Ultimately the novel failed to turn into a masterpiece. The fault of an unhappy and very bitter ending, at times surreal, certainly cruel, which however cannot affect the majesty of a year-long plot. Under the sky of Budapest Mourinho incredibly lost that final of Europa League which incredibly he had conquered. And he did it with a team shaped in his image and likeness, tortured in the flesh after a recovery almost as long as the two extra timearrived at penalties without penalty takers, leaded by questionable refereeing. José, the man who said he came right after God, suddenly found himself human. The man who had never lost a European final found himself succumbing to the helm of a team that instead often let trophies slip away in a traumatic and painful way: the Champions cup against the Liverpoolat home, in 1984, the Coppa Uefa against theInter in 1991, the Italian Cup against Lazio in 2013.
All defeats that had given the fans a rain of tears and a new literary vein, that of “never a joy”, that of “what will be, will be. Wherever we will support you”. Mourinho’s importance for this team (but also for the club) is all contained here. Not so much in having conquered two continental finals in two years, as in having transformed the Giallorossi into credible suitors for the final victory. That was the case on Wednesday night as well, when up to the post hit by Rakitic at the end of the first half Roma played the best football of their last few months. No bus at the door as against the Bayer Leverkusenbut a high defense, an overwhelming midfield, a proactive mindset. A surprise for a Rome that for long stretches of the season had been dirty and bad, but above all ugly, so much so that it had found its aesthetics in a fiercely anti-aesthetic game. And it is precisely for this reason that the defeat came on penalties (complete with a repetition of the decisive penalty of montiel) hurts even more.
Mourinho’s management on Wednesday evening was perfect. More after the game than during. The replacement of Dybala con Wijnaldum (mysterious and ectoplasmic figure in his adventure in the capital) and not with El Shaarawy, the fittest man among the giallorossi, was convoluted and inexplicable, probably counterproductive. But it’s in the pain management that Mou produced his umpteenth masterpiece. After the cup had vanished like a soap bubble, the man from Setubal brought out all the humanity he hides behind that gruff patina. He took Bove by the hand and took him away as a father would with his little son, he gave courage to an inconsolable Dybala, he sought physical contact with all the defeated. Then Mou called the team, gathered them around him in a circle that everything was now but magical. “We are here, we are united,” she said. And while the party was building all around, his men listened to him in an almost ecclesiastical silence. “You played in a grand final – exclaimed the coach – all of Europe saw you”. He went on for a few seconds. Even if there wasn’t much else to say. With his boys hanging on his lips. With tears streaming down his eyes. Soon after José Mourinho brought the team under the yellow-red curvehe walked on the lawn of the Puskas Arena receiving a long collective applause. From the Romans. From Sevilla fans.
Mourinho puffed out his cheeks and pursed his lips. With shining eyes, like a Tirana, although this time there was no trophy to sprinkle with salt water. “I said we would go out with the cup or die – said the man from Setubal in the aftermath – We went out dead of physical and mental tiredness and because we think the result is unfair”. It seems to read “Memory of France”, where Paul Celan writes: “We were dead, but we could breathe.” It is a feeling that pierces everyone. Footballers and fans. Those who were on the field, those who were in the Budapest stands and those who had gathered at the Olimpico in Rome. Because after a day of hugs and hopes, a whole fan base had discovered the meaning of that verse Conrad Alvaro who explains that “life is nothing but a bordering on solitudes”. It was especially so for Mou, who went to get his silver medal himself, even before he entered the field the trophy, and then gave it to a fan. «I won 5 European finals – José told reporters – I lost this one and yet I have never returned home more proud than this time».
It is a phrase that is placed along the indefinable border that separates the purest truth from boutade. Yet already no one cared about the cup anymore. Everyone wanted to know about the future of Portuguese. Mourinho has explained that he wants to stay. But under certain conditions. He wants more level players. He wants bigger goals. She wants to cry again, but with joy. “My players deserve more and I deserve more too,” she explained before disappearing into the belly of the stadium. It took the cameras pointed at the referee to see him again Taylor. Mou approached him in the parking lot. With one hand in his pocket and a scornful look. “You’re a fucking disgrace man!”he yelled at him, as if he was tied to the fans by a mandatory mandate. In Budapest the man from Setubal proved that he is no more infallible. But perhaps Mou had achieved the real feat a few weeks ago, when he had led this team to the final. And also for this reason it would be a real shame not to try the third European campaign at the helm of Rome.