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“We'll be here for free until we put up with it” is the phrase of the year. The Sergio Ramos pronounced it in the press conference where it tried to clarify what preferred of Madrid, if the money or the equipment. Unexpectedly, he opted for the city, as if he had suddenly understood that China is a country where there is no Retreat. Neither does Real Madrid play, they let him know later. Castelao asked him, the factcheck classic, about the suspicions that always surround his polemics with Florentino, why he seemed to smell renewal like someone who secretly prepares a barbecue. Ramos spun several topics, spoke in the third person about himself and ended up finding that phrase that is pure anthropology. Under the tattoos, the charisma, his way of life, Ramos is exactly “we'll be here for free until we endure”, the Quejío of the one who has everything.
Ramos's phrase is much more concrete than it seems. It is a cry for help that connects the legend of football with the basements of its origin. The sentimental approach to the misery that sings to shake off the injustices, the pains, the indifference of the rest, what do I know? What physical hunger does Ramos have? The same is a hunger stuck to the conscience. The phrase is a B1 of those who ask for forgiveness for existing but demand their part, the recognition that, they believe, they deny. There is a foundational moment in the life of these happy types marked by the black ray, where they find the fact that marks their existence forever. The legend starts lame, harassed by the conspiracies: the goal of Lisbon.
Resentment is a cante geyser jondo, Ramos knows his mouth with blood when he says “for free”. Ramos, that spirit decanted by Despeñaperros dressed as Gucci, praises the city in a clear reproach: You still owe me, he says. “We will be here for free”, means that Madrid is above all, there are not enough millions to buy a move to another city. It comes to duty. He is delivered.
It will not be infinite. “Until we endure”, as if he were on the verge of collapse, confessing the drama he tries to disprove. What's Sergio Ramos enduring? With what secret tragedy does it charge? He is sad because of the indifference of a stingy city, which is not grateful to match that final, the gift of the Tenth. The majestic plural speaks beyond Ramos, expanding to the franchise, as if by threatening to leave his march prepared a camp of supporters, family and horses.
There I am also mounted, willing to follow this soul in pain capable of the sublime and the worst, absent the middle term of mediocrity. It is a condemned myth, clinging to the incurable sadness of not feeling recognized. The rage pushed him to finish that ball. The goal greased the vicious circle of anxiety. “Until we endure.” Ramos does not have a problem with the club: he wants to have his name put on the Gran Vía.