Once upon a time in Spain – 87 years ago – to be precise, the pioneers of Spanish football established the Primera Liga. Ten teams took part in the league and in the end, Barcelona won. Two years later, more teams took part in the league and Real Madrid won. By the end of the Second World War, the league was back at full flow again, and Barcelona kept winning.
And then a Golden Generation bloomed at the Bernabeu and Real Madrid kept winning. And then, they kept winning on and on and on. And on. They lost their grip for some time, but then came “La Quinta del Buitre” and they started winning again. And then came the late Johan Cruyff’s Dream Team and Barcelona kept winning. And then Madrid won. And then Barca won. And then Madrid won. And then Guardiola came and Barca won some more.
And so one thought it would go on and on and on, a story of two big fishes fighting it out in a small pond, with the rest of the fighters not seen as threats, but as the points between themselves and the other. Theirs was the rivalry, the Clasico. But that was where they erred. Diego Simeone can handle a lot of things in life. But the moment you see him as less of a fighter and more of a ladder rung to be climbed on the way to the Money in the Bank, you lose. Because that’s what he does best – Fight.
Exceptions have come and exceptions have gone in the land of Raul and Puyol. Athletic Bilbao came calling in the early days. Valencia enjoyed a brief honeymoon in the 1940s and the again under Rafa Benitez. Real Sociedad disturbed the hornet’s nest ever so briefly in the 80s. Little Deportivo La Coruna also upset the apple cart at the turn of the millennium. All of them triumphed, only to be trampled on later by the two supremely rich giants with grand nicknames.
A struggle for consistency
“Fight like this every season”, they scoffed, when Simeone’s band of anything-but-merry men fought their way to the La Liga title two years back. “Couldn’t fight when it mattered most”, they said in contempt, when his team suffered an injury-time knockout blow in the Champions League Final. Atletico Madrid’s response was Atletico Madrid’s way of life – they fought more, they fought harder.
Two seasons on, here they are, having beaten Real Madrid and Barcelona in the same season. Add Bayern Munich for good measure, and you have Europe’s most consistent, the strongest team wearing the Rojiblanco shirt. Yet, not one of them made it into the FIFPro World XI. Not one of them has gotten a whiff of the Ballon d’Or podium in any of these seasons. After all, they have neither the BBC nor the MSN. All they have is guts. And guts, my friends, can never be the new sexy.
Not that Don Diego cares. Nobody knows how the man has managed to make his men suffer their way to three points week in, week out. But, no matter what it may be – masterful oratory or foolproof strategy – he sure does drill them hard. Every flying Jan Oblak dive. Every lung-busting Juanfran run.
Every crunching Jose Gimenez tackle. Every giant Diego Godin leap. Every sweat-soaked Filipe Luis sprint. Every raking Koke ball. Every visceral Gabi shout. Every skillful Antoine Griezmann dribble. And every resurgent Fernando Torres goal. Everything is preceded and succeeded by pain, passion and perseverance.
Given the due respect?
Diego Godin, the commander of the unshakable, unyielding ship that the Rojiblanco defense is, exemplifies the general public callousness towards an incredible team. Nobody in the world, right from the exalted voters of the individual awards to the FIFA Video game rankers have ever given the Uruguayan, arguably the best defender in the world, his due. The best defender in the world? Has yours truly gone bonkers? Let me explain.
Who is the best defender in the world? Not Jerome Boateng, who is caught way too high way too many times. Not Mats Hummels, who though polished is still very error prone. Not Vincent Kompany, who has a tryst with the surgical knife every other week these days. Not Thiago Silva, who fails to make his own national team. Not Gerard Pique, who for all his success has still not managed to be a rock solid defender. Not Sergio Ramos, who is brilliant on his day and a card magnet every other day. And surely not Diego Godin, the best defender in the best defense in the best league in the world. No way.
Now, if Simeone reads this article, he’ll shake his head in absolute frustration because of the author’s fixation on one player. It’s never been about a single individual for the Argentine. It’s never been about Radamel Falcao for him. It’s never been about Diego Costa for him. And it’ll never be about Antoine Griezmann for him.
It’s all about all eleven men in the field staying awake at all times. If they don’t, he doesn’t cajole, he shouts. He probably lets rip a Parental Guidance version of “Dilly Ding, Dilly Dong”. But, he keeps them awake. He keeps them alive. He keeps them kicking.
If any football team can ever epitomize Winston Churchill’s rousing call of “Blood, toil, sweat and tears”, it is Madrid. Oh sorry, they are the “other” team from Madrid, they can’t be called Madrid, they have to be called Atletico Madrid. Even though they are the most successful team in, well, Madrid. But then again, that’s how Diego Simeone likes them. Perennial underdogs. Perennial overachievers. Perennial fighters.
And here they are, a whisker away from the most hotly contested La Liga title race in a decade. Two weeks away from potentially lifting the trophy in that cauldron of emotions, Estadio Vicente Calderon. More importantly, here they are facing another tryst with destiny. May 28. Champions League Final. Surely, they won’t succumb at 93:18 this time around. Real Madrid is the foe. Deja vu is a primal emotion. Guts are their only way. Glory is the reward. San Siro awaits. Fight, Fight, Fight.
