Experience The Excitement of The Latest World Cup Visions

The end of the World Cup as a mechanism for the production of anguish and expectation laced with portions of disappointment, uncertainty and success, gave rise (in Argentina and in the allied Third World and Latin American countries) to a liberating explosion of happiness.

There were also bursting hearts, it’s true. The binary dynamics between the dismaying efficiency of France, which did not play football but to the fullest success, and the artistic beauty of our team, which knew how to draw geometric figures on the refrigerated grass, led to the inevitable exegesis of sportsmen of all stripes. , and whose specialty was and is to shout over each other so as not to hear each other, like an inharmonious concert of dissonances composed by a musician devoid of intelligence.

Of course, not everything was like that. I only exaggerate for a didactic spirit, since in this world only what is underlined is perceived. There were exceptions that tried to explain the reasons why the Argentine National Team triumphed, describing its operation, its game mechanics, its displays, substitutions, needs and replacements, but all justified the result by invoking an abstract Justice based on aesthetic superiority and omitting the collaboration –or not– of the arbitrator, who when we win is called impartial and when we lose is sold.

That Justice is blind is an improbable affirmation, in this and in other areas, and it could even turn out to be distributed to various sides.

France Beat Morocco

A friend –this one is a soccer fan– told me yesterday: “Thank God France beat Morocco, because if the finalist was Morocco we would have played as visitors against the entire Arab world, and who knows how they would have managed then the referee to tilt the court to the other side?

There were three things that always seemed true: 1) Argentina ended up being the best team in the World Cup, 2) they could have lost at the last minute, if it weren’t for the fact that Dibu saved the Frenchman’s pitch (who didn’t shoot to place) with the shrimp stretched out and eyes closed. 3) There was always an anticipated and widespread certainty that the World Cup was ours, less as a prize for a team than as the coronation and lollipop that Messi, the Good Boy, needed to place him in the same place as Maradona.

But the comparison is inadequate, like all. (If something were strictly comparable to another something, the thing compared and the term of the comparison would be identical, since all resemblance is an illusion). The only thing they agree on is the World Cup results: both won a championship and a runner-up.

Afterwards, it was enough to see them. Even physically. You play focused, with your head down and your body tight; the other played by sticking out his chest and raising his trunk. Messi came out of labyrinths built by him with the legs of his rivals (in what looked like a bullfighter), Maradona cleared obstacles with wide movements and short pike. As I stayed Short.

This article is published on perfil.com