A duel with hints of nostalgia: massacres zlatanesquesgeneral fights, and this famous Parisian defeat in 2012, the ultimate brilliance of a conquering Saint. Since then, 20 matches of invincibility for Paris. On paper, a slaughter is to be expected, especially with Luis Enrique finally fielding a real number 9. The stars seem aligned for an 8-0-style carnage for City. A look back at the evening of the only PSG-Sainté spectator: Louis Henryque.
I receive a message from my brother-in-law who offers me a triple morbier Vacherin raclette. The temptation is enormous, but no, I remain faithful to the Colgate smile of my captain, Marquinhos, lifting a trophy eco-friendly. Happiness is sometimes simple: pasta with pesto rosso, the other side of the pillow, and a Ligue 1 match.
Soviet Stars, Telegram and Forza Barça
On the field, the match starts with Stéphanois named after Soviet stars trying their luck against Donnarumma. A boldness that could even move the Parisian recruitment unit, which has recently moved from Portuguese exoticism to that of Eastern Europe. Above, my neighbor screams as if a Lego had signed an attack under his foot. Does Sainté still have fans? Dembélé ends up firing a shot at the near post. I whisper a « Oui » constipated, which comes out almost in spite of me. Gone are the days when PSG made me scream with joy. Now, even a discreet thrill does the job.
Luis Enrique imposes intermittent fasting on himself, but imposes on us a constant fast of emotions. I battle with my social media addictions, and I stay focused on the match. It took 20 minutes for the stream plant. DAZN? I apologize for the lie. Thank you Telegram and its links begging me to subscribe to sports betting channels. Slouching on the couch, phone in hand, I look like a gamer faking a cramp. My Xiaomi screen, cracked since an infuriating defeat against Atlético, lets the corners become black spots. But hey, who still believes in corners in Ligue 1?
Suddenly a howl from the neighbor: « I HURT, I HURT, I HURT! » I run out of my house, looking for adrenaline and a good deed like a scout and pound on his door. He opens to me, tears in his eyes, hat screwed on, scarf wrapped, Christmas sweater edition Lamine Yamal. In the background, a 4K TV broadcasts… Barça-Real, unencrypted, on the L'Équipe channel. My neighbor, an Italian who became Catalan by passion, grabs me and screams: « Go Barça! » before slamming the door.
On the sly
I find myself alone on the landing, with my screen as injured as Neymar's ankle, and Dembélé's penalty appears vaguely before my misty eyes. Double. « Oui »I whisper once again, fist raised but gaze buried in the pillow. Then in the second half, I struggle, struggle to stay faithful. The notifications assail me, the wasabi peas are dead and the 0% beer has me stuffed on placebo. I break down, turn on the TV and hit 21 on my remote. A clear channel, French commentators, passes, sun, an incredible Kylian. My eye falls back to my phone. After a horrible mix-up, Barcola scores… goal disallowed. I smile out of spite.
My neighbor is exultant: Raphinha crucifies Real in Catalan euphoria. Meanwhile, Sainté came within a goal of the equalizer. Nobody believes it. Neither the Stéphanois nor the Parisians. The match slowly fades into the fog.
Monday morning, coffee machine. With dark circles firmly in place, Jules Kounté, my self-proclaimed style and football expert colleague, arrives boosted by caffeine and highlights.
« You saw Jules' pass, Raphinha's header, Yamal's dribbles, even Mbappé was on fire! »
No energy to admit that I was in front of PSG-Sainté. So I blurt out:
« Yeah, it was on a whole new level…”
And I sink to seek a hint of comfort in tweets sharing my solitary experience, my lukewarm coffee already forgotten.
Ousmane Dembélé, finally on time
Please note, this is fiction (for those who may have had a little doubt and who also have a neighbor who is a Barça fan)
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