victory in verse

Lionel Messi and Julián Álvarez celebrate one of the goals, this Tuesday in Qatar. HANNAH MCKAY (REUTERS)

I greet you, Granjuán.

You know, today was extraordinary.

So, to tell you about it, I chose a slightly less ordinary route.

Or more, who knows.

You will tell me.

Here it goes, with a big hug and the metric of the national poem, the Martín Fierro:

Here I start to sing

a victory like few others

one that under the spotlight

from such a far away stadium

got the brothers

of this crazy band.

They were eleven and they were so many,

all with one intention:

give one's heart

that another lap had lost:

they wanted the wounded hero

conquer your illusion.

that's what they worked for

like dogs without breath:

It was emotional, it was beautiful,

watch them run and run,

watch them play and know

It wasn't just for them.

It was for him and for so many

who expected victory

to get off the ferris wheel

in which they live every day.

And if they don't come out they would come out

on this night of glory

For that He also ran:

returned to what it was before

as if never the years

have passed through his body:

yes it seemed haunted

throwing passes and pipes.

I call him He out of respect

and because it doesn't rhyme.

Neither you nor you nor my cousin

they will know what to rhyme with Messi.

Me neither, so neither esi;

it is He or nothing, and He dominates.

There are so many others, sure.

but none so cool

like that boy full

of cheeks in the pimples:

He looked more than human

pure goal, pure poison.

They say that Spider they tell him

and it sounds like no to me;

what I think to see it

is that the pimply kid

you can beat the wind

and you have to call him a lion.

Alone he scored two goals

and gave Him the first;

He in return in the third

He told him take it and do it;

not a hair moved

when the entrevero closed.

And there are many more, of course:

that band of partners

they are that weird and fulero

that there they call team:

some tigers, some guys

looking for the same star

It's a team and it's weird:

in general it is noticeable

to the footballer the broken

temptation to stand out.

Here they think about getting together

and melt into the ball.

And by melting they melted

to the poor Croatian:

they stepped on them like rats,

they left them naked

with broken hopes

and asking for his father.

come on come on argentina

They sang everywhere.

Come on, this art is art

to play and not to play,

to win and yes win

and that they all separate.

They were eleven and several thousand

and thousands cheered them on

but they also shouted:

it was so nice to hear

when they went to chant

the songs they sang.

It was a resounding triumph

and he did not seem Argentine

he was missing on his way

the usual suffering,

the sidereal drowning

that seemed our fate.

Look, I thought, if we learn

to win without suffering so much,

no need to cry

nor to pass them canutas.

So it would be, without dispute,

life a kind song.

in the end in the end

we are already and only remains

to complete the wheel

of sovereign destiny

that he and his twenty brothers

lift it up, don't give it up.

But there's no need to talk about this:

for talking so often

the dumbest are lost

and the cunning do not win.

I want to rhyme but I mutate

and I stay in the greeting.

Health, health, good night.

Health, health, see you soon.

that if I ride I don't ride

on the right horse

and I escape in a sonnet

as I am: an old fool.

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