we learned after all these years?

This.

Earthquakes only bother the people used to walking on stable ground. When I first moved to Managua, Nicaragua, two things stood out vividly – the searing sun and the dearth of air-conditioned buildings. As a spoiled American, what did I do? I complained. A lot. Then, I learned to sweat. Then, the heat internalized. Now, I get a cold if it drops below 85 and I wear a hoody to hospitals. For our loving and everlasting belief in the individual changing the world around him, the environment plays a part. As products of evolution, adaptability is the name of the game. And the mind is no different from the body.

The Cristiano Ronaldo-Kaka-Benzema splurge a few summers back did not surprise me. The recent Ruud Van Nistelrooy rumors barely elicited a blink. The Ozil acquisition caught me off guard – a good price for young talent? Perhaps Mou was in control, I speculated this summer. The Higuain injury, however, tossed a wrench into any such theory – Valdano loves the young Frenchman, while Mou remains unconvinced.

The signing of Adebayor presents many explanations and interpretations. Was it a Mou victory because Valdano in a sense admitted Benzema can’t always be counted on? However, oddly, after Mou said he liked Ruud and Ruud said he liked Real, the transfer fell apart. Conspiracy theories abound, but surely Real could have pushed Hamburg a bit. The neutral set of eyes is puzzled. But not me.

We could dabble in black athlete fetishism, comparing Adebayor to Drogba by claiming he has the physical “tools” but lacks the mental “strength.” Surely Mou can work wonders on the Togo striker’s mind! We could also chuckle at the irony of these two big-spending clubs arriving at a temporary thrift-store swap. Yet you can only ask yourself these types of questions so many times before the answer become the question and interrogatory symbols turn into exclamation points.

The linear scheme of life starts to bend. The end point becomes the starting point. And vice versa. You expect Madrid to scout a captain from the Colombian city of Macondo and with the last name Buendia. Also, the world at large ceases to exist. Meta and macro-analysis loses relevance. You grow indifferent to calls for reform. Is this a discarding of futile and neurotic First World expectations? Or does my cynicism short-circuit any true chance at major and lasting reforms?

At some level, I am aware that Barcelona and Real Madrid are engaged in a debt-driven duel of eventual mutually assured restruction (combo of corporate restructuring and liquidation). The Messi-gap does weigh on my spirits, though Cristiano has a good goal-to-game ratio in a white shirt. Do we need another central ballistic missile defender? Probably. Maybe. But I focus largely on the next game. Then I immediately forget it. And I start to focus on the next game.

When news broke of the Adebayor signing and the earlier Valdano-Mourinho spat, my reaction was exactly the same: I don’t really care. I care about the Copa del Rey and Sevilla. And now I don’t. The vibrations that shake the novice Madrid fan beat in sync with my heart. I stopped trying to build a house of cards in this land a long time ago. The future may not bring a better tomorrow, but I smile today. Optimistic pragmatism? That’s the best way to spin it.

A shrink might say that the collection of Real Madrid individual players that moves as a mass, a shapeless and directionless blob, is a Rorschach ink test. Against Osasuna, when Mou took off a defender and put on Adebayor alongside Benzema, I briefly flashed back to the chaotic heights of the Del Bosque era. Briefly. Therefore, perhaps I’m actually a pragmatic optimist. But I don’t dwell too much on today’s loss to Osasuna. Time pushes us forward, even when progress appears out of reach. A moment’s reflection would leave us flat on our face, that unforgiving treadmill of time!

In the world of Madrid, truth is a crime and we live on fictions. Bernd Schuster lost his job not for creating an efficient yet boring collection of champions, but for publicly admitting the obvious: his side could not beat Barcelona. Madrid’s history is best viewed after a decade, when the scars from the story of the day syndrome have healed. Even then, a glance back offers few lessons. After all, Madrid spends today to relive the glorious era of the Galacticos. Yet why stop at the early 2000′s? Why not attempt to recapture the spark of the Quinta del Buitre? Many snide journalists remark that being a coach is easy, a mere question of delegating to competent assistants. So why not just name Di Stefano coach and…

Video Credit: “Dr. Strangelove” by Stanley Kubrick

Movie Videos & Movie Scenes at MOVIECLIPS.com

So, in the spirit of WAATP shit look-a-likes, I stumbled upon a delightful feature film which I think sets the course for Jose Mourinho’s coaching career at Real Madrid. That film? Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining.” So grab a bag of fresh popcorn, tuck your kiddos safely into bed, and get ready to be terribly amazed.

The Interview….

Jose Mourinho had not even finished coaching Inter when he stuck his foot in the door at Real Madrid. Pellegrini Schmellegrini! The offer was too enticing for Perez to turn up, as Mourinho explained “You need a defensive minded & disciplined coach to lead Madrid to a domestic title and thus add credibility to your project. And Fabio Capello is not available.” However, Mourinho’s own confidence blinded him, failing to see the cracks that could never be fully papered over.

The Arrival…

Mourinho’s arrival led to the transfers of Guti & Raul, aging icons from the last Galactico’s era. Despite this gesture, doubts remained. Kaka would play a key role in….being injured for yet another season. Luckily, Van der Vaart is coming off a confidence building substitute appearance in the World Cup final, in which he managed to both fail to clear Torres’ cross and also keep Iniesta onside for the winning goal. All while wearing the captain’s armband. Wait a second….BAH! No time for such details.

Ominous Signs…

Jose Mourinho will sacrifice the King’s Cup competition to prioritize the Champions League and La Liga. Madrid will flame out before the final, but Mourinho will point to the progress as compared to last year. Nobody will listen. Everybody will only point to even further back, when Madrid last won the King’s Cup (1993). The questions & taunts of the press will reverberate throughout the Bernabeu, disrupting his sleep.

The First Encounter…

Mourinho will succeed where Pellegrini failed – delivering Madrid the needed La Liga trophy. While Jose’s Madrid will win by 1-0 margins as compared to the 4-2 attacking affairs of Manuel, Barcelona will get hit by the injury bug and a dose of inconsistency. Pep’s “Coldplay songs” will start to fall on deaf ears. Jose will celebrate the La Liga trophy as if it were his last.

The Madness Begins…

In European play, Jose will quickly realize he lacks a target forward akin to Drogba or Milito. More disturbingly, he will begin to obsess over the left back position. Arbeloa? Marcelo? Arbecelo? Marbeloa? Marbaarbeceloloa? Arbelarcemarcybalboa? All defense and viewing video of opposition make Mourinho…something something. All defense and viewing video of opposition make Mourinho…something something. Where’s my hatchet?

Consumed by Insanity…

The ghosts of past greats will haunt Mourinho. Despite winning La Liga and semi-respectable Champions League run, the rumors will swirl that Perez will axe the Portuguese at season’s end. Jose, affronted by the speculation, will chase Perez through the Bernabeu’s corridors, seeking words, comfort, and assurances. He will find none.

The End

Despite another silver pot in the trophy case, the critics that decry defensive football will win over Perez. The coach will thank Jose for his professionalism and then show him the door less than a week after winning La Liga. Out in the cold, Mourinho will briefly consider the eternally his Portugal manager job before instead deciding to do the honorable thing and freeze to death. Or he will become manager at City.

For those of you aficionados of cinema, Eusebio at Uno o Dos Toques has attempted valiantly to answer a very basic question: why do football movies inevitably suck? Eusebio looks at films from all walks of sport, and also has a few fantastic Spanish language films listed from the Di Stefano era. My favorite, Las Ibericas, is amazing for both subtly and goofily mocking machista culture. This is in stark contrast to the real world incident in Naquera, Spain, which my sources indicate sadly is true.

As for cinema and sport, this marriage suffers from a failed divorce. My basic feeling is that we as fans are too close to the reality to indulge in the fiction. We are the parents of actors – no matter how talented our offspring springs, we changed the diapers and remember the smell. We also love them, so no matter how awful the Montague monologue, we put on a charming smile and change the subject. Immediately.

The only two sport films I enjoy are Rocky and Slapshot. Rocky was good natured Hollywood fun with a workout montage that timeless conversations with turtles. Slapshot is, well, Wayne’s World meets ice hockey. Neither took themselves too seriously, unlike, say Any Given Sunday. Blah.

To read the entire Uno o Dos Toques article, hum up your Google translator, set to Spanish Espanol, and click here.