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Our daily Oscar, VAR, give it to us today

LOS ANGELES – The ball in the middle, frolics, on the green carpet. Impetuous, “Pitbull N.” it goes on the ball, on the opponent and on the grass that can be carried ahead. “Joker J.” sense, sniff the action. And anticipate. A prodigious act of juggling: he springs, loosens the body, throws a machincuepa, with a thunderous scream and crushing pain, as if a decayed tooth were removed without anesthesia, and slams against the grass. The limp body, laso, more dead than touched by the fetid breath of Thanos.

The referee, “Bartolo H.”, snorts with all the energy accumulated by the tacos al pastor who pushed himself before the game, with his diet soda and a mouthful of mezcal for the nerves, and blows the whistle, the ocarina , the whistle, that universal symbol of injustice on a soccer field, he was already scandalized by the devious entry of that vicious bandit fugitive from the UFC, on the pure humanity of the skilled dribbler, who does not react, dead on the grass, incapable to even wheeze.

“Bartolo H.” call the assists. He begins to rub his buttocks, as he searches his back pocket for the yellow card. It congratulates itself internally. Those glute exercises she does every morning feel good on her. “Take care, Aquaman, here I come!”. But it focuses on the crime just perpetrated. And he stamps the malarious little cardboard on the face of “Pitbull N.”, whose haunting face begs for mercy. “I didn’t even touch it! He’s getting güey! ”. The whistler raises his arms to the sky, marking his authority, blinding, but authority. That pose was learned from Rose on Titanic.

The rescuers of the 911 entourage come to the still inert “Joker J.”, with alarmed faces, and shaking their heads punishingly towards the judge and towards the alleged murderer. “What a shame!”, They seem to say to both of them, as they take out of the briefcase water, liniments, salts, a mysterious amphora that says “rum” on its cover, as well as guanamacho oil mixed with peppermint, stamps from Ricardo Peláez’s collection , and even birth control pills. “Get up, dude, he already scored a foul and admonished him! ‘Orita smeared red dye on the stocking to make it look like blood, let’s see if it expels it! ”, Whispers the doctor to the magnificent emulate of the spectacular and comical falls of the silent film. Charlie Chaplin from Heaven dies of envy, nor would he have done it so well.

And of course, in a curious little truck that is mysterious and stinky of greasy food, hidden on the periphery of the stadium, three relaxed guys put aside the Cuban and Milanese cakes, –but “without onion, because I’m going to kiss later” – They wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands and their hands with the mask. Now let’s go to work, “so that Miguel Herrera does not say that we just spent our time swallowing cakes, beggar Piojo! But we already made them run it. “

While “Bartolo H.” attests to the almost divine, Lenten, miraculous, esoteric, ethyl and biblical protocol of resurrection that they masterfully execute on “Joker J.”, from the feast van, from the VAR, they warn him. “We are reviewing the play. He didn’t even touch it! He saw your pentonto face, ha ha ha ha! ”His advisers explain from the impeccably furnished limousine. “Chief Arturo is right, you see less than an afternoon panelist from Futbol Picante.”

But unity is strength. “Look, Bartolito, go to the monitor, pretend to check the play, keep the yellow one, and the next time you give that trickster a warning, and let Pitbull enter him with everything, and there we are compensating. And no longer give problems, the cakes are cooled and the cadaverous ones that we have in the cooler are heated ”.

“Bartolo H.” obey. He knows that the little boss Arturo is not watching the game, he is in Cuernavaca, but they are going to be gossiping. “Look, this guy came out again in the blackest of arbitration.” And then there is a week without games, without travel expenses and with no way out on the weekend with the nenorra on duty. Let’s make disaster less disastrous.

By then, five minutes have passed. “Joker J.” is already standing. He shows the referee the “bloody” and tattered stocking. “Pitbull H.” he mutters with his companions: “I’ll break the other one, if they kick me out, I’ll take it with my legs first.” Coaches regurgitate from the line. By then, “Bartolo H.” He regrets not having accepted the job as a hamburger dispatcher better. Better to deal with a fodonga lady, her eight children, and nine different palates, than with those hysterical phonies. But, well here, it’s only 90 minutes a week, travel, travel, special club gifts on his birthday, his wife’s, and his girlfriend’s; little details on your wedding anniversary, pet food and even free gas, and sometimes even First Class flights. Overall, it is better to suffer twenty-something fodongos one day a week.

Yes, by then, seven minutes of pachanga had already been consumed, which other footballers took advantage of to exchange Facebook, Instagram and Tinder profiles, in addition to the numbers of the “chick” phones, those that the players hide and that their managers do not even have. not their coaches, not their wives, and not their representatives. “Bartolo H.” save the yellow card again. Take the opportunity to verify the firmness of the rump, tighten the muscles, and confirm that this gluteal routine must be better than Jennifer López’s.

Before the resumption whistle, the judge approaches “Pitbull N.” and whispers: “To the other one, hit her seriously, or I’m going to expel you, dude.” A sly, sadistic smile confirms that the message has been received. Sentence handed down against the “Joker J.” that by then he is still limping, so that the manager and his technician think that “those alpha males, silver back, lumberjack’s beard, hairy chest, bricklayer’s arms” are the ones that his team needs. And to be followed by “Bartolo H.”, stopwatch in hand, concentrating, but not on the regulations, but on the fact that he must whistle, not according to the 17 rules of the International Board, but according to Rule 18, the most important, that is to say , as the little boss Arturo likes, and also, to put the theatrical artist on his waist that already runs like a nymph in a spring forest.

Does this colloquial picture seem familiar to you? It is a daily scene of Liga MX. A simple friction between players, a struggle and a drama ensues. Guys without professional honesty, without competitive gallantry. Second-hand actors of farce and simulation, educated for deception, fraud, betrayal of football. And incapable, fearful referees, frightened by the media and social networks, who also live in eternal conflict with their VAR assistants, from whom they always hope and with good reason, that they end up deceiving them, instead of helping them.

Everyday scene. And then, innocently, Yon de Luisa and Mikel Arriola talk about making the game more efficient, that more effective minutes of soccer are consumed, and less waste. But, it is impossible, between the ruin, the abuse, the cheating, the wrongdoing, the felony of some players, who find in Nahuel Guzman, for example, the epitome of fallacies, stealing minutes from the game, the show, the dignity of his trade, to the gentle innocence of some fans, and even parasitizing children who believe that playing like this is the right way to do it.

And this is where I get, because I think I dislocated my wrist, and it is time to go to the VAR to prescribe a professional disability …

* Note: all the characters and places included in this story are totally fictitious, especially that of the little chief Arturo. Any resemblance to reality is strictly bad faith or confusion of the reader, who “needs to see more box”.

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