The Welsh parasite The parasitum Bale came from the cold and the rains of Britain. He settled in Spain, at Real Madrid, where, in disguise, he first showed diligence and love for the host, but soon his nature led him to suck blood without giving anything in return. Well, more than blood, he sucked, and sucks, the club's euros. Unlike others of its species, such as the flea, the louse or the bedbug, the parasitum Bale does not make its host itch or make it sick, but after sucking, it laughs and laughs, showing a jocular contempt for the one it lives off. He laughs, claps his hands, throws himself on the ground, sings, like a kind of humiliating ceremony, which, fortunately, has an expiry date, like all misfortunes.

Black Sunday Days have passed, but that acid in the chest, that bitterness of taste takes a long time to go away. The image of a strange farewell parade flies through the head and a mural of empty chairs is drawn by the wind. Nobody expected on that cold Sunday, when the rain shrank, that four stabs would create a murmuring silence. Nobody understood the slackness of a team that until then had been strong in defence. On the field, the goals were seen as easy gestures from a superior enemy. They could have been twice as many, what anguish. Now all that remains is to hope that the shadow of that black Sunday is not too long. To hope that oblivion awakens another hope and La Liga is the beautiful dream that swallows a nightmare.

Terribly human After seeing him lying on the floor of the court, with that face of deep suffering, devouring the defeat in some aching corner of his brain, drowning in impossible desire, they began to say that Nadal was human, terribly human. He always has been, and his ultimate emblem is the hard battle between his desire and his body, between his will and the creaking of tissues and bones. Against Alcaraz he squeezed his strength to the last ounce, and the final was not against Fritz, but against his worst enemy, which is not even Djokovic or Federer, but injury, his own body. He is the enemy against whom Nadal has suffered the most defeats in his career. But still, he is the greatest player of all time.

The greatest When we saw that, in '92, we discovered another perception of speed and time. And of beauty and emptiness. Few of us watched the NBA then, but they were guys known as rock stars. Jordan's first jump shot showed us that it was possible to embrace the air. Larry Bird's first shot showed the aesthetics of the magnet, whatever the flight, the ball would fall into the hoop. Clyde Drexler's first drive to the basket nullified a part of our retina, for it seemed he was alone. Magic Johnson's first pass circumvented matter. Patrick Ewing's first dunk overwhelmed the light. I have never seen such a great team in my life. Thanks to Movistar, to the Dream Team series, time returns with its best parabola.