by Mohamed Haniff
Traditionally anyone who decides to write on matters such as football are taught to cast aside any biases they may have; in favour of a more objective and scientific approach to the game. However the goal of this article is not to provide you with a tactical breakdown of how I think both managers will line up or highlight the key players in this battle; there are several articles online that can give you all of that information, should you decide you absolutely need it. What makes a game like Real Madrid vs Barcelona so special are the emotions which come flooding out during these moments; these games have given me so much joy and pain – though lately it has mostly been pain- that I'd like to share some of these with you.
I remember the first time I felt sheer elation in a clasico; it was the Champions League semi final and Zinedine Zidane had just lifted the ball over the onrushing Barcelona goalkeeper and it had nestled into the back of the net. I didn't see a single replay, I was too busy bursting through my door and taking off full speed to my neighbour's house to see if he had just witnessed the same thing I had. The game had ended 2-0 and I knew we had one foot in the door of the final, I could hardly sleep that night. I have only felt that kind of joy three times in my over 10 year relationship with el Clasico; that evening in 2002 when Zidane essentially put us in the final; the pasillo (guard of honour) which Barcelona were forced to perform after we were crowned league champions before our encounter in the Bernabeu in 2008; and finally Cristiano Ronaldo's thumping header which gave us the Copa del Rey. Each of these times I've felt like I was invincible, the kind of happiness I am sure could not be duplicated by any other football match in the world; in fact had Spain not won the World Cup I doubt I would ever have experienced even half of this joy in football outside of the Clasico.
One thing I would come to learn about the Clasicos that 12 year old me was surely not equipped to handle; is that every year is not your year, in fact had I told 12 year old me that he was about to face more humiliation than joy in a 10-12 year span of supporting Real Madrid; he may have picked up a nice small club with no expectations and no Clasicos, Real Sociedad or Celta Vigo perhaps. However the unwarned and underprepared Mohamed Haniff wandered into the rest of these Clasicos full of hope. Just as I have three moments of unbridled Clasico joy, I have three moments of not only sheer disappointment but utter humiliation; unfortunately for every ying there is a yang.
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| Towering header from Real Madrid's star boy Cristiano Ronaldo |
I was 16 years old possibly the worst age to be when this happens; something many of you may or may not know is that 16 year old boys are not exactly beacons of maturity. I endured arguably the worst taunts I have ever had to face in my life, somehow I survived; but I was scarred. I comforted myself by saying, “well it was fluke one off”, something that happens every 100 years or so; again had I had access to a time machine I may have told my 16 year old self, the worst is yet to come, maybe you should just get out now, you shouldn't have to put up with this. By now you may have guessed I wasn't visited by the ghost of Clasicos future, so I meandered into the wilderness; hopeful, naïve and stupid.
Then in 2009 Barcelona once again strode onto the Bernabeu turf and humiliated us, truth be told we weren't expecting too much from the match but even though by this time I was older and wiser, I still had that classic fan optimism, it was shattered that day. We lost 6-2 with Gerard Pique my constant figure of hate getting on the score sheet, I probably would have died that day were I not at this time still away at school in Canada, surrounded by people who didn't understand how much the Clasico means. Their consolation of “that sucks buddy” helped, but more than that they showed me that life still went on after humiliation, it wasn't constantly blowing up in your face once you learned to avoid the obvious websites and most importantly Facebook. All I know is that without them that 6-2 would've traumatized me a lot more than it probably did. I picked myself up and moved on, we had been beaten by a better team and this kind of result probably wouldn't happen again for another 50 years...how wrong I would be.
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| There's a thin line between pain and ecstacy |
This brings me to Saturday December 10th 2011, the truth is the Clasico has scarred me more than it has brought me joy in my time as a Real Madrid fan, by now I should be numb to its effects, but this still has been the longest week of my life. I still hold out some kind of faint hope that we can pull out a win in the Bernabeu despite the prior humiliation. We come into the game as favourites but Barcelona will always lift their game for a Clasico and in my mind Pep Guardiola is one of the true geniuses of football, so I am truthfully not expecting much; more like desperately hoping. This could just be another bout of youthful ignorance, but I think we can actually do it on Saturday and finally beat Barcelona under Guardiola in the league. Perhaps my 32 year old self will be writing an article about how clueless he had been at 22; only time will tell.
All I know is that despite being invited to an all day 80th birthday party being hosted by a dear friend of my family; by the time that ball kicks off at the Santiago Bernabeu I will be firmly planted in front of a television. You won't get a prediction out of me but if my experience in the Clasico has taught me anything, hope for the best, but expect the worst , as the cliché goes.
If I could go back to my 12 year old self, stop him in the street after that Zidane goal and warn him of all that was to come, I'd still tell him to stick with it because the victory is so much sweeter when you go through the humiliation, the insults and the bruises. When you kick it all off and you get to relive that feeling you felt when you were 12 years old, you remind yourself that without the lows there can be no highs. I know what rock bottom looks like and now I'm just waiting to see heaven again, whether it be this weekend or when I'm 64.
