The Bernabéu has its own rules

In imposing stadiums or in a modest wasteland, football is a representation halfway between the Greek theater and the Roman circus.

A dramatic spectacle in which glory and failure fit in one centimeter, in one second.

The top and the bottom are always agonizingly close.

In addition, football is an area in which everyone is judged with an indisputable rod, but not always fair: the one who wins is right.

This is how the fan judges, from a tribal feeling that simplifies everything: loving what is their own and hating what is foreign.

Until he hits her.

But football is much more.

There are nights when he exhibits his power subverting any logic.

When he hits him with that stone, football becomes a show only fit for believers.

For example, 60,000 fans locked up in a cathedral and who recognize a religious power in the shield.

I watched the last minutes of Real Madrid-City on the edge of the pitch and I couldn't say which of the two spectacles was more impressive, the one of the players running wildly to achieve another feat or the one of the fans with wide eyes, like if they were witnessing something supernatural.

They felt part of the game, convinced that each shout was worth one meter of running for their heroes.

And it was true.

There is no other place where so many people feel the glory as theirs.

The pieces on the ground.

Fashions impose their rules and these are tactical times.

The aspiration is that the method controls the game.

The coaches turn the field into a chessboard in which each piece has its value: from the hardworking pawn to the deciding king.

But the Santiago Bernabéu, for a long time, invented a game that has its own rules.

It happens at any time and does not need to last long.

First something has to happen, if possible a goal, that will scatter all the chess pieces in one fell swoop.

That's when amazing things start to happen.

It is also called soccer and it is unstoppable.

Something that resembles a happy madness takes over the stadium and is projected onto the field, opening the doors to instinct, passion, courage, luck... All ingredients of a game that aspires to the impossible.

The impossible.

I don't know how Florentino, a businessman who can do anything, hasn't thought of bottling and selling what happened against City after 89 minutes. With what he earned, he would pay for the new stadium in one morning.

Because in those minutes the emotional power of football is concentrated, a feeling that when concentrated in a club has a component of obsession and another, more important, of love.

On one occasion when the Bernabéu was boiling, I made a rational comment to Alfredo Di Stéfano about I don't know what and, pointing at the people, he cut me off: “Tell just one of these to think”.

Indeed, in those moments he does not think about himself, he feels.

Who can think of looking for reasons for a miracle?

Leaving the stadium, very late, I came across two Real Madrid fans drunk with satisfaction: “Against Liverpool, what?” they asked me.

"Impossible",

I answered.

All three of us knew what we were talking about.

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