From a certain age, being married is like having orange juice after hours. So much sugar after lunch, for example, doesn’t make any sense, and it feels like a shot too. Instead, every morning I have one. I like football, I like it a lot. But these hours, 2 p.m.!, Are for inappropriate orange juice. The wind was blowing in a curious direction, from the side towards the grandstand, and at 25 miles per hour,almost like a marriage. Cadiz won the draw and requested a change of field. Barca faced the game like a dear friend of mine, now deceased, who one day called me outraged to tell me that a third friend, who was both of them, “tried to sleep with my lover.” He was beside himself. If I had tried it with my wife, I would not have said anything, but with my lover it is intolerable. One does not play with the illusions of the friends.

Barca was yesterday a humiliated husband, without the illusion of his lover, who will always be the Champions League; and that he returned home disenchanted to try to regain the pulse of his failed marriage. His game had an air of a couple who no longer love each other too much, and that he has gone to spend a weekend in a rural hotel one does not know why, and suddenly the child has lymph nodes. All sad, but above all nostalgic. Glimpses of a certain quality, but the humiliation of having to do so many things, and so mediocre, to win a Cadiz. It is sad to suddenly come back to reality when what you longed for has been denied you, or worse, lifted. It’s depressing to have you falsely motivate yourself with what you spent if you knew the glory of being loved exactly how you expected.

There was Barca, feigning interest in a conversation that could not matter less. In case some emotion could be sensed, in case the hint of any excitement could seem to appear, there was Griezmann, slow and clumsy like current French cuisine, to ruin a beautiful, electric, vertical transition from Pedri, superb quality touch, and of Messi. A working-class Barça and a resistant Cadiz seemed to have the same budget. Everything was, if not even, balanced, until, very ready, Pedri recovered a ball in attack and forced a penalty that, so clearly, no rival protested. Messi was in charge of transforming it. Discreet celebration, as if the PSG thing still weighed.

Sobrino almost tied on the next play, but you can’t be so rough when finishing. Barca came to rest as the husband who on an absurd Tuesday night, between whiskey, porn, and drugs, manages to comply at home after four months of clinging to the most picturesque deceptions so as not to have to face the drama. Anything goes and of course, you win that way too. Cadiz seemed to return from the dressing room alive and happy, and Barca, on the other hand, was as off. More than the players turned off, the game was turned off, to the visitor’s taste, who wanted the minimum to happen for half an hour to try something creative in the last 15 minutes.

Everything was asleep. But with the difference that Barça was distracted, without knowing exactly what he was doing, and a very concentrated Cádiz had its strategy perfectly defined and was waiting for its moment. They are those conversations that husbands have to have, with our guard down, and wives gradually lead you into the trap. And suddenly, bang! You end up saying something that plunges you into misery in the most unexpected way. More orange juice when the sugar comes out of our ears. Barca had their thing, but Griezmann, like the milk cream in all the bloody dishes of Parisian haute cuisine, was in charge of spoiling it. With French like that, you don’t need Germans. And in the end, Lenglet put his stupid grain of sand so that the script of Cadiz, that everyone had come to come, would take a penalty. It’s what happens when your illusions run out. Barca, like a humiliated husband. His lover left with another and in the end, his wife ended up kicking him out of the house.