Like the underwater black Superman, Real Madrid exist in a different world. Left-footed players play on the right, Center-backs score goals, and French players speak Spanish to their Spanish-speaking teammates. The madness is palpable.
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Players manage coaches, for whom winning provides no refuge. Player acquisitions are more about political intent than footablling philosophy. It's also a world in which Iker Casillas has to play.
The more I look/think at that situation, suppositionally, is the more that I am forced to believe that it cannot be the world that I live in. A manager is not allowed to 'manage' a workforce, even when using criteria that is agreeable to his/her detractors or even established best-practice? No one has feigned that Diego Lopez usurped Casillas; his performances have merited selection, unanimously. Yet even as that bastard Fergie brandished wry anecdotes about which goalkeeper wouldn't have saved what, ominously there was still that chorus; play Casillas.
At first I dismissed it as the inherent hatred that comes along with the toxicity of anything stamped Jose. It's unfortunate that embattled media personnel wax lyrical about flops/failures of a man's; albeit pernicious, ultimately impressive tenure in the face of then-Barcelona. But this? Even on the backdrop of internal bickering, should Mourinho's vengeful but injury-driven purchase perform not just as some sort of envoy, but as white Black Lightning in Madrid-world, why would there be an uproar?
And then, a sordid plot twist. Mourinho was banished; in itself ushering in the good times. He was replaced too; by a peacemaker they said. A lovable rogue. A man not encumbered by pride and the like. He was innocuous, defusing; but nonetheless, apparently deaf. He hadn't heard the chorus.
In keeping with the contrarian approach to everything at the club, Real produced another. In hiring Ancelotti, they have a man it seems, that dares to select his teams on meritocracy. It's farcical. Madness, Jerry! Madness.