ô capitaine ! mon capitaine !
I've waxed poetic about his words before, back right before the Mallorca match, in relation to the rest of the team, but it feels necessary right now to do it again in relation to Raúl himself. And of course that means in relation to the club because it is his club, because they are intertwined and inescapable. Because his team loses and stays noble and fights back and loses again because he does, but still: limpia y blanca que no empaña (even when his smile does maybe fade a little, it's dormant, waiting - he'll smile soon enough again if you can tolerate time). That.
This is, perhaps, a clumsy start, but the image can compensate; but it simply must be prefaced as such: even when Raúl doesn't have the best performance and is absolutely incapable of scoring, he always applauds the fans. Because he is not only a striker but a captain first and last and everything in between there, he is unique. Irreplaceable. So many other players do it but it's different, (Raúl's thin gaunt white hands), because his sallow nose is a bit crooked and doesn't fit his face at times, and because you can tell he's calm and composed and still panicked: he wants to be here, even losing. Because it is about passion and then transposing it into victory if possible (and oh it is!), he would rather play poor, forgettable games for his (our) Madrid than brilliant games for another club (it is more than victory - it is triumph), because he knows so well what espíritu de equipo can do to pull a team from its darkest depths, because he embodies it, because he is not intimidating to his teammates, because he is the footballer's captain. Because these other clubs are, in his eyes, as to the eyes of the Real Madrid fan, vastly inferior for all of their damn recent trophies; because they did not choose him, because they are not us, he is not them, and he does not love them because we do not because he does not, and he is made of only white flags and black armbands ( ; eyelashes ; Spanish eyes ; us). He presses a hand to the shoulder of a nervous, young player, and he whispers things to them after bitter losses: next time, we're going to toughen up because we must, because we're the Real Madrid.
And then we lose again. But we always stand up again.
It's this very same pretension that we adore so much despite his paradoxical humility, his sad-pale-faced, solemn-tan-skinned oxymoron: he's pompous, but never offensively so, ever-so-humble, because Real Madrid is pompous and he is Real Madrid like every true and honest fan is, because he is real and Real and humble; and who can blame him for his pride, his truth, and his unfailing hope? For his seemingly ludicrous statements that Real Madrid can win and must? And better yet - will. After all, why be a fan if you cannot believe your team is the greatest in the world, the couchant conqueror-in-waiting? There is realism and there is hope and he is both, blindly faithful, and failing, and victorious. Lucky as hell, he thinks, that he doesn't play for anybody else, for they are all the poor man's Real Madrid. He knows this when he is triumphant with slumped shoulders and not a goal to his name tonight, here tonight, tonight and next year too. Lucky as hell that things turned out so beautifully. Tonight we're going to win (and then we lose). If we were in his position we would say the same. He is the gentleman's captain, with a sharp nose raised a little (too?) high, and he's slight, too, and his smile doesn't often penetrate his eyes (it did after Mallorca). But the only time I can remember seeing him receive a yellow card within the past year was when a referee in a Champions League match mistook him for Sergio Ramos. I haven't got a clue how that happened, as they look nothing alike, but he took a yellow for Sergio's foul, and he kept everybody back, screaming and shouting and cool as ice with his heart pounding like Gatling-gun fire. Dripping in sweat, with tangled hair and grass stains up his shorts and socks. Unconsciously elegant. He took it and he moved on, with circles under his eyes. (I have circles under my eyes.)
Even when he plays poorly - and let's face it, he's one of my favourite players of all time [what's football without these severe biases we cherish and encourage?] and I have no issue whatsoever with admitting when he plays poorly and the team plays poorly (wrapped together like wilting grapevines) - you can tell he would bleed and suffer just to get back on that pitch. Even when his leg is wrapped up and he can't walk and he's on crutches later, and the club is suffering. He's suffering, because the fans are moaning in their own ways. The girl who's just moved to Barcelona with her parents, swearing at her little TV. The man at the top tier of the Bernabéu burying his face in his hands and his flag. The little boy in Venezuela, chewing on his nails and scowling at his friends. The girl here in North Carolina, slumped over the toilet, thinking she's going to be sick again but it's worth it for this. And he bleeds (for this), and he really does: see the home match against Barcelona when he had that cut over his eye that wouldn't stop bleeding and he kept telling them he had to play on, hurry up, this is everything and this is nothing if I'm not in it. (The icon at the top of this entry is cropped from an image of him celebrating after scoring in that match.) He's in tune with the fans because he is a fan, because this club is his and he comes back for more pain just like we do. Because he is Europe, too, the all-time Champions League top scorer: his head, his favoured left foot, the lucky right. Because he would probably cry if he had to play for another Spanish club, because he loves Real Madrid as much as everybody in the crowd. He gave an interview to Cadena Ser after tonight's loss, and he knows what it means to concede five goals at home. And that is the reason this entry came to exist - minor inspiration, these words, part of so much more, and so much more must be mentioned. The origin, and the infinite-reaching ends into future glory. Of course. There is no other way.
He reaches the dizzying heights of optimism because he has no other choice. What fan wants to be a pessimist, after all.
¿Le falta tiempo al equipo?
"Es un nuevo proyecto, con muchos jugadores y hay que seguir trabajando. Es una decepción pero hay que pensar en el futuro y en el partido del sábado frente al atlético. Aún tenemos tiempo para mejorar."
El Real Madrid no ha realizado buen juego…
"Ha sido el primer partido en casa. Sabemos que tenemos que mejorar y que podemos dar mucho más a nuestra afición. Ahora toca trabajar con ilusión para conseguir los objetivos que nos hemos marcado esta temporada."
And he is so dedicated, so very faithful, that he almost redefines fidelity. He is its purest synonym. Here, he speaks about what position he would like to play in:
"...Pero yo soy un jugador de equipo y estoy siempre para lo que el técnico crea conveniente."
He does what he must, grits his teeth and murmurs an order (never a request but never unbearable: tonight we're going to win), even if he would prefer to play as a striker. He makes sacrifices just like the fans, because he is one and it's not a choice, you know, as though you just choose you love a team. He knows it is the most coveted position, the most glorious for one of the most glorious teams in the world, but he can let it go because he is the hardcore, diehard football fan, the standard with which to test others; the club chooses its victims, and for all of his victory, he's a victim, a happy victim rushing to the guillotine. He loses out and he lifts these trophies with his thin arms. He's said to be 'overrated' and 'too old' and he's 'lost his touch' (he says his instructions with a glinting, steely softness in his eyes, losing 3-1; he hasn't lost anything; tonight we're going to win); but who would ever doubt his leadership ability? He might have his ups (Bayern Munich first leg anyone?) and his downs (a lot this season, sadly), but he is the calm captain, the captain's captain. His ups are our ups, and his downs are our downs. Real's. Ours. The words, blurred in my fatigue, make similar shapes juxtaposed like that; the fates are mirror images, corrected. Because he grew up a fan, a product of this academy, he knows full well what every match means, because it means satisfaction and another darker tone beneath his darkling eyes. He more than anybody else maybe in the world (except perhaps Di Stéfano) knows what the Barcelona fixtures mean. What the derby means. What it means to the fans to win, and what it means to hear simple, honest words, after a loss. If somebody else were to say these things, that's quite alright. They are said and they warm our hearts. But Raúl is different. It's different knowing he said this and he has personally said to the fans that they will work harder. It becomes like a promise and maybe that promise might be broken, but-
Hay que tener entonces paciencia con el equipo…
"Sí, hay que seguir adelante y mirar el futuro con optimismo. El sábado tenemos que dar la primera alegría a nuestra afición en el derbi ante el Atlético."
For the fans. Beautiful football for the fans, for Schuster, for his teammates, and for himself. And that's as selfless as it could be, because at the end of the day, if Raúl González Blanco was not a footballer, he would be in the stands with his scarf and his voice run hoarse, and he would still be singing, hala Madriiid. But as it is he's a gift to the fans, poor performances and all. He's given us every type of perfect goal imaginable: the rocket, the perfect header, the solo run, the flick, and so on. But he's one of us, (like Íker Casillas is), he is, and though he didn't cry after the Mallorca match it was evident that it meant so much to him (more than to anyone, perhaps) because like us he's been waiting and suffering in his own quiet way, with a goal in a loss and an early substitution and all of those hardships. And the injury of course. He was looking so much more tired than he once did, and thinner than ever, but up on that crane, the creases in his eyes deepened a little in the right way and he looked younger, happier, draping the flag, we were there too, because he was, and because we trust him even when he breaks these promises.
Why? Why are we so stupid, to keep following him, the 'burned out' star (the one who scores important goals because every goal matters)? Why? Isn't it silly, to keep coming back for this masochism of ours, just for the sake of love and for the sake of being in love? Why? He'll fix those promises in the end. Maybe do a messy job, too much glue, not enough tape, something like that. And if you aren't a fan, he is respectable above all else, because he loves this sport as a fan of any club must; he lives and breathes and bleeds for it and perhaps he will be like Di Stéfano and stay until he is quite old, and grey, and still Raúl. Of course he will. He was here when he was baby-faced, wide-eyed, triumphant, and he will stay a part of the club far after his hair begins to turn grey and as whole new generations pass before his unchanging eyes, triumphant. A season is a season and Raúl - taken as a four-letter word, two vowels, two consonants, far more than the name of a footballer who has never won the awards he deserves - is an era. Thirty years old, thirty league titles for the club that is Raúl (Raúl is Real Madrid, Real Madrid is eleven men in white and everything behind it and in front, a smile, eyelashes, thin wrists, an armband, los Ultras Sur and those at home faraway but there in eleven hearts), three Champions League titles for him alone and his club (six more), his boys, his men, his quiet-roaring army, the fans and the players who won't ever let him go, screaming into the camera, Glasgoooow, don't let go. He won't let go, and Real won't let go of him, and he doesn't want it anyway. We want him in our clutches, his clutches, white knuckles. I don't know what else we could ask for, for what is more perfect than permanence? This is more than enough. After all, if you don't know what it's like to lose, there's nothing sweet in a future victory. And he knows, and he'll pick up the pieces and make it right again. We believe in him as we believe in this club to bounce back from poor seasons, poor results, because we are pompous, confident, triumphant, because he is our tragic and beautiful hero, the one we envisions ourselves as, as a contingent of fans, as individuals, as heroes of our own little worlds, as a part of a club that refuses to let go. There is another season: that is Raúl's lesson. We failed this time around, but time reaches its silvery tendrils out, out, out. There is another season, and another, and another, and so on until the armband passes and we're still Raúl, and we are still going to win even though we lose. Triumphant in mind and spirit, eventually, because- because- we are simply just that way. Unchangeably so, because-. (Because we would do the same as he does, because we're (like) Raúl (Real) and he is one (a part) of us.)
[This entry was originally far, far longer but I cut it down for readability. Aren't I nice? I could truly fill whole volumes with this, with nonsense like this and this, and the waffle about my grandfather, and those three picspams {more grandfatherly waffle at the end, hah, and Zidane throughout} - with my insufferable bias. As it is I pepper my journal with it and occasionally make these 'dedicated' posts with far more bias than anybody with half a brain of logic could tolerate. But that's half the fun, the impulse... the other half, of course, is being in love.]
And now I am going to sleep. ♥
~~Anissa