The photo, football and the weather

The World Cup is coming and it brings back memories.

In 1990 I had been a former soccer player for three years and Bilardo asked me for six months of sacrifice in exchange for another World Cup.

I accepted, but the word "sacrifice" had been well used.

It took me a lot to get ready.

On May 20, 1990, we were installed in Trigoria, the Roma sports facilities, waiting for the World Cup.

As it was now just over two weeks before the start of Italia 90, my journey was coming to an end.

We had just had dinner in the evening of a fine day.

We were talking with Oscar Ruggeri about the last practice, in which I had finally felt good physically.

Three weeks earlier, in Switzerland, playing an informal friendly, he had suffered a muscle problem.

He was not the first.

Given the proximity of the championship I told Bilardo that the best thing was to leave it, but he asked me to please stay.

And he had me back.

Ruggeri was pleased because, as a roommate, he had experienced the entire process firsthand.

But that night, Bilardo rushed into the room and gave Ruggeri an order:

"I'm out, Oscar, I have to talk to Valdano."

Oscar looked at both of us, surprised, and left us alone...

"Look, Valdano," Bilardo said, "I don't see you."

What does "I don't see you" mean?

I don't see you, I don't see you...

Jorge Valdano and Gringo Giusti before the World Cup in Italy 90.

I tried to find out more details about a decision that was so far removed from the conversation we had in Switzerland, but I didn't get him out of the “I don't see you”.

Astute as he was, he knew that every other word could be evidence against him.

So the "I don't see you" meeting lasted two minutes, the third Ruggeri came back to the room, I told him what had happened, he was surprised that I hadn't hit him and, already laughing, I started to pack my suitcase to go back to Spain.

The next day I got rid of my sports clothes, closed my suitcase and went out to wait for my taxi.

There was not a drop of joy in those acts.

Going outside I met Gringo Giusti, a very dear colleague whom I had known since I was 15 years old because we both come from Newell's school.

He was with Carlos Pachamé, Bilardo's second, going out to train.

El Gringo had his own story.

Bilardo had also spoken with him and told him that, when he returned from Israel, he would give him a test and, verbatim:

—If you don't jump the fences, you go back home.

And he jumped it.

I couldn't believe it because Giusti was always one of Bilardo's favorite soldiers.

It was a very hot day and there, almost without words, we said goodbye to two 86 world champions, sad as beginners rejected in a test.

Suddenly the Gringo told me to wait and ran away.

He came right back with a camera (1990s, remember) and, wise as he is, put things in their place:

"Let's go take a picture."

When we see her in a few years, we're going to laugh.

So Carlos Pachamé was the illustrious photographer who immortalized us in a rather bad image.

Ten years later, I was passing through the Hilton Hotel in Buenos Aires and at reception they gave me a package that at first I thought was a book.

But no, it was the photo Pachamé took of us in a rustic frame.

I, wearing a jacket and tie, hug Giusti, who is in training clothes.

Right now, from the same frame, we both look towards the table where I write this note.

We are both serious and I always smile when I look there.

A philosopher, the Gringo.

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