The season of worrying victories
Bellingham plays and the team plays; the ball doesn’t go through Bellingham, or whoever best imitates him, and the lights want to turn on by themselves.
Madrid has more spotlights than switches. More material authors than intellectuals. This always produces a certain uneasiness: there are many Michael Corleones ready to kill Sollozzo, but few Clemenzas who leave the gun in the bathroom. The main facilitator, and the comparison with the fat Clemenza is not about physicality, is Jude Bellingham. The more the ball passes through him, the better Madrid plays and the more disconcerted the opponent is. He is only an electric circuit, a nervous system. He got rid of the sticky markings in the 25th minute of the match, a red cage placed in his area of influence, and Real felt that they had to put the trumpets in the direction of Stuttgart’s goal, which by then could already be two goals ahead: they should be two goals ahead if it weren’t for the fact that the dice, in Madrid’s area, are falling less and less mysteriously on the white side; if it’s not Courtois it’s the post, luck or life whispering things.
Continue reading here. By Manuel Jabois.
