A crackling Basque derby.
“Erasmus” is the Monday column in which we tell you about a sparkling game from the international football weekend. If you missed previous episodes, you can find them here.
When it starts to make itself felt, homesickness won’t stop haunting you. She creeps in like a woodworm, until she satisfies part of her hunger for her by feeding her with something routine, customary, familiar. The wind that blows over Pas Aranzadi on one side shakes you and on the other makes you come across a loaf of your daily bread. A parochial rivalry, inside an avant-garde temple, expression of two close but opposite football faiths and philosophies. Athletic Club-Real Sociedad it is this and more. Basque Derbythe first would say, The Basque Derby seconds. The capital of Biscay and that of Gipuzkoa, main provinces of the peculiar microcosm of the Basque Country. Much more prosaically, seventh against fourth in La Liga.
Al San Mamés Barria, on the right bank of the Nerbioi, there is not a free place. Pride and the obtuse claim of one’s uniqueness can be touched by hand: the red and white they speak another language, literally and footballingly, even compared to The real, 100 km away as the crow flies but light years away from the mindset of the Valverde team. Home-built Athletic welcome the Williams brothers on the wings in support of Guruzeta. THE White–bluefighting for a place in the Champions League, are perhaps the last offshoot of the melancholy and plush Spanish position game: midfielders who seem to float half a meter from the pitch, midfield rumble, constant search for space between the red and white shirts.
The epitome of stylish juxtaposition is embodied by the attacking midfielders: Sancet’s exuberant, athletic intensity and exuberance on the one hand, David Silva’s cleanliness on the other. The Athletic Club aims, supported by a more blocked pair of midfielders, to trigger the offensive arrows and shake the shoulders of Real’s full-backs. Alguacil’s formation looks like a muted piano, with a muffled, delicate but not repressed sound.
After 10′ in which the most distracted could think it was any derbi, two things pricked up the antennas: Brais Mendez, until last year a lunatic offensive winger for Coudet’s Celta, returns to his own trocar to prevent Sancet from shooting shot; on the reversal in front, Berchiche and Gorosabel collide near the sideline. If even el the champion of San Sebastian is willing to get his hands dirty, then the going gets tough. For real.
Both allergic to man marking anywhere on the pitch, tension dictates the pace. Zubeldia sacrifices himself on Iñaki Williams’ reception in the small area, the Japanese electric Kubo shoots the first left-footed player of the match high. A rough race, where nervousness clings to the teams like summer rain which, like many times in new cathedralit seems to go down even when the sky is only overcast.
To go back up the field, Athletic players are allergic to the contact between the boot and the ball, managing the maneuver with as few touches as possible, like a skin that suffers from dermatitis near water. To go up the field, l’Real think instead that the balloon is a cat to cuddle and caress with affection. Close passes, precise but never powerful, as if not to frighten the soul of the ball and not hurt him.
Halfway through the first half, Athletic’s aggressiveness takes effect for the first time: Zubimendi is suffocated by Guruzeta’s pressure, Sancet snatches the ball from the guest halfback and serves Nico Williams deep. One against one in speed, he ball on his beloved left-handed, cross shot. Remiro works miracles, receiving the insults of the red and white fans behind his goal. The security flaunted up to now by Real proves apparent: the chaos of Valverde’s team gradually gets the better of the white-blue order. Remiro raises a twisting right foot from the eldest of the Williams for a corner, Iñaki waves to recall, as if it were necessary, the curve of the san mames. In the end he scores from the next corner by exploiting full-back Aihen’s laziness in marking. Cathedral recite the holiday ritual.
Soto Grado stops everything. The VAR tells him that, perhaps, Williams touched with his arm. The Cathedral falls silent, in religious silence. The apnea lasts one minute. Iñaki touched her with his side. The goal is good. Athletics 1-0. The Williams brothers gather together at the flag, cheering like Goten and Trunks in Dragon Ball.
Real ceases to govern the width of the field, Athletic overwhelms it athletically. San Mamés starts to celebrate for the throw-ins and the rebounds won. I glimpse a Ghanaian flag strung on the same pole as the Basque banner. Almost a history of integration: the visceral past combined with open doors to make anyone who deserves to be part of their history become part of their history.
Alguacil tries to fix it when the game restarts. Villarreal fell at home to Real Valladolid: the three points would be vital. Enter Barrenetxea for Brais Mendez: the opportunity to stretch on fifth place is tempting. Or rather, it would be. Valverde’s eleven continues to stretch like an accordion, supported on the shoulders of his captain: Iñaki acts as a bank; Iñaki recycles the ball; Iñaki dictates depth; Iñaki triggers his little brother on the other side and causes Elustondo to be booked. Cathedral rejoices, even if the punishment leads to nothing.
Kubo and Barrenetxea try to widen Athletic’s defence. Starting from the wing, they try to create superiority by returning on their strong foot in the center of the field: once Capa and Berchiche, once again the excellent doubles by Vesga and Dani Garcia slow down the advance of Alguacil’s wingers. In the 55th minute Real’s movement found a glimmer of light for the first time: Barrenetxea, Kubo and Merino called Unai Simon to play overtime, much criticized for the risks he runs in possession but underestimated when it comes to reactivity between the posts.
The Cathedral rejoices. Yeray wins yet another tackle with Oyarzabal, winning a goal kick that lets Valverde’s defense breathe. The Cathedral, of course, bursts forth.
Sancet recovers the ball on the edge of the area, flies away alone against the entire Real defence, he is alone, he can do nothing but approach the corner flag. Suddenly he shoots, from about thirty meters, completely off center. Outside the network, no real danger to Remiro.
Despite everything, San Mamés reacts as if the ball had entered. I rejoice too. I also rejoice when Le Normand has to spend a yellow to stop the impetus of Sancet, who has just managed to orient his body in order to control, dribble and sprint in a single movement.
In the 70th minute I officially converted to the Athletic cult. Sancet receives Nico’s sidekick and turns too quickly for someone of his size to support with his left and not, losing a game time, with his right for Raul Garcia. The former Athletes turns the front for Iñaki. Le Normand is already cautioned and so he stalls, stalls, stalls. Williams aims it and, taking advantage of the passivity of Alguacil’s 12, enters the area. He has time to load the right. 9 rolls. No one expects the ball to slot exactly between Remiro’s raised arms and the crossbar, but something makes you think so. The captain’s lightning strikes Real. 2-0.
The last 20′ are played but they are like accessories. Anything could happen on the pitch and San Mamés would keep singing. Unai Simon surpasses himself on a left-footed shot from Ali Cho but then misses the outgoing support and gives Barrenetxea the most beautiful gift ever unwrapped. Soto Grado whistles three times. San Mamés continues to sing, like a swollen river that cannot be dammed.