All the alarms went off, like that day at Nakatomi Plaza. Confidence isn’t good, even with John McClane hanging around the building, but here in Spain we still struggle to understand the morals contained in the great classics of American cinema. It should therefore not surprise us that Kylian Mbappé has given up his dream of playing for Real Madrid and that in Pontevedra this week the exhumation of the remains buried in the old cemetery of the Santa Clara Convent has started: that No One raises his hands head when a Galician Carol Anne – and possibly a Real Madrid fan – disappears in front of the TV while alone enjoying a late PSG game.
Surprising, in all this, the innocence of a Madrid that – according to the official version at least – trusted in the player’s word and in something as ethereal as dreams to be fulfilled. That, by the way, they don’t have to quarrel with the hustle and bustle, let alone the possibility of accumulating an indecent amount of money before putting on their pajamas. Unsurprisingly we are talking about a club run by Florentino Pérez, the total businessman who achieved the presidency by securing the signing of a contract with Luis Figo and pledging to pay season tickets to all members if the Portuguese would not finally wear white. Now, with some amazement, we witness the transformation of the once-all-powerful Real into a pathetic and battered Dickensian character.
The emergence of state clubs took away the epic and history that sweetened the big payouts of traditional clubs. There wasn’t a single footballer known who didn’t lose money wearing the Barça or Madrid jersey. Or parents who, in the first ultrasound of the future goalscorer, did not suspect a contract with the club’s official letterhead, which paid for his clause. Newspapers repeated old photographs, fans boasted in bars of a predestined allegiance, and we all lived happily ever after, thinking that things were because they were meant to be. We cared little – if at all – about the complaints of German clubs being forced to play against teams that failed to pay their social security debts, let alone suppliers.
“What a scandal! What a scandal! I discovered there was gambling here,” snapped Renault inspector Rick Blaine in Casablanca, just seconds before a waiter appeared and handed him an envelope: “Your prize, sir.” Up until this week he was considered the epitome of cynicism, but modern football always has a few aces up its sleeve. Hours after announcing his extension, Mbappé publicly declared himself the first Real Madrid player in the kingdom ready to cheer almost alone in next Saturday’s final as if the future depended on it. And he might not be far off the mark after all.
The romance between Madrid and Mbappé is postponed to the summer of 2025. There seems to be more than enough time to heal wounds and sponsor reunions. Also to continue collecting laurels in a Champions League that doesn’t understand future superiority and judges the teams by what they are without having to scan barcodes or look at price tags. After all, and as John McClane said in Jungle Glass, “football is football”…or not.
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