Thank you, Vinícius Jr.

The protocol for digesting a defeat at the Bernabéu recommends focusing on details that belittle the opponent's merits and divert attention from what would otherwise force us to be critical of the limitations displayed. An example of these limitations: the offensive inefficiency of the full-backs and wingers, who until recently were fundamental to Flick's system. The protocol also stipulates that the referee is to blame for the defeat, but this approach doesn't apply to yesterday's match, especially if goalkeeper Szczesny was the most inspired of our players.

Following tradition, we had offset Madrid's pressure with a mock provocation that, through Lamine Yamal, attempted to gain a psychological victory that served no purpose. Taking advantage of the attention focused on Lamine Yamal's brilliance, Mbappé once again confirmed himself as a specialist in establishing himself as the best striker in the world today. Even if he had scored six overhead kicks, we Culés wouldn't have admitted the evidence—it's our duty—not even under torture.

Barça had mitigating factors that could have prevented a possible defeat at the Bernabéu.

It's a gesture that's part of the protocol against defeats at the Bernabéu. Another gesture consists of putting the result into perspective with the serenity we denied ourselves when, hours and days before the match, we navigated between preemptive pessimism and cyclothymic euphoria. In this context, we must be grateful for the presence of a player like Vinícius Jr. Every time he received the ball, it was a nightmare, but, true to his character, he preferred to be exposed when he was substituted with gestures that helped divert attention from the result and Barça 's (fairly average) performance.

Before, during, and after the match, we had solid enough arguments to predict defeat, but protocol recommends not admitting certain evidence so as not to give the opponent fuel. And when Madrid celebrated the victory as if they had won the Champions League and Vinícius Jr. provided us with arguments to fuel the anti-Madrid sentiment, we breathed a sigh of relief. The final brawl followed the precepts of the genre: insults, shoving, threats, and, thanks to the good people who always know how to get between the candidates for face-splitting, the effervescence that anticipates what in Catalan we should describe with a noun halfway between "enrenou " and "batussa ." Vinícius Jr.'s image as a loudmouthed provocateur helps dilute the feeling that, despite having many extenuating circumstances, the team just can't seem to make progress. Yesterday, on the program El suplement (Catalunya Ràdio), writer Miqui Otero compared the evolution of Flick's Barça to the plot of the first Harry Potter. Otero spoke of the joy and innocent, almost childlike magic of children who play for enjoyment and who, after a dizzying first year of pure philosopher's stone, must face more formidable opponents and discover the hardships of adulthood. He also described Madrid as a kind of Lord Voldemort, an antagonist who, led by the unpresentable Vinícius Jr. and a lethal Mbappé, yesterday won (I'll deny having written it, but I suspect it was fair) a match that, to adhere to protocol, we must repeat today is of no importance.