the -almost- greatest moment ever...

There are a number of reasons for which I love football.

Most of the times football is beautiful to watch, like a nice film, only that you witness it taking place right there in front of your eyes. In striking contrast to people considering scientific results as "exciting", football IS exciting. In fact it is more than that. It is fascinating in a sense that it lights up passions and allows reactions that would otherwise be considered inappropriate for adults at my age. (For those who disagree, try about imagining the members of a certain "scientific" community celebrating their latest "exciting paper" in the streets).
Most important of all. Football means bonding, football means roots, in the sense that we all support a team that carries at least a distant connection to our social, national or familiar background. I support the team of my home town, the team of my father and my late uncle. It could not and should not have been otherwise.

The "greatest moment ever" is the title of the chapter that Nick Hornby devotes to his dearest memory as a football fun in his -great- book "Fever Pitch". Last night, in the loneliness of a half-full pub named Palace, somewhere in the Born, I was lucky to live my own greatest moment ever during my days in Barcelona. The "loneliness" stems from the fact that I was the only one passionately watching the game of Inter against Panathinaikos in one of the two screens available. The rest of the people were either boringly glancing at FC Barcelona thrashing Sporting Lisbon or indifferently having a beer while chatting. It was in the midst of this sort of surrealist atmosphere, when at the 68th minute a sudden scream of joy pierced the pub from end to end. "Yeaaaaaaah"! The rest of the people only momentarily turned my way to look at my blushing face, swollen with a slight embarrassment and a great deal of pride. My friend Julien, who "high-fived" me and the nice barwoman, who shouted "Happy hour!" in solidarity, were my two sole companions in that joyful moment. But I did not care. We were about to beat Mourinho's Inter and take a great step forward to qualify for the last-16 of the Champions League.

There is one reason, for which I hate football, though. And that is excess of love.

Which meant that the twenty-five minutes to follow were -as expected- an agony with no end. There is one thing in trying to achieve victory -or in my case, watching your team trying- and a whole different one trying to hold on to it. As the minutes were passing by with the scoreboard still the way you see it in the photo on top, my nerves were becoming more and more fragile. I hated football or I hated myself for loving it and I wished I was one of these indifferent people that only hear about results on the news and say "Really? they won in Italy?"

Now I know that I cannot be one of them. Simply because once you experience the uplifting effect of a great footballing victory, you can never go back to being a bored "couch-fun". Games like yesterday's are to be seen at the tip of your toes. After all, this helps you jump around more freely once the final whistle is blown.