The cards of the soccer players that, as a child, one contemplated wrapped in a linotype aroma last as a category of the mind until the end of life.
Those soccer players were superhuman heroes, but in the exchange of cards, which one carried out with their teammates, their value and appreciation varied, not because of their play on the field, their headers, their popcorn saves or the way they dribbled, but for the number of times they were or were not repeated in the envelopes of the kiosk each week.
That was the deal.
“I'll exchange these three from Valladolid for a Gainza from Athletic Bilbao.
I'll give you four for a Zarra or for a Puchades or for a Ramallets”.
In trading cards, we post-war children learned the law of supply and demand, the effects of devaluation and the marginal utility of a commodity.
Those heroes remained unchanged without age in our minds over time until one day we saw a footballer in civilian clothes out of the card and we were surprised to discover that it was a boy, when we were already 40 years old.
It was the first time one felt old.
Then began the nostalgia that Serrat sang in the song
Temps was Temps,
one of Spain, great and free, that of the
take it or leave it
contest , that of rubber bands and enemas, that of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, that of Basora, César, Kubala, Moreno and Manchón.
In today's football, trading cards continues, but now the cards are made of flesh and blood and some are worth 200 million.
The signings, transfers, rinses, cheating that are carried out in the offices of the stadium are not anywhere near as clean as those that we closed as children sitting in a circle on the sidewalk.
While the public roars in the stands of the presidential box, those beings who once seemed like superhuman heroes are today turned into merchandise and their bodies are bought and sold in parts.
Subscribe to continue reading
read without limits
Keep reading
I'm already a subscriber