Mourinho sucks. Now and always. Discounting natural calamities, the Portuguese is the worst thing that can happen to a sporting event. We could forgive him, even admire him, if he were a real scoundrel. We would have fun with him if his despicable behavior obeyed pure instinct. We would empathize with his angry protests if they were born from an indomitable bowels that the brain could not put up a fight with. But Mourinho's coarseness is the opposite. He is calculated, mathematical, forced. The vileness of all his acts responds to the millimeter execution of a rationally elaborated plan. His is not a natural reaction to the vicissitudes of the game, but a permanent attempt to alter it through a behavior that, if we did not know it was dramatized, we would attribute to an irresolvably sick mind in need of psychiatric care. It is true that we should not completely rule out this possibility.
The match against Sevilla, the first European final that Mou lost, once again portrayed him in his shamelessness. He tried to break up the game from the first minute, contemptuously throwing the runner-up medal into the stands and waiting in the parking lot for the referee, who had done an impeccable job, to insult him. The egotistical indecency of the Portuguese knows no limits. He despises everything that does not start and end with himself. He belongs to the category of men who wish they had been born without a spine so they could perform their own fellatio. Impossible to imagine a worse guest at an orgy.
Those who in Spain sang distinguished praises to him in the past have already fallen from the horse. The Europa League final has dismounted the last frames of admiration that were still clinging to the excellence of his resume, separating him from his tiny human category. His stage at Real Madrid is far enough away to be able to openly abjure him, without fear of embarrassment for having granted all kinds of honors to someone who turned the league into a quagmire.
Mou still has rope left. Enough for some desperate top team to invite him to re-enter the elite from which he is still expelled at the moment. There will always be someone battered enough to consider it good business to sleep with the devil. But even so, the Portuguese has been in the business long enough so that there is no longer any doubt about what his football epitaph will be when the time comes for him to retire and regardless of the number of titles he has been able to collect up to then. . Thus he will pray the tombstone of his memory: “A very particular King Midas. He turned everything he touched into shit.
