#RealMadrid #Sport #Soccer #News
Players jump to Royal Arena and the silence tightens despite the special effects. Obviously this is not the football that I remember. The movie that I have in my head and I can’t take off was shot in Donosti in the late seventies and early eighties, the stands of the old Atocha They seemed to tremble when they heard that viral cry of “It’s okay, we have Arconada”.
The white blue They boasted then of having the best goalkeeper in the world under the sticks, capable of despairing the most devastating forwards. Santillana, Juanito or Pirri they passed them canutas to score a goal for the “octopus” Arconada. The Real society dreamed then of dusting the trophy case and unseating the club Chamartin as a league champion. It was another football, made of mud, kicks and emotions. Rain and cigarettes in the locker room.
Today I am sitting in front of the television and it seems to me that I am in the Prado Museum, watching foreign passes from Modric or Mikel merino spin on itself like a ticking clock. It is clear that it is not the same. In that football that I remember, Luis Miguel Arconada jumped like a cat, blocked the ball and kissed it, loving it. The goalkeeper was one of the main bastions in that league champion Royal Society with Lopez Ufarte, Zamora, Bakero or Satrústegui.
Today on TV Karim Benzema keep doing his thing and Odegaard He makes his debut against his gang friends, but I can’t stop remembering the flights without an engine, palm outstretched, by Arconada, one of the first “One club man”, Silent, good person, captain. A goalkeeper who had it all.
At this time of night, the field remains intact in front of my eyes, there are no puddles or dramas, it seems that after the break, Real Sociedad has taken a step forward and pushes the ball out of Madrid, Kroos is tired and Casemiro no this. Modric He is 35 years old.
I close my eyes again, Arconada is at the climax of his career after three consecutive Zamora trophies, the summer of 1984 heats up, but does not burn. That night in the Princes Park, in Paris, Spain play the final of the Eurocup against the hosts. Platini he throws a free kick and the ball slips away to the safest goalkeeper in the world. Those tenths of a second began to dig the goalkeeper’s grave forever. Nothing was the same again. From then on, Arconada endured carts and wagons in the country with the least football memory.
Anyway, when I look at the TV again I realize that I still love it Raphael varane, making coverage, going to court, sending, sprinting and leaving the skin to make Real Madrid at least leave a clean sheet from a difficult stadium. Just a month ago, after the game of Champions League in Manchester, was vilified and lashed out by critics.
What a bad memory football has.