First we invented summer, then came the World Cup: Xabi brings down the old Madrid

Something important happened in Spain in the 1960s. A Galician minister invented summer. First, it was a slogan: "Spain is different ," necessary to attract unwary tourists to the sun trap. After that slogan came a popular cinema that would change the way Spaniards saw themselves. What is commonly referred to as the collective imagination . Spain went from being a severe country with occasional bursts of artistic genius to a hedonistic country where all energies were burned on the altar of summer and popular celebrations, something that mutated in the 1980s into "going out for drinks" as the absolute and somewhat totalitarian essence of the nation's soul.

We're still there. It's not clear whether the sun is more or less scorching than before. But no one remembers what it was like before. Now, in summer, everything stops . Reality is consumed by a lightness imposed from on high. There's no escape.

Until this year. An invention as important as Fraga Iribarne 's has managed to relegate the merciless harassment of the beach and sangria to the background.

That invention is the Club World Cup.

A quarterfinal was being played between two teams whose confrontation is already a classic: Borussia Dortmund and Real Madrid.

The stands were packed. The white color overwhelmed the yellow. Soccer in the US is a Hispanic heritage and is on the way to becoming something similar in identity to what basketball is for African Americans. Hispanics consume Spanish soccer firsthand and, through it, they reach the European Cup.

Real Madrid is the most followed club, and Barça is a distant second. Anything other than this Iberian dialectic barely exists for American fans of Latin American origin. Madrid allows them to dream big , to commune with an open and generous community where all they are asked to do is wear white, learn about the club's history, and be irritated by anti-Madrid attacks.

True Hispanic identity is there, in football, and that is a power that no government has dared to explore .

On the other side of the spectrum is Athletic Club. A team that, since the origins of football in Spain, was conceived as a guardian of the Basque race. Real Madrid was created for the exact opposite: "Sign the best, wherever they are," said Hernández Coronado, and perhaps that's why Athletic Club and Real Madrid have historically gotten along so well , because they recognize each other as opposites and, therefore, complementary.

The Nico case

The issue of race is no longer what it used to be, everything is blurred, but Bilbao fans (that's what Athletic is called in the rest of the "state", and Simeone does it too, by the way) are still excited to see one of their players with Basque surnames , which preserve the mystery of the ancient, of the unpolluted.

Everything is strange, magical, and sentimental in the Basque Country, including the Nico Williams affair , which they want to take to another club in the Basque national football team. For those unfamiliar with the ancient Basque language, "national football" is equivalent to "Spanish football," and "state" is equivalent to "nation." These are small variations in the infinite diversity of our country.

Nico is good, even very good, and when players perceive themselves as stars, they want to fly as high as possible in a showcase that allows them to shine with the greatest and access the paradise of the Champions League. Athletic Club produces a player like this every 15 years. In the 90s, it was Julen Guerrero, and 15 years later, Muniain arrived. Both were tempted by big clubs; Julen, who was the first modern attacking midfielder, was an inch away from Real Madrid. And both gave up that glory—which they were told would be fleeting—to remain in the eternity that is the sentimental inner story of a team.

They remained in the comfort of the clan, the affectionate embrace, and the sentimental story. A beautiful thing, but one that never turns out well. Elite players need constant encouragement to keep their game going in the cruelest and most competitive sport there is. They need to fight for titles, be surrounded by the best every day, and climb the ladder of legends, where they look askance, and where they've dreamed of being since they were children.

To understand the mentality of a great footballer, you only have to watch those videos where players are compared against each other and the star chooses between them. They take it with astonishing seriousness, proof that they've spent half their lives considering where they stand in the elite.

Julen and Muniain stayed at their club, and their performance immediately declined to the point of parody. They became depressed, and from then on, their life at Athletic became a small torture. Those players must leave, and then, perhaps in their final stages, return. A predator can't walk among herbivores without its fangs turning to cardboard.

A fan base has the right to turn its back on a player who leaves for another team. A club has the right not to negotiate, to demand payment of the release clause. But no one has the right to engage in emotional blackmail; that breaks football's connection with life through sheer abrasion. All those wonderful stories about the Williamses swimming to the promised land that is Athletic have a dark side: controlling the player's freedom, making it clear to them that everything they are, they owe to the Basque club, and that there's nothing worse than being ungrateful.

Borussia-Real Madrid was another step in the construction of Xabi Alonso's new Madrid, which is also the destruction of Carlo Ancelotti's old Madrid . Under the Italian, decisive matches began with hands in pockets until a player whistled a recognizable tune. For many minutes, Madrid was at the mercy of their opponents, and only at the very end did the pieces fall into place and those luminous, terrifying, but ephemeral cathedrals emerge on the pitch. These bursts of football contained the encyclopedia of the sport itself, and after that, it was time to compete with everything you had.

Xabi's Madrid is capable of maintaining a very high level of play for many minutes. In this case, it lasted the entire first half. These weren't sublime moves, although there was always some unusual technical gesture that opened the door to the penalty area. In general, the precision of the inside players and the mobility of Fran García were enough to dismantle Dortmund's defense. And between Tchouaméni, Fede, Huijsen, and the pressure from the rest , the Germans barely made any inroads into the Real Madrid area.

And suddenly, in the final five minutes of the match: the collapse. Xabi always uses the same starting eleven to make things work faster, but the second unit is still in the throes of Ancelotti's last year. Ceballos and Modric seem to have come straight from silent films , and the rest barely count for the Tolosa native.

Xabi has turned Tchouaméni into the cornerstone of his team, and when the Frenchman is missing (he came off in the 85th minute), the gap he leaves in midfield is enormous. In the final play of the match, the rust in Rüdiger's joints was revealed. He can no longer run. The wear and tear on his meniscus, like that of pensions, has entered an irreversible phase. His teammate, Huijsen, had played a flawless game as if the game had already been played out in his head, until that final, fateful opportunity where he did everything possible to do wrong. Penalty, red card, and expulsion. 19 years old and carrying an innocence that could cost him elimination in the Champions League .

Güler's role at the base of the play has completely liberated Valverde. The Uruguayan doesn't want to be anchored down, nor does he want the responsibility of making the first pass. He's something else. Together, Güler and Tchouamení act as the pivot, a role that once belonged to a single person, although at times a certain amount of duplication was permitted: Casemiro directed the demolition actions while Kroos delivered the first pass that astonished the world. On the other hand, Redondo ruled over heaven and earth, with a solitude that suited his heroic nature.

Fede doesn't like any of these tasks. Not the first pass, nor the responsibility of thinking up the play, nor being the opponent's stopper. Once he's physically and mentally free, Valverde becomes the best midfielder in the world. He improves everything, he cuts everything , he's the coach's trump card, the one who caulks the ship's holes, and the one who ruthlessly raids the secret chamber.

Vinicius is an open question mark. He seems to be redefining his game as Xabi gives him a new role. The Brazilian will never again have 30 runs per game, a kind of fantasy somewhere between reality; his play inside gives Bellingham and Gonzalo room and space, but something between his thinking and action has atrophied.

In his last great season, his most acclaimed play was the one in which Kroos showed him the way with a gesture and he finished with the speed of thought. Small, lightning-fast runs and the endless play of his waist. Vinicius no longer seems to enjoy the mad dashes down the wing. Nor the counterattacks, which he never excelled at and now always end in frustration. In the middle, his physical superiority remains intact, but his imagination has evaporated. Perhaps it's just the hangover from the season, or perhaps he's overthinking things in a moment of crisis.

And there are still goals. One was scored by Gonzalo: clean and simple, just like him, halfway between Morientes and Van Nistelrooy . Another was by Fran García in a play worthy of today's football, where everyone plays the right string and it's the full-back who comes in from the second line. In the last, Mbappé played the key role, thanks to his foreshortening and ease. Güler also provided the assists, with that left foot that, while not poetic, is precise and sees things the rest of us can't even imagine.