Barça played against Getafe without the enthusiasm that we fans needed to believe in the dignity of the football spectacle. The flaccidity and the boredom were reciprocal between players and followers. It is as if we had agreed on a strategy that is satisfied with one point to ensure second place in a season that ends more as a drill than as a tangible project and at the height of identity proclamations.
The emotion of the day affected those involved in a possible demotion in category more than the upper part. Selective transcendence is also accepted as the lesser evil, although later, when deploying the rhetoric of analysis, we can enrich our talent for stories with concepts as unusual as “neatness”. In the press room, Xavi has spent days appealing to neatness as an intrinsic virtue of the culé game. I think it was Pere Quart who, in one of his poems, spoke of “aphrodisiac neatness”. I don't think this is the case with the neatness that Barça showed in Getafe, paralyzing like an overdose of bromide.
The culés drugged by the boredom accumulated in the first part we had to gnaw the bone of the eternal controversy over the effectiveness of Riqui Puig and, above all, the addictive hope in the contribution of Ansu Fati, trapped by prudence and fear of a fatality. And Lewandowski, of course, that taking into account the performance of yesterday's forward invites you to dream of the powers of a minimally motivated superhero.
If, as happens to so many musicians, the Barça players charged using the reverse box office system (spectators pay based on their satisfaction), they would not even have covered travel expenses. Not even the suspicion of a minimum effort pact inspired by the dentist's joke (“We won't hurt each other, right?”) was of any consolation. The second part managed – and it was not easy at all – to be even more depressing than the first. Luuk de Jong entered, it is not known if as a sarcastic tribute to Ronald Koeman or to appeal to the roulette wheel of miracles. He took advantage of the refreshment break to flagellate me while regretting that the team had failed to convey the intention of doing something more than managing impotence. For many minutes, Barça played on foot, perhaps thinking that, as it ended up happening, third parties in discord would help them confirm the so-called “minimum objective”. It is such a perverse denomination that in the last stretch of the League the team has concentrated more on the idea of minimums than on the objective concept. The journalistic tradition usually defines this type of matches as “matches to forget”. I will soon forget it. Luckily, propaganda messages will begin to circulate and we will be able to recover the ability to pretend that things are not as they seem to be but as, projecting ourselves towards a fantastic future, we promise they will be. In summary: a sad Sunday for a League final in which resistance and commitment are degenerating into impotence and frustration.