I thought about writing Ferran Torres’ statements after the match against Elche: “We made mistakes in some plays, but I appreciate that we are eating the grass once again like last season.” It didn’t seem to me that what was said was related to what I saw in the field. But the statement had an echo that thrilled Barcelona fans. I thought two things. First: how eager people are to believe. Second: how much power words have.
In the midst of reflection I received news that took me back to childhood. I was born in a city where professional football was a wonderful mystery supported by the word. The victorious voice of the radio that reported the matches, the newspapers and sports magazines that prolonged the emotions, the effusive conversations in the café, where the more expressive ones crystallized the legends. There were players who became mythological thanks to those stories that activated my imagination. One of those stars died this week, his name was Daniel Willington. He has never played in a World Cup nor been part of any of the big five of Argentine football. But he inspired my dreams when football was an unlikely goal and scared the living daylights out of me when I achieved it.
He was tall and moved with the elegance of an aristocrat. He had a bohemian tango style, he didn’t have much discipline and his game had the typical shortcomings of someone who prefers to play in the shade rather than in the sun. Obviously he improved every ball he touched and served it on a plate to the attackers. The “Negro” Fontanarrosa evoked him like this in his story The exorcist: “Willington raised his right leg with the slow, measured movement of a heron, until his foot reached the height of his own head. And the ball, the deranged one, the angry one, the crazed one, came to rest on the tip of that right foot to remain there, gentle, calm, like the hawk that finds its master’s gloved hand.” I have no other weapon than literature to give you an idea. They hit him a lot, but he was brave in receiving and intelligent in responding. As for his shots, on still or moving balls, they had the telescopic precision, the delicacy of those herons and an equine power.
And now comes the scare. My professional dream had recently come true and I had to play in Córdoba, where Willington had his kingdom. He had played ten years at Vélez Sarsfield, where he still plays, and returned to Talleres de Córdoba, his home club, where he is also their biggest idol. I was 18, he was well over 30. Halfway through the first half there was a foul more than forty meters from our goal. I remember the place: right where the central circle layout is closest to our area. The central circle! Our goalkeeper asked for a two-man barrier, which I thought was extravagant. But I obeyed, I was one of the two. He was distinguished by his right leg, serious as a god and with his head always raised.
I looked at him hypnotized by the effect of so much literature: that boy was “El Daniel”, as they distinguished him in Córdoba. And then yes, he hit it with such purity that when the ball passed over my head you could even read the price of the ball. As far as power goes, it almost broke the crossbar. That’s when I thought, “if this is being a professional, I’m no good at it.” A mortification that didn’t last long. Until I realized, resignedly, that there are guys who are at another level. And we must greet them with all honors. This is also what words are for.
