Carlo Ancelotti will abandon the Real Madrid bench for the second time as the first already did: raising a smile -shaped eyebrow while the other stands firm, flat, the only visible symptom of what could be an ulcer. Thus, the big names of Real Madrid go since someone coined that legend, sometimes cheat, that no one is above the club: with the head high, the lustrous curriculum and the soul made a seven. They have not thrown it, of course not. They have only decided that their stage was over, like those companies that teach you the exit door with a souvenir cup and the typical heartbreak structure: “It’s not you, it’s me.”
There is a place in his words that tries to move any hint of pain away, perhaps because of his status as a human being, maybe because of his instinct of perfect gentleman. Because Ancelotti does not go through the back door, but they have not opened the main one, the Madrid of his own laying of the seven have always pending, the one that forces to cut honors in the goodbye even to the legends that the keys of the square should have (in multiprophity regime) the keys of the square. Carletto has been accompanied to the sidewalk of Santiago Bernabéu, broader and more urban after the last remodeling of the stadium, and have given a palmadita on the back that he has thanked with a clean press conference, without reproaches. Because Real Madrid never knows for sure when you leave, but either when you could return. Ancelotti himself knows, as Zidane knew in his day.
In Concha Espina, the coaches do not retire: they recycle. They depart to the side, like those papyri that your cousins have brought from their last trip to Egypt and that you never throw because you know that fashions always come back and it is wrong to get rid of beautiful memories. Life continues, especially in the White Club, always pending the results account to establish its immediate affections. Soon the murmurs will begin to ferment their new discursive and despite their recent renewal, Ancelotti leaves because, they will say, their moment had passed. It is time to sign up for the new times. To the coaches in jeans who speak German, in fresh air, at that level of demand that, apparently, no longer represented an Ancelotti Carlo that has won everything without anyone knowing how to say, exactly, how. If there is something that deeply fascinates me of Real Madrid, it is that feeling that decisions are always made alone.
It is never an option to accept that Madrid loses because others win. Last Sunday lost Ancelotti, Lucas Vázquez, Las Losas in Defense, a quarry boy who wasted an occasion of goal and Rodrygo Goes, who did not even appear in the game. The rivals, in this case Barça de Flick and Lamine Yamal, almost never have candle in a burial that announces buses in the usual places and forgets everything else. The Reggiolo leaves as the first victim of a bad season that, until the elimination against Arsenal and the defeats in Seville and Montjuïc, could be historical: the best in the long history of the most laureate club on the planet.
That is why it costs to think of Ancelotti as guilty and that is why no one dares to rule out that one day, if things do not go as planned, they can return home: in Real everything is possible, less leave calm.
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