In a matter of months, that religion of friendly after-dinners, carajillos and radio talk shows called Barcelona has undergone an extraordinary mutation. Something as if the Colosseum in Rome –a monument whose conservation is a matter of State– passed into the hands of a US multinational specializing in events such as bachelor parties, congresses of ear, nose and throat specialists and rave parties.
After decades of an opulent and conservative mentality –let us remember the allergy to wearing advertising on the revered Barça shirt (today orange, yellow or purple)–, the social mass began to accept the idea that one day everything that was theirs could belong to others . Something like polishing the hunting estate, the urban palace or that inherited property a stone's throw from the Diagonal. From this state of resignation – the debts are pressing, more was lost in Cuba – the undersigned begins to detect a new phase, half consolation, half proverbial optimism: the future of Barça will be splendid if it becomes a private company under the control of the first investment fund to pass.
Naturally, Joan Laporta's board guarantees that FC Barcelona will continue to be the member's even though his actions -overly interpreted by the fans- suggest, precisely, the opposite.
One senses, for a long time, that FC Barcelona will lose its uniqueness and end up in a public limited company. After all, private management tends to be more efficient and transparent than the current one, whitewashed by curious assembly and democratic votes through which perfect ignoramuses of finance, architecture and urban planning -like me- cheerfully and confidently support what that put you ahead.
I would say that the problem for FC Barcelona is not so much if the owner is the partner or an investment fund from Gelsenkirchen. The problem is that the entity earns much less than what it spends – and for several years now – a trend that is consolidating. Bad news, wow. Despite the fact that two and two add up to four and they will always add up, Barcelona fans seem to trust that enlightened idea – a clue given the naive and childish nature of all fans – that some messiahs from Mars will land in the city of Barcelona to take possession of a centenary club and, blaugrana scarf around the neck, plus some broken phrase, will announce a splendid tomorrow.
As promised by two clueless Yankees in Reus, the son of Mas Canosa in Zaragoza, the smiling Lim in Valencia and Mr. Chen's Chinese. They all managed to make us forget that two and two make four.
