poor colombia

Colombia has been so determined not to go to the World Cup that it has ended up getting it.

Never before has he been so eager to fail.

She came with options until the last qualifying match, although she was actually dead a long time ago.

Without an identity, lost in the offices, led by a man with sad eyes and a tired walk, the selection went straight to the slaughterhouse with little resistance.

His direct rivals did everything possible with their continuous clumsiness so that, with the minimum, he would play at least the playoff, but the suicidal desire was so strong that it ended up prevailing.

Poor Colombia.

The team has made self-sabotage their way of life.

It has an air of Barça from the eighties.

He had found the way with the Argentine José Pekerman, but was dismissed at the whim of the directors of the federation.

Now we know that he bothered them that he commanded too much, that he isolated the team, that he didn't let them get on the player's plane.

The men in ties put their privileges before football and here is the result.

Instead of Pekerman came Queiroz, a melancholy coach who did not understand the country.

He left after just four knockout games, losing resoundingly to Uruguay and Ecuador.

It is suspected that the players made his bed.

Reinaldo Rueda has not fared better.

In Pekerman's antipodes, he put so much obstinacy in leaving his goal to zero that he forgot about the opposite.

Colombia went seven complete games without scoring against anyone, a record in South America.

Not that the players have helped him much.

He has an extraordinary Lucho Díaz, a modern soccer player with a long stride and an elastic body, so perfect that he looks like something out of a laboratory, but also with James Rodríguez, resigned from his duties at the age of 30.

It has become customary to change him at game time because his legs don't give him more.

Nobody knows what Colombia is playing.

In the nineties, Pacho Maturana imposed the game of possession (and attack).

He became the spiritual guide of a band of revelers who made every game a party.

Joy and self-confidence was his hallmark.

Two decades later, Pekerman recovered that essence, the players went back to dancing salsa with their opponents.

Queiroz and Rueda, however, stayed at the bar, looking at the dance floor, not daring to rehearse a few steps.

Prudence sometimes pays dearly.

How naive was Colombia.

He believed that with little he was worth, that with Pekerman's inertia it was enough to qualify for the World Cup.

He believed himself to be in the club of the privileged, the elite.

And he could belong to her in his own right, but he got lost along the way.

Politicking got in the way, the grass went into the background.

The team let go and by the time they realized it was too late.

A philosopher who expressed himself with his feet, like Maradona, left it said: "The ball does not stain."

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