A man, with his daughter in his hands, celebrates Messi's goal outside the Lusail stadium in Doha. Francisco Seco (AP)
Ramón Eduardo Pujol, my old man, would be bitching with his best bitter face right now, while we all celebrate Argentina's victory against Mexico here, in the
living room
from my house, in Boedo, in Buenos Aires, if it weren't for the fact that an artery in his brain clogged this Wednesday morning, which killed him Thursday afternoon, when his heart couldn't take it anymore.
The conditional verb —that I type and read but I still can't make a body— represents that my dad is not up for the activity that we practiced throughout my existence —and his—: so that we fight.
And yet, I feel like I'm listening to him: he says that Argentina is going to be left out of the World Cup quickly, that they play crap and that you don't understand such a mess about this kid Messi who is useless, who plays well in his teams but that in the selection is a disaster.
Years of World Cups and of watching soccer on television and of always positioning ourselves on the opposite sidewalk, from the beginning of my life, from the first memory, also in a
living
room, when he raised his index finger to give us the order to take her home. obligation was to be from River.
But no, daddy, it's not like that, it never was like that for Andrés, my brother, and me, that every time the little finger appeared we ran in the opposite direction.
Now, while Messi shows his happiness with the game over, after that crack goal, that perfect movement and the exact precision to cross that ball to the goalkeeper's left post, I imagine him watching TV in silence, or holding hands and moving He shook his head negatively, saying without saying "what an ass this kid has", without even naming him, or counting the players that he saw and that we didn't, that's why we don't understand anything about football.
“Players were the ones from before, the Telch Sheep, Rendo, Sanfilippo, mommy, what a scorer;
Beto Alonso, by God, those were really cracks.
Or Passarella, dad, what a defender.
These players now don't understand anything”.
My dad hated Messi just as he hated Maradona all his life and he drove us crazy exuding fury and words full of resentment against those footballers we like.
Because my old Pelé and us Maradona, my old Beto Alonso and us Juan Román Riquelme, my old Gallardo and us Carlos Bianchi, my old Cristiano Ronaldo and us Lionel Messi.
Recently, after Argentina's triumph and the relief of this 2-0 loss that assures us that we are still in World Cup mode, I asked my brother why he thought that daddy had always been like that.
Why didn't he like ball artists?
Why always against us?
Or could it have been that we were against him?
It is difficult for us to answer the questions that were unleashed when he showed his fangs like daggers and looked like a mad, malevolent dog.
We know that my old man had a life full of tragedies.
The abandonments in childhood, the separation of his little brothers due to my grandmother's illness that took him away from his affections,
the death of his first son, my brother Fernando, when Andrés and I were very young, and that blow from which he could not get out: we caught him without energy, we grew up and lived with a father who saw life gray.
Many scars and little soccer, little play and little happiness, for a girl and a boy, the ones that remained, who lived playing ball, but who never counted on their old man -my old man- to kick even for a while or to go to the field, or that he had loving resources to convince us that River did.
Not even sit down and shout a goal together, man.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
and that blow from which he could not get out: we caught him without energy, we grew up and lived with a father who saw life gray.
Many scars and little soccer, little play and little happiness, for a girl and a boy, the ones that remained, who lived playing ball, but who never counted on their old man -my old man- to kick even for a while or to go to the field, or that he had loving resources to convince us that River did.
Not even sit down and shout a goal together, man.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
and that blow from which he could not get out: we caught him without energy, we grew up and lived with a father who saw life gray.
Many scars and little soccer, little play and little happiness, for a girl and a boy, the ones that remained, who lived playing ball, but who never counted on their old man -my old man- to kick even for a while or to go to the field, or that he had loving resources to convince us that River did.
Not even sit down and shout a goal together, man.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
for a girl and a boy, the ones that remained, who lived playing ball, but who never counted on their old man -my old man- to kick even for a while or to go to the field, or who had loving resources to convince us that River yes.
Not even sit down and shout a goal together, man.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
for a girl and a boy, the ones that remained, who lived playing ball, but who never counted on their old man -my old man- to kick even for a while or to go to the field, or who had loving resources to convince us that River yes.
Not even sit down and shout a goal together, man.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
In recent times we hardly talked about football anymore because after so many years of listening to him go against it I had lost my patience.
However, the last time he came to my house I put the series on him.
Be eternal
, on Netflix, about the conquest of Argentina in the Copa América.
He looked at her with an ass face and criticized Messi again, here, in this chair.
Her argument in these weeks was that Lionel is old: "he doesn't run like before, look at him, he's no use anymore, he's not the same."
But in the chapter in which the talk that the 10 gave before going to the final in Brazil appears, he was moved.
He tried to play dumb.
But I saw you, daddy, your eyes filled with tears when Messi said that God had put the final there so they could lift the Cup at the Maracana, so they could bring it home.
And now, pa, how do we do?
I still don't feel like you left, even though I know, but I wonder what the road will be like without your resistance.
If life is what happens between the World Cup and the World Cup, Qatar 2022 will be for us the Cup in which we stop having you: next to and also against.
The most son of a bitch stroke in the world collapsed him at home, the negligence of social work for retirees abandoned him for 12 hours lying in the ward of a public hospital waiting for transfer in an ambulance that, when he was deposited in the clinic, implied the need for oxygen.
On Thursday at 11:00 a.m. we were able to see him in the intensive care unit.
He was very, very bad.
At 6:00 p.m. they told us that he had left.
Today is Saturday, Argentina has already won and before writing these lines I gave the breast to Gino, my son who came into the world 35 days ago.
I keep his birth as one of the few moments of happiness that I saw my dad.
Just a few photos in which he looks up to him and the certainty that I am making the same mistake as him, perhaps with more affection: forcing him to be a fan of my club.
Know it, old man:
In these hours of chaos and confusion, many friends called me to accompany me in pain.
Some mentioned soccer words to mark me that in life you win and lose, like you win a child and lose a father.
This afternoon, daddy, we celebrate and feel relieved.
We were a little happy.
Argentina is still alive in the World Cup and Messi scored a goal, as you would have liked: the best scenario to continue grumbling, wherever you are.
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