We were late. I knew we were going to be late, but didn’t know exactly how late we were going to be. It was too late, apparently. By the time I made it back from the Maquinista Mall, somewhere north of downtown, about 9 Metro stops north of the Arc de Triomf, after a marginally productive trip to the Genius Bar, Osasuna was up two to nil. What the fuck? I couldn’t believe what I was reading on the tiny screen in the bar we passed. I asked the guy outside the pub “Es veritat? Dos a cero?!” “Si, si, es veritat.” Madre mia.
We ran the last block and half to the entrada, zipped up the elevator shaft and stormed into the living room. “Es veritat?! Dos a cero a Osasuna?!”
Thirty minutes had gone by, and so had the Liga. There was no way Barca was coming back from two down, at Osasuna playing on their potato field of a pitch, in sub-zero temperatures. On top of this, they were playing with a makeshift midfield, saving the premier engine for the Champions League game this coming Tuesday.