On El Clasico, Mixed Feelings and An Era of Cautious Optimism

Barcelona are three-minutes from kick-off in their last group game in the Champions League this year, a technically meaningless match against Nery Castillo's employers. All you need to know about them is that they've never had any use for Nery Castillo, the bastards, and they think the win Barcelona grabbed from them in Ukraine was unfair. It's nonsense, of course, but they seem serious about it. 

Of course, the blaugrana have been the best club in Europe this year and that's something that only the most starry-eyed optimists could have imagined before it all started. Even those comparatively dark days of losing at Numancia and drawing Racing in the first two weeks of the season are distant. I, like Pep, have never come to expect victory, though, because that's what assholes like Real Madrid do and it is beneath everybody. Juande Ramos is going to lead his boys into action at the Nou Camp with the clinical ferocity that makes him such a perfect match for, and he'll have a point to make in this Saturday's dreaded/anxiously awaited El Clasico. They may be racked with injuries, and languishing in fifth place in La Liga and unable to make a dent in Juventus either home or away but they're still Real Madrid, and it's still El Clasico. Get your game faces on, my friends, because there is sure to be a good deal of bloodshed.

One thing that's been a little bit unsettling for me is just how thoroughly Barca have been demolishing their opposition. 4-0, 5-0, 6-1. 0-3 at Sevilla and 4-0 at home against Valencia. Those aren't bad teams, man, and there's nothing to do but step aside and admire the refusal for Pep and the boys to give them any extra leverage simply because they're Top 4. The thing is, well, it's entertaining soccer I suppose, but I've long thought that people who don't like soccer because there aren't enough goals are the same sorts of people who must think the best part of sex is the orgasm, and that's a dreary way to go about life and a sure sign that someone has values that I will never relate to. So, I love the technical brilliance of a well-fought 1-0 draw where the goal comes from a late Xavi freekick (speaking of Xavi, as I am, I said some nasty things about him in this space last year and, while pride dictates I not take any of them back, I will say he's done what I always doubted he would and I would be sadly remiss not to salute him for it) or even a match where the team is down 2-0 at the half and comes back for a 2-2 draw. There's something greatly satisfying about precision and winning a fair fight. So, I relish the uncharacteristic lack of tension from watching matches this season, but at the same time hold out hope that I'll spend some amount of El Clasico thinking Barca are doomed to lose.

Well, it seems a little too good to be true that Barcelona are putting together this magic on the heels of Barack Obama's election. Yes, sure, the governor or Illinois is being strung up on corruption charges and the Rapids and Rockies continue to prove that the worst teams to support are the ones you're tied to geographically because they can count on you and so they don't have anything to prove. Sure, nothing is overwhelmingly rosy and there's, as ever, plenty of evil and corruption to contend with (Madrid, Juve and Chelsea are all through to the knockout stages, though even here we have the constantly thrilling reminder that AC Milan didn't even qualify this year) but it just seems like the good guys are winning more often than usual. I highly suggest tempering your enthusiasm, though, friends, because when things get ugly, they do it quick and without any kind of warning, and we must be on our toes. Remember El Pipila? Well, don't forget him. He's got a lot to say about times like these.

Brief Interlude In Which Barcelona's Good Start Is Discussed

Yes, under the sage guidance of Master Guardiola, the club has once again transformed itself into a clean and lethal strike force that sends fear into the hearts of even its allies. Yes, Samuel Eto'o maybe a temperamental son of a bitch who's prone to sulking and fits of blind rage, but he's also got the clearest vision and most precise technique of anyone you're likely to come across, and that includes that fairy Cristiano Ronaldo. Times like this call for un-liberal language, I'm afraid. The most telling result was not any of the humility-inducing thrashings of Atletico, Basel, Malaga or Almeria. It was the 1-0 win away at Bilbao. Why? Because Basques blow up trains, that's why, and they make goddamn sure that visiting clubs are aware of it. Athletic Bilbao, like Chivas, only signs players who are from their own little piece of the world. Some folks say, and I was guilty of romanticizing in it my younger and less aware years, that it makes them quaint and nostalgic but I say it makes them pseudo-fascist uber-nationalist pigs who want nothing more than to eradicate Africans and South Americans from football, and probably the world. Barca has its share of Catalans - including Pep - in its employ, but they also realize that being pro-Catalonia or pro-Barcelona is about your soul, not the place your mom was when she dropped you out. Lionel Messi and Rafa Marquez have blaugrana blood even though they were born in another hemisphere. Whereas Cesc Fabregas' credentials are under question. So, anyway, round about way of saying that going into the den of Basque nationalists and coming away with 3 points in the face of all that was astounding. This year, there's some depth to the character of the club. Getting Edmilson, Deco and Ronaldinho away was the key, of course, and getting Eto'o to see his role. Not many clubs improve simply by purging their Brazilians but Barcelona did just that, and I couldn't be prouder.

Eulogy for Frank Rijkaard

The match against Mallorca today was just absolutely devastating to watch. Frank Rijkaard deserves better, but it reminded me of a bullfight. At the end, no matter what happens, you know the bull's going to die. The optimism (and, with it, the disappointment) of the last couple of seasons had just vanished for me and, it seems, for the club. Even when they went up 2-0, it was tense. You could just feel that they were going to lose. Fans had been whistling at Eto'o and after he scored, he angrily kicked the ball into the net twice more, then waved to the crowd with a scowl firmly planted on his face. There was no joy there, not even though they were ahead 2-0. Not from anybody, and it just seemed so obvious that they were going to collapse. Then, 1 goal, 2 goals from Mallorca in the space of 3 minutes. A third in extra time, just after Barcelona had blown two good chances and just after Edmilson had been sent off in what could only be the most fitting way that the man responsible for the "black sheep" remarks earlier this year to end his career at the Camp Nou.

A third, and the look of heartbreak on Rijkaard's face was shared with the team and the fans, but the loneliness was his own. Out came the white handkerchiefs, which took on a sort of cruelty they hadn't had before. They used to say come on, you're better than this. Just score! Just win! Now, it was clear, so long you rotton bastard, who can't even manage a win against a mid-table mediocrity in his last match at home. So long, you bastard. It's not that he didn't try. It's not that he wanted to lose.

Cruelly, Barcelona fell pray to the same disease that had crippled Real Madrid in such horribly recent memory. All the stars in the world don't make the best team, and if Thierry Henry wasn't the problem, then Ronaldinho was. If not Ronaldinho, then Eto'o. If not Eto'o, maybe Marquez or Puyol or Yaya. Somewhere, at some point, Barca lost the spirit of the side that rose to the top of Europe (my God, was it only two years ago?) and gained nothing but a whole lot of t-shirt sales. Is that Frank Rijkaard's fault? Maybe. Who cares about the last game of the season, though, with nothing to play for but 3rd place? We, Barcelona fans, can only hope that Pep Guardiola can bring the same kind of passion for the beauty and art of football at its finest that Rijkaard did, and manage somehow to convince multi-million dollar shaving cream spokesman athletes that the pride in playing for a club with UNICEF across the shirt is more important than the number of minutes they get, or the likelihood that they'll get to be on the cover of FIFA 09.