Madrid comes with its flag, says the Madrid anthem, the old anthem that few of its players know how to interpret the meaning of. That flag waves, today, upside down, without victory and without honour, in the same place where Barça lifts the League trophy, the second consecutive one, firm in the convictions that arise from the leadership of Hansi Flick, eager like a teenager in front of their first love and ruthless on the ruins of an empire.
The Camp Nou classic was not only the occasion to seal a predicted title against the rival that gives meaning to the Blaugrana's existence, because there would be more than a club without Real Madrid. It was the opportunity to ignite the pyre on which their players stand, sinners, but not responsible for the original sin.
Nor is it Arbeloa, because the true bonfire he did not want to throw his players into is his bench. Madrid's woes have to do with the loss of the principle of authority in a club where the wear and tear of the top leader is evident. "The tone on the top," say the British. The tone at the top, the tone that colours everything else. What reaches the Valdebebas dressing room today is not appropriate. Florentino Pérez needs to regain that of his best times because this is not a seasonal crisis.
Time will tell if the Camp Nou classic, historic for being the first in which one of the two contenders defines the title, is or is not the beginning of a new era, and we are not talking about a sporting cycle. Barça has established authority in the dressing room, a good place, as it has been for most of its history because the game has always defined it. Joan Laporta is responsible for the success in choosing the German, but he is not a figure with auctoritas. He lacks stature. On the day of his father's death, Flick decided to stay in Barcelona and lead his team. A very personal choice that deserves respect but, in any case, reinforces his figure.
Close to Flick was Lamine Yamal, in pink. Injured was the star, accompanying his teammates on the field. Mbappé, on the other hand, felt discomfort the day before the classic and was absent. More discomfort, more suspicions. The farce of the week, between slaps, lies, and reproaches, has turned the Madrid dressing room into the Marx Brothers' cabin. It was difficult to make a team out of that to play at the Camp Nou. All that could be expected was personal rebellion, playing for their own dignity. It was barely noticeable in Brahim, like a castaway, and in Courtois, reappeared to avoid further embarrassment. The rest were like a defeated army, between dishonour and cowardice.
The return of Courtois, a captain in a place without captains, sought that effect. In Barça's first serious shot, Courtois was not himself. No reproach for the goal by Rashford to the goalkeeper, the Englishman skillful in deceiving by shaping up for the free-kick. Not even an exclamation for a world-class save, although the giant's saves would come later, against Rashford himself or Ferran, when the match threatened a bloody rout.
Arbeloa's Silent Shame
Arbeloa watched everything impassively, in his usual pose, while enduring the mockery of the crowd. He feels a shame he cannot explain. He will retreat with his silences to a club office. He lost Valverde due to the fight with Tchouaméni, kept the Frenchman because the club did not sideline him, only fined him, and calamities were compounded by Huijsen's problems in the warm-up. This forced him to call Asencio, one of the players he had not counted on and most opposed to the coach.
From this Madrid shattered by absences and ignominy, one could not expect the game, but neither did the intensity show up. Barcelona's was constant, not needing their best version or lineup. Without Lamine and Raphinha, who appeared in the final stretch, and Lewandowski, with few minutes, Barça lined up without the forward line of Flick's first work. Fermín offered his energy on the left; Rashford, the goal and speed, and Ferran contributed much more, always on the move, injected and precise, the best Blaugrana. He provoked the foul for the first goal and scored the second, which highlighted all the contrast between Barça and Madrid. Olmo played a precise backheel and Ferran outpaced Asencio and Rüdiger, both with astonishing passivity.
Gonzalo missed a chance, Vinicius feinted and nothing more, Bellingham went astray, and Brahim grew tired. Madrid's attempts were those of impotence against which Barça decided to be practical and wait for counterattacks and the celebration for the twenty-ninth League title. The Champions League is pending for Flick, and the coach himself knows it, but his work prevails in Spain, shielded by his English in press conferences, with a very young generation. Laporta agrees.
In Madrid, they talk about coaches and the Champions League has smiled upon them like no other. It's not a bad plan, but no one knows if it can be repeated because these players are not like before. Madrid is not Barça, and Florentino does not want a Flick, but he needs someone to rebuild a team to sustain an empire. José Mourinho can do it his way, but the Portuguese also leaves ruins in his wake.