Sobrevuelos 2015 & 2016
Sobrevuelos 2015 & 2016
28 October 2016
14 September to 28 October, 2016
Here I am, in Buenos Aires, with a red and blue sunset, with thousands of things to do and thousands of things done, drinking whiskey and probably, when the night comes, a Lexotanil to lower my anguish. I've thought about you everyday; I miss you very much. What are you doing?
Hello Fabián. I'm eating a pear. They removed my gallbladder. They also found a big calcium stone in the pancreas. They tell me that chronic pancreatitis is what I have. As for that stone, I'm going to take care of it somehow later on. I'm going to ask it to go away. They tell me that, at present - maybe forever - I can't drink alcohol, and there are a lot of things that I shouldn't eat anymore. Almost everything that I like. Cheese, almonds, avocados, seafood, chocolate, coffee, egg yolks, croissants and all the pastries, everything fried, and lots of other food I've been used to ingesting since childhood.
The idea is that if I stop taking in fats, alcohol and tobacco perhaps the stone will be reduced - what do I know? I don't know if that will be how it leaves my body. I think I should talk to the stone. I hadn´t realized the quantity of chocolate and wine I consumed daily. I went to the doctor for a full physical examination, as it was years since the last one. They said I have everything very healthy - pulse at 44 beats per minute, good low blood pressure, the brain of a 25 year old guy, no indication of cancer, nothing bad, nothing physically wrong. Except that, in the images they did of my abdomen, they saw that I had a lot of little stones in my gallbladder, as if it were filled with gravel. After removing my gallbladder, the guy asked me if my pancreas hurt me very much. "No, not at all," I said. "There are people with much smaller stones who ask me for morphine," he told me. I was in a state of shock. Where the hell did that rock come from? Well, anyway, I've already gotten used to not drinking alcohol. And to eating differently. I realized that every day I had some whiskey and wine. I miss the habit of stopping at any bar to order a drink to accompany the reading of newspapers and books, to accompany the conversation with neighbourhood acquaintances and strangers, but I do not mind so much the absence of alcohol. I can drink water, revolutionary concept! Now I have to quit tobacco completely. That is going to be more difficult. I don't know if I will quit drinking maté. I already feel better, with more energy, so maybe the change is good.
A pear from my orchard.
© Viggo Mortensen.
Last night I had such a good and bad time watching the match against Banfield in the Copa Sudamericana tournament. It was one of the most memorable and enduring comebacks for our club in recent years. The second goal, the result of a tremendous collective play, brought to mind the origin of the nickname CICLÓN; the third one, a galloping scissor kick, by Cauteruccio, and the penalty save that Cóndor Torrijo did at almost 89 minutes into the match almost killed me. To be a Cuervo is an honour, a mortal wound.
The Cóndor saves the day for us
Here´s the report of "Héroes de Boedo
" in Olé:
I was teaching classes and later I left to get my suitcases ready to travel to Colombia where I'm going to a book fair. I read about the match in the newspapers today. It seems it was tremendous.
Have a good trip, brother. I hope everything goes well for you, that you sell a lot of books and have a good time, too.
Yes, it was a tremendous match, with a storybook ending. And last night I saw another heart-stopping match here in Madrid. They invited me to Bernabeu to see the first match of the Champions of Real Madrid against the Sporting Lisbon, Cristiano Ronaldo's old team (and Beto Acosta's!). Zidane´s team didn't play well, but the champion in them showed up with one of those epic comebacks for which that stadium is so famous, with a tying goal by CR7 [tr. note: Ronaldo] at the 88 minute from a free kick and the victory in the last seconds of extra time, at minute 93, by Álavaro Morata, the home-grown Madrid player who triumphed in Juventus and now has come home. Great assist from James, who is returning to form little by little.
Morata heading the ball for the agonising victory
Have you read Bohumil Hrabal? He's a great writer. I just read Too Loud a Solitude. It's about a guy who has the job of shredding old books and reproductions of paintings. From time to time he keeps some of the works or remembers something that he read years ago, fragments of poems, phrases from Hegel, Kant, Nietzsche, Lao Tzu, the great Greek and Roman philosophers - from any genius of literature or philosophy - comparing the images of painters and poets with the grey and miserable world in which he lives. Hrabal wrote this beautiful book during the Communist era in Czechoslovakia, during which his work was banned by the totalitarian regime of the pro-Soviets. The prose is a marvel, full of metaphors, a fable about love, creation and destruction. It's a cry from loneliness, a fight against ignorance and censorship, a flower that grows in a rotten cellar, a forceful Yes to life in spite of all the misfortunes that it brings us.
Speaking of that era, I don't know if I told you that a few months ago, I saw a beautiful exhibit by the Czech photographer Josef Koudelka. He once said something very simple: "A good photo is one that you can't forget." His photos of gypsies are great, but the ones that moved me the most were the ones that he did during the confrontation between the people in the street and the Soviet invaders and their tanks in 1968, called the Prague Spring.
Photographs by Koudelka
Yes, I read that book by Hrabal a long time ago; he's great. I'm at the airport waiting for a rescheduled flight to go on tour with the books around Bogotá, Cali and Medellín. Pilots' strike, but it seems I'm leaving at two in the afternoon; it had to be at noon. I've rented an apartment two blocks from the kids. They are giving it to me at the end of the month. Now it's the fakir's way for me. The brain uses the anguish to keep you in comfort zones. Today I saw Paul McCartney jumping into a swimming pool fully clothed and he´s 24 years older than I. It cheered me up. The play that I wrote already began rehearsals and I hope to do it in a Boedo theatre. I love you.
And you got to the airport early, didn't you? How nice that the play is being rehearsed by actors in a theatre. I like what you wrote; it breaks moulds and is provocative. Will you attend rehearsals? I'm sure you'd like that, when actors and director have taken on the play and feel comfortable, that you should go and see how it sounds when everything is put together.
I think that you'll be able to jump into the swimming pool with clothes on or off when you are a 100 years old. I'll join you in that event.
I read a (true) story about a woman who kidnapped, prostituted and killed children in Barcelona at the beginning of the 20th century. Horrible. She made creams from the children's bodies and sold them to wealthy people. Her clients didn't know what the creams were made of; they simply believed that it would cure them of every sickness and rejuvenate them. It's insanity, the human race - a toxic mixture of high tension and cruelty. That Catalan killer was named Enriqueta Martí.
By the way, I spoke with another doctor who tells me that I can drink wine now and then (only red) and maté and other things, too. That's better.
Hello brother. I'm here in Medellín about to travel to Caliwood, land of Andrés Caicedo. I'm keeping it together with Lexotanil and firewater since the ghosts of the separation that removed me from the kids' realm hurts my soul. I had dinner with several writers who are here and who are also from the Separados Soccer Club [tr. note: Separated Soccer Club], and they told me that this will hurt for a year or more. I have to move toward Buddhism and sit down beneath the meditation tree to see what I can do.
Yesterday I tried to see the San Lorenzo- Vélez match, but it wasn't on TV. Be careful with eating; maybe a diet that eliminates flours and things like that would give you a boost. Still I think you're made of iron. I knew it the freezing night that we filmed the scenes of the kidnapping of your daughter in Jauja and you were in pyjamas and barefoot.
I know a little about what you're telling me, brother. When Exene and I separated it was hard and sad and some of that remains forever. Luckily we could keep talking and being good friends, she and I, like you and Guadalupe. But it's also true, as your friends in Buenos Aires are telling you, that you get used to it, like Manco Casa got used to playing and not playing soccer, living his life according to what was possible without his right arm. Well, all wounds are fatal, right?
I miss you. I will call you when I get home in half an hour. We defeated Vélez well. It could have been much worse for the Fortineros [tr. note: Vélez]. The 2-1, like the recent 2-1 by Guardiola´s Manchester City against Mourinho´s Manchester United, seemed as though it was going to be a shameful thrashing. In these two matches, the first half was a dancing lesson by the Cuervos and the Citizens. Neither Vélez or Mourinho seem to be very clear about what they want to play.
Mourinho tolerates the dance
Aguirre has won the team's trust, and he's laying out the matches well. San Lorenzo is playing nicely and has the wind in its favour in the Copa Sudamericana, the Copa Argentina and the local tournament. Let's enjoy it, brother.
Aguirre sows and builds
Now here I am in Caliwood, understanding why Andrés Caicedo committed suicide so young: it´s very hot. I´m smoking Pielroja cigarettes.
Before leaving Medellín, I saw CASLA's goals on the replay. Blanco's was a huge goal. Tomorrow I'm leaving for Bogotá and a day later I return to Horla City [tr. note: Buenos Aires]. Hugs
Blanco celebrating after the tie with Vélez
Yes, Blanco's goal was a poisoned kick. And I loved how they combined Mussis, Belluschi and Cauteruccio against Vélez. The victory with another goal from Blandi (who's being impossible of late), assisted, of course, by Blanco. Playing like this, San Lorenzo can make any team in the world suffer. I don't know if you saw it, but we didn't play very well against Patronato yesterday. They did their best to leave with three points, so you could say that we escaped with a tie. We have to be grateful for the point that kept us in the fight. San Lorenzo´s match was an anomaly; the Cuervo way of playing wasn't fluid. But the team didn't completely fall apart either. Sometimes there are matches like that, days like that. Hold on Ciclón! There's so much left to play on all fronts. Once more Torrico saved the 1-1 by stopping a penalty shot. When are they going to call him for the National Team? Between the goal posts, the Cóndor is the best there is with an Argentine passport.
The hero flies
We are still there, in the struggle for it all. In the second leg against the Venezuelan team La Guaira, we can secure qualifying for the quarter finals in the Copa Sudamericana. In the Copa Argentina, CASLA will play against Tomba [tr. note: Club Deportivo Godoy Cruz] to try to get to the quarter finals. I look at the picture of the Final Round of that tournament and I see that we are advancing; a semi-final against River and a final against Boca could happen. I hope so, because we are ready to shut the mouths of the Gallinas [tr. note: River] and the Bosteros [tr. note: Boca] this year. And in the tournament for the First [Division], we are four points from the top and playing very well. Blandi is scoring goals of all kinds, in almost every match. Let's hope his good streak continues.
Blandi goal scorer
Round of 16 second leg, Copa Sudamericana:
Again Blandi, again El Ciclón! The result of a very good collective play, and a perfect pass from Cauteruccio. The Dinamita pushed it to the second goal against the Venezuelans. This player, who came out from Boca Juniors, has had many team changes during the last five years. I hope he can stay in Boedo for quite a while. And now San Lorenzo is the only Argentine team left in the Copa Sudamericana. Straight ahead, just straight ahead Ciclón...
I've just finished reading a very good biography about a writer I've always liked, Mari Sandoz. Daughter of a Swiss pioneer, she was born in the northwest of the state of Nebraska in the late 19th century, right after the final defeat of the Lakota of Tasunke Witko (Crazy Horse,) the native people who most resisted the invasion and conquest of the West by the US army, and the gangs of miners and other armed opportunists from the urban centres of the Atlantic side of the country. Sandoz endured being rejected a thousand times by different publishing houses, but she was very stubborn and sure of her talent. Time proved her right, and New York's provincial critics ended up respecting her way of writing her dialogue in the regional slang of the plain, and her meticulous work as a historian to faithfully represent the habits and lifestyle of native peoples.
The biography written by Stauffer
Mari grew up surrounded by the Lakota, the Cheyenne and the stories and legends of those tribes. She learned a lot from it all, and from the arid, sandy landscape of the Sand Hills, an area in the west of Nebraska bordering Wyoming and South Dakota. Her writings are songs to the beauty of the Far West plains and the endurance of their native peoples and also of the European pioneers. She's the author of the best biography written about Tasunke Witko, a book called Crazy Horse: The Strange Man of the Oglalas.
I´ve adapted her book, The Horsecatcher. I´d like to turn that script into a film.
Do you remember the little oaks that began to grow out of the acorns I found last winter in the Basque Country? Look how they are doing:
© Viggo Mortensen.
Hélène Grimaud is Messi. Today I saw her playing the piano with precision, sweetness, fury and an invincible love in a recent concert I just finished watching on the ARTE channel. It was the Concert for Piano and Orchestra number 4, op. 58 by the greatest master of all times, Ludwig van Beethoven, with Manfred Honeck conducting her and the Vienna Symphony Orchestra.
The Piano's Pulga
And now I'm watching the San Lorenzo match that they're winning 2-0 against Atlético de Rafaela after 47 minutes of soccer. Our defence is scary at times, especially against their 7, a good player, but the drivetrain of Mussis to Corujo to Ortigoza to Blanco to Cauteruccio to Belluschi to Mas to Blandi is impressive. We have so many variants on attack that it's impossible for the Crema to know where we're coming from. Up to now a great Belluschi goal at 14 seconds and the second (another one!) from Blandi who only had to push it after a beautiful collective play. I like the order that Aguirre has imposed, and the high pressure that he demanded in the stadium today. Mussis is playing a great match of constant relays with a lot of intelligence. We're doing well.
I'm here in the kids' home taking care of them until Guada comes back from teaching classes. I moved two blocks away to be close to them. Yesterday, I got an email from Lisandro who's in Boston and what he said made me cry. It gave me some strength. I'm trying to teach classes and trying to renegotiate books with Planeta to have some extra income. The truth, champion, is that I have no good days. I wake up at five in the morning with the Horla [tr. note: an invisible being in an 1886 French horror story who sways the minds of others in order to subjugate them] and try to do things in order to lower the flotation level of my anguish.
As a song by Antonio Solís says, "The rhythm of life seems wrong," so much so that I only follow the Ciclón out of the corner of my eye. We are short on cash and that's complicated. I don't do karate, don't meditate, don't laugh. But I hope that this passes and I go back to feeling happy. It's just that you have to go through the pain and the work uncertainty walking like a fakir. I hope you're well. I always think of you and bring to mind those happy moments that we spent together in Boedo, in the south filming, having dinner at my house, smoking under the stars, drinking Zubrowka in your little rented house in La Lobería. Do you remember?
Of course I remember! I'm calling you on the phone now. I need to listen to your voice, Cuervo.
Thanks for the conversation, brother. It was lovely to hear you. I feel what I feel when you tell me what you feel. What I feel is my own and I can't explain it to you, like you can't explain yourself to me, not completely, not the root of your pain least of all. But we listen to each other and we talk to each other, we write to each other and we read each other.
I was leafing through a book by the Uruguayan writer, Idea Vilariño. There's a lot that's from another era and maybe it doesn't get to us as directly, but she also wrote simple, universal, eternal phrases. She reveals herself in an astonishing way. For example:
It is Clear
It is clear that I
one of these days will be
a mute bit of soil
a bit of garbage
that is not
but how to accept that they my own
that their own dust
will not see it
will not touch it with a soft finger
will not touch it with the tip of their tongue
that it will not know
will not know.
Did you see the match against Godoy Cruz?
Here I am, Viggo. As I don't have Wi-fi in my house, I don't check emails that often. I'm trying to straighten up the little house a bit to be with the children. I didn't see CASLA, and now I'm in a bar and, in the afternoon, I'm teaching some classes at college. Today, after leaving the children at home, I dedicated most of noon to be with Rita in the park for quite a while. I miss her very much too. I smoked three cigarettes. I recalled what a Hindu sage said to Leonard Cohen when he told him that he no longer smoked "Friend, what is life but smoke?"
I'm in Italy to present Captain Fantastic at the Rome Festival. We were put in a nice hotel right in the centre, not very far from Piazza del Poppolo. Sometimes, when they invite you to a festival, they put you in one of those hotels where you wouldn't stay on your own. When I was about to enter my room with my suitcase, I was greeted in Spanish by a guy who seemed to be a security guard. After a while I opened the door to see whether he was still there, in the hallway.
"Hello. Excuse me, where are you from?," I asked him. "Argentina." "Ah, nice. I´m Viggo, what's your name?" "Alberto." "Pleased to meet you. Are you working security for the festival?" "No, for the president." "President? Of..." "The Republic. Macri." "Macri is here?" Looking at the opposite door, he says "Yes, right here." "Incredible... Alberto, wait a second please." I went back to my room and took out a CASLA sticker from the suitcase (as you know, I carry them everywhere to leave a mark.) I go into the hallway and show it to Alberto. Please know, so you can be at ease, that Daddy is round the corner for anything you need, if you need a helping hand. Anything. Here I am." Big smile from Alberto. "O.K." "Good luck, Alberto." "Good luck to you too." I didn't give him the sticker because I'm sure he wouldn't give it to the Bostero in office and because I'd rather give it to a Roman who appreciates it. Also I don't think that Alberto passed the message to the favourite son. Judging by his reaction - unless he´s a great actor - I don't think Alberto is a Cuervo. I'm not saying he's a Bostero, but a Cuervo he is not. I´m sure he would have thrown the sticker in the trash can. Half an hour went by. Nobody came, so I guess the son has everything he needs. Speaking of soccer, coming from the airport, at reaching the outskirts of the city we ran into a very soccer-crazy gentleman. I don't know what he was called, but he's from Sardinia and didn´t stop talking really fast about soccer players from that island while he played ball next to our car.
© Viggo Mortensen.
The one he talked about most was Gigi (Luigi) Riva, who was not from Sardinia, but was a tremendous striker for Cagliari and the Azurra [tr. note: Italy's National Team]. Gigi kicked his left-footed shots so hard that they nicknamed him "Rombo di Tuono" [tr. note: The Sound of Thunder]. With his National Team, he won the European Cup in 1968, scoring a goal in the final, but he was unlucky in the World Cup. Just before the one played in England in 1966, he broke his left leg in a match. Just before the 1970 World Cup he broke the right one in another match, and he couldn't go to Mexico with his National Team. Despite not being as lucky internationally as other Italians, he's an undisputed Calcio [tr. note: soccer] idol, one of the best offensive players his country has produced.
Look at this lovely scissor-kick goal that Gigi scored against Vicenza:
The thrashing with Cauteruccio's "hat-trick" to Arsenal was impressive. To me, Mussis was the one who stood out in the match as well as Caute. He did everything, Mussis did, and he saved the team many times when there was some distraction that was initiating the opponent's counterattack. Besides scoring three huge goals, Cauteruccio also ran and defended well on many occasions. They all worked as a group almost perfectly, on defence (apart from some slip-ups of the kind that scare you at times), on the midfield and up. I also liked Coloccini very much. It seems he has already joined in and feels confident with the group. If Bergessio is once again a lethal weapon on the attack, we are going to have an unstoppable team. The truth is that the team already has many variations, that Aguirre has a wealth of options when it comes to laying out matches and building lineups. Great Ciclón. Let´s go for it all.
The New Beast of Boedo, Franco Mussis
By the way, did you see the mural they made as a tribute to the artist Antonio Berni? It´s at the corner of Garay and José Mármol, next to Garay's barbeque, two blocks from the new stadium we are going to have, the definite Return one. Martín Cutino, our brother Cuervo, sent me the photo.
© Martín Cutino.
Speaking of Boedo and the returns, I have good news: I'm going to Buenos Aires soon to present Captain Fantastic. I hope to be able to go to the stadium to see the Clásico against our Son. Shall we go together? Will Macri come? And later we can go to see the new mural and maybe have dinner together somewhere.
Hello Cuervo: from Sunday to Tuesday I hardly slept and ended up in psychiatric first-aid. There I told the clinician who attended me, "I'm coming from the pediatric first-aid and they told me that I first had to come here for you to refer me." "Pediatric?" said the guy. "No, psychiatric, of course," I said. "Because I miss my children very much. It was a slip of the tongue." And I started to cry. The guy gave me a prescription for Rivotril and that calmed me down. Today I'm going to see if I can go to karate and go back to my psychologist although my economics don't allow it. It's a bit cold now. Yesterday I saw CASLA and they played like the life I lead: a piece of shit. I'm trying to develop muscles in the gym of impermanence.
Israel Damonte celebrates the victory goal
Oh, brother. I'm going to call you now. And, you know what? I´m going to see you soon to give you a very long hug. Again I'm thinking about something that Idea Vilariño wrote: "We strive every night to seek, between heavy and suffocating lands, that weightless bird of light that burns and escapes us in a moan.
" And I think about the daily nonsense, those of others and our own, the insignificant things that derail us and worry us too much until our everyday life goes into crisis. What can you do to remain looking out the window, towards the treetops and the ground, always in quiet pursuit of those weightless birds of light? Perhaps beginning by accepting that the impermanence you mention is the rule, the continuous nature of our days. Before calling you, I have to thank you for the beautiful text you wrote for Perfil. Full of the pain you are telling me, yes, but also catching sight of that bird of light:
Today, October 19, 2016, I'm making a brief report about Ana. She was born one August morning, which is why she always says: "I'm never cold because I was born in winter." She enjoys very much playing with two friends she's had since the time of her first school experience, which is quite remarkable. One wonders if she'll manage to keep that bond all her life.
For some reason, watching television, she became aware of anacondas, giant snakes that generate admiration and terror in her. When her father travels somewhere, she asks him: "Where are you going? Are there anacondas?" At midday, before leaving for school, she enjoys Zorro, a series more likely to be enjoyed by a male than a little girl. In fact recently, for a costume party at school, she dressed up as Zorro and she even painted the moustache on herself. She looked great.
Ana is very sociable and very sensitive; she can't bear someone suffering in a story, a movie or in real life. That makes her cry. She's a little girl, slightly taller than average - because of her mother - and has a wide nose and large mouth - because of her father.
Now she´s missing her two front teeth. Her scent is special, because it leaves traces in parts of the house and in the nightie her father treasures under the pillow to, like Proust, smell it and remember Ana when he doesn't see her. She has a mineral scent that can only be identified as Ana's scent. Ana is a part of nature, a singularity of being. Something beautiful to touch are her hands, so small and soft like those of the rain.
I left you a voice message. Let's see if we can manage to talk this morning. I love you. What you wrote for the blog is a poem, Fabían, subjective and detailed like all good poems. There is your hope and the hope of anybody, the recipe for the remedy, because, like the great Johann Wolfgang von Goethe says, "Science emerged from poetry... when times change, the two could meet again on a higher plane, like friends."
I recommend an Italian book to you, if you can find it in Buenos Aires - if not, I'll bring it to you next month - Lacrime di sale
[Salt Tears] by Pietro Bartolo. He is a doctor from the island of Lampedusa, where so many Africans and Arabs arrive, dead and alive, hungry and desperate, raped and mistreated, with immense sorrow and mind-boggling psychological damage, but, however, with tremendous optimism in many cases. Bartolo mixes details and anecdotes from his upbringing and everyday life on the island with stories told to him by the poor refugees. It's a piercing book, "My daily story as a doctor from Lampedusa between pain and hope" as it says on the cover.
Martín Cutino sent me the following text regarding exiled peoples - including our San Lorenzo - thinking about the game for the second leg of the Quarter Finals of the Copa Sudamericana in Chile this evening:
I love San Lorenzo. I love our soccer team having great matches, playing well and winning, but there are things that move me more than a goal in a final or an agonizing triumph in a classic, the artistic manifestations of this people, of Boedo.
For years there's been an exceptional emergency in the Barrio, artists committed to the club and to the fight to return to Boedo. I love San Lorenzo. Some days ago, I got a call from a buddy from the stands, Manza. He tells me that on the occasion of matches with Palestino de Chile, they are going to make the battle of the Palestinian people visible. He tells me that we're brothers, that the two of us fight for the same thing and that we suffer the cruellest of punishments, exile. I hear him and I'm moved; it stirs my soul; into my mind come revolutionary ideas that I brought forth in my talks with Cuervo friends - that we had to break away from the AFA, that it wouldn't do for us anymore and that we should go on an itinerant kind of tour around the world to play with the national teams of the dispossessed of the planet. The idea was to put together matches with the national teams of the Basques, Palestine, Cuba, Jamaica, Haiti, Zaire and all of those who would fight for freedom and their rights. Everyone laughed and called me crazy and they were right, but I tell myself, who needs to be right?
I love San Lorenzo. Manza sends me a photo; it's a mural painted in the rain. It fills me with pride. The struggles of Boedo and Palestine are interwoven. I tell myself that as far as I'm concerned, we are already playing in a different league in Boedo. We are breaking away from the culture that governs us and we are breaking new cultural ground. One phrase comes to mind for me: Art is only useful if it generates a transformative effect in society. It will be like that for those who see the mural in Santander and Castañares. They go to the embassy, later they hold a ceremony in the New Gasómetro. Lammens joins in, they talk and the people´s struggle is defended. That´s beautiful. I love San Lorenzo and its people.
Today we're playing the rematch in Chile; I hope we win. "Ojalá" [I hope] is an Arabic word that means "if God wills."
[Tr. note: the Spanish expression for "I hope" is "ojalá" which comes from the Arab phrase "inshallah" meaning "If God wills."] I hope Palestine and Boedo win. The only thing I know is that these two people do not surrender and that is the most glorious victory.
(This is a photograph of the mural and the Facebook page from the authors of Youth for Palestine, the Boedo Palestinians -www.facebook.com/jovenesconpalestina/?fref=ts.)
Well, we advanced. Let's say that it wasn't the most beautiful match in history, but Ciclón dealt with the setbacks and the opponent's aggressiveness to pass on to the semifinal against the Brazilian club of Chapecó. Mussis continues being most reliable, and his teammates locked it down as best they could to protect the result when they threw it to Belluschi. The Uruguayan referee had a horrendous performance but I think he did a bad job all the way around. He didn't favor either of the two teams; he fucked both of them. We were the superior trans-Andean team in this match like we've been at home. We should have scored more goals in the first leg in order not to suffer so much in the second period last night, but whatever - we advanced, deservedly. The Associação Chapecoense de Futebol has a short history - little more than 40 years - but they played well in the Sudamericana and in the Libertadores, and have shown themselves to be one of the best teams in their country. It's not going to be easy to win against them.
With so many matches piled up on three fronts, physical exhaustion is beginning to show in some of our players. The matches against Newell's Sunday in Rosario and the semi-final against Chapeco, the "Hurricane of the East" at home on Wednesday, are approaching. And after CASLA will face a constant load of complicated matches. November is going to be a trial by fire. If we get to the home match against Boca on 27/11 playing well, we're going to continue fighting for all of our objectives. I think that Aguirre has demonstrated that he knows how to rotate the line-ups, to modify the approach according to the situation of his team and the opponent's qualities. And the players have a winning mentality. It's a shame that we couldn't win or tie against Pincha last week in the Independence Tournament, but we are still in the highest level of the ranking. I want the three cups and I think Aguirre does, too. He's not going to be intimidated.
" There are different kinds of applications of force and you should use all of them."
- Bruce Lee.
Your analysis is exactly right. Yesterday the expulsion of Mago Belluschi left me with a very bitter taste in my mouth, but that's the way soccer is. The linesman and the referee were a disaster. The Brazilians are going to be very tough, but I have a lot of faith in our team. They will be some beautiful games to watch. We're in all those tournaments, we are good, we have to enjoy it.
The Argentine sports media, above all the Clarín group, continue to give more importance in their professional soccer coverage to River and Boca than any other team in the First Division. Their lack of objectivity is pathetic at times. I'm not going to enumerate the recent examples of this prejudice, but I pay special attention to the propaganda that's been going on for a long time about a Final in the Copa Argentina between the Bosteros and the Gallinas. It seems that Gimnasia (LP), Rosario Central, Belgrano and San Lorenzo - the club that's playing the best in Argentina - don't exist. If CASLA manages to win against Gimnasia, I would love to see Toro Bergessio play against River in the semi-final, eight years after his feat in the Gallinero in the 2008 Copa Libertadores. We can also dream about reaching the Final, right?
How long are they going to sell Boca t-shirts in the Olé newspaper?
Cultural monoculture, the soybean-ization of BOVER thought.
Last edited: 29 March 2017 09:17:04