Why? Because the way they handle that ball, they move – rabid Madrileños swoon – like beings from another ga-laxy. Star Trekkers have nothing on those fellows, who get bought and sold to the tune of millions of euros.
The magic six are, of course, the Brazilian Ronaldo, France’s Mondial champion Zinedine Zidane from Marseilles, England Captain (now imported for 30 million euros) David Beckham, Roberto Carlos from Brazil, Figo from Portugal, and last but not least, Team Captain Raul from, really this time, Spain. In sum, Real Madrid fields an international team, while the Basques of Bilbao insist that their players all be Vascos from native roots.
Alas, captained by valiant Raul y Etzeberria, the Atleticos, despite their energy and aggressiveness, had no galactic skills – and they folded in the end.
It was Ronaldo, in the 35th minute of the first half who broke the ice with a bullet of a kick, which they call a golazo. The moody Brazilian had done badly in the past three games, going through a dry period, a gáfe, but he made up with his uncanny movements in this contest.
In the 39th minute of the 2nd half, it was Ronaldo again. Weaving skillfully through three determined guards of the Bilbao contingent, Ronaldo completed his bisikleta maneuver with a strong kick which whizzed past the Athletic’s goal-tender, the formidable Ezquerro. The 75,000 onlookers in the stand – sprang to their feet in a roar. The Real boosters punching the air with their war-cries, the Bilbao-backers (they were outnumbered) uttering sounds of anguish.
In the closing minutes, it was Ronaldo again. This time he didn’t even attempt to score. He could have done it easily, but instead he tip-toed the ball to Figo (Number 10), who almost lazily booted it in, taking the goalie who had moved in the wrong direction by surprise, and to the poor Basque’s frustration.
Ronaldo’s like the girl in the nursery rhyme, you know, the one "with a curl in the middle of her forehead". As the rhyme goes, "when she’s good she’s very, very good, but when she’s bad she’s horrid."
Ronaldo’s got no curl on his shaven head, but Saturday night he was more than very good; he was fantastic.
It was a chilly eight or so degrees in that stadium, but in the de honor section we had overhead heaters – for a guy from the tropics this is doubly significant.
Before I saw him play the other night, I had regarded handsome, blond pony-tailed Beckham as just another celebrity player, married to the former Posh Spice, with local sports dailies, like "M" (Marca) dwelling on the 600,000 euros he’d already spent in the past eleven months in his Madrid hotel while warming up to getting his team-mates in Real Madrid to accept him.
Beckham didn’t score, but his game was brilliant. He did all the goal kicks, with that peculiar curve-ball of his – and his guarding and ball-handling were both imaginative and a joy to watch. What’s more, the team played well with him. You could spot him streaking across the green in his "23" white shirt and shorts, delivering those long kicks. In the final half, Bilbao desperately attacked the goal, and caught Madrid’s superb goalie – for once – off balance. Beckham dived in and kicked what would have been a sure goal for Bilbao away.
A word about Real Madrid’s goal-tender, Iker Casilias. Beyond doubt, he’s the best goalie in Spain, perhaps even in Western Europe. (He also is goal-tender for the national team). In Spanish, a goalie is called portero – and Iker defended the portals superbly Saturday. Many "sure" goals of the attacking squad were tipped over the goal posts by him, or grabbed to his chest. The stands would erupt into locomotive yells of "Iker, Iker, Iker".
It was a great contest, and I’m glad I got back from Santiago de Compostela in time to enjoy the spectacle, mingle with the crowds, feel the pulse of the elation.
As an old footballer in our school days, I often wonder why soccer or football withered away in the Philippines and left us "shorties" playing mostly basketball where we can never match those seven-foot-and-over giants on the court. It’s football that is the biggest international sport – and we’re completely off the radar screen on that one. We only engage in threatened "coups", mutinies, and funny attempts to impeach Chief Justices of the Supreme Court.
When will we ever grow up?
The Spanish do it in true ceremonial fashion and with flair! We were ushered in, with drinks at the bar, and later, during half-time with more drinks, canapés, sandwiches, mouth-watering tapas being shoved at you by pretty usherettes in cute uniforms.
At the backs of our seats were our engraved names so there could be no mistake about where to sit. Spain’s President and Prime Minister Jose Ma. Aznar, handsome in a dark suit and grey-blue necktie (you dress up for that section), sat two rows in front of us.
Fortunately, Aznar’s beautiful wife, Doña Ana Botella, who herself was recently elected head of the Social Services Department of the Ayuntamiento de Madrid, a post ranking between Councilor and Vice Mayor, recognized me, and tugged at her husband’s sleeve. (We had all met in Granada in 1997). I shook Aznar’s hand and greeted him, but after a sentence or two, he had to move on to greet other friends and admirers.
Readers may puzzle over why Aznar (who’s retiring next March) is sometimes called the President, and on other occasions the Prime Minister. He wears both titles: He’s Presidente del Gobierno and Prime Minister of the Court of His Majesty, King Juan Carlos of Spain.
This is a land of titles (guess that’s where we Pinoys got that grandiose itch). Ambassador Bernardo took Preciosa and myself to lunch in that posh country cum golf club (36 holes), the Real Club de la Puerta de Hierro, on the outskirts of the capital, in the direction of the El Pardo Palace where the late El Caudillo, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, used to live.
On the foyer wall were engraved in metal the names of past presidents of the club, namely the Duque de, or the Conde de… or the Marquesa de…, or whatever.
It was both impressive and intimidating.