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.
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