I made the mistake of taking a nap when I started the second set of Christmas against the Norwegian Ruud. And when I woke up, Christmas was gone. It had been half an hour since he had won his 14th Roland Garros. Fourteen. The magic number of Madrid this season. And to think that this was Cruyff's number. I searched the net for videos to find out how the new feat had gone. The last thing I found was the last point and no repetitions. TV rights stuff. In return, the internal signal of the tournament had the detail of showing us a moment in the locker room tunnel before the match. In those pictures we can see a Rafa Nadal possessed by ambition and professionalism, warming up as if his life were in that match. Meanwhile, next to him, Casper Ruud, winner of zero Roland Garros, remained almost static, like someone waiting in the tail of the Caprabo before paying a few Filipinos. I will say something that for many will be a sacrilege: Rafa, for me it would already be. You made me very happy. I will never forget your exploits. First against Federer. Then against Djokovic. Now against whoever comes. Thank you for your perseverance and humility. For the values you have passed on to the sport.
But I don't want to imagine what the best Spanish athlete of all time is going through to keep playing and keep winning. He explained in a press conference that he does it without noticing his foot, as anesthetized as he wears it. Not so much, really. You’ve given us so much more than we deserved that from the couch at home, the biggest effort we’ve made has been to shout “come on, Rafa” while we have another beer.
Perhaps at the antipodes of what Rafa Nadal means is another public figure who has become accustomed to returning all the balls that come to him. With ease, with wit, with boastfulness, seemingly without much humility. I'm talking about Gabriel Rufián. Forgive the triple leap from "vamos, Rafa" to "vamosRufi", a cry of encouragement that independence should have coined in its heyday. Those years of Together for Yes, with Convergence and the Left sharing lists and rallies. Those years when Rufián was the scourge of everything that didn't smell of independence in 18 months. And even though they looked at him, they applauded him, they read the thanks, because at that moment Rufián was useful to them. He was just as insolent, but with others. Not with them. Then it was all worth it.
But Rufián turned around. The turning point could be the day of the alleged declaration of independence, with his famous tweet of the "155 silver coins". Without naming him, he was dedicated to the treacherous independence that Puigdemont himself represented for a few hours on October 27.
Over the years, the Republican leader in Madrid has been gaining sympathy in the ranks of parties that were once his puppets for voodoo. And at the same time, it has become the scourge of hyperventilated independence, which according to some is headed by Puigdemont, in spite of himself. As soon as he can, Rufián stabs him in the face and takes him to the extreme of having to apologize for saying "tarat" to the former president who proclaimed the supposed republic.
Rufián must be thinking, "If only I were what you wanted me to be." But it no longer touches. Dr. Junqueras' experiment is out of control, and now that it's starting to get useless, his ex-adulterers argue that he only represents himself. It was a matter of time, Gabriel. They made you believe it, but you were never one of them.
