Blessings

Simeone, supported by his players after winning the league title.ALIGA / Europa Press

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I have no merit. My two grandparents were called Manuel, both were called Manolo, both were from Atleti. I remember my father leaving the room so that we would not see him cry in the second Heysel final, my mother cheering in a whisper in every corner, now, now, now, Atleti, now, from any game on any Sunday. Just as they chose my name, they taught me that soccer is pronounced Atleti, and I never called it something else, although the girls at my school couldn't understand it. I did not choose hell or heaven, but the red and white stripes widen and compress my heart when it beats for my team. We, the mattresses, are not from Atleti. We Indians are Atleti. A simple preposition changes everything. Without understanding that, nothing is understood,But who needs understanding when he's so happy And I have no merit, but mine has been immense. We have won the League against everything and everyone, from before we started — Cholo, go away — until after we finished —in Genoa nothing happened, but the Pucela parking lot will bring us ruin—. We have had to endure a lot, from the taunts towards a genius who was called old, lame, fat and finished, to the ITV of a Fiat Panda, going through a series of conspiracies that were embarrassing. In spite of everything, against everyone, we have once again crowned a mountain, we have conquered a new ladder, we have ascended the throne of Neptune to cradle lovingly in his lap. And we have suffered, yes, but much less than those who have not gained anything. So, for my parents and my grandparents, for my brothers and for my children, bless you,once again, Cholo Simeone. Bless your boys, one by one. Blessed is this madness, the glory of Atleti.