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Virtual Valencia looking like the real thing
Sid Lowe, our man in Madrid, on another round in the Primera Division
Tuesday January 13, 2004
Spain's Winter Championship is a pointless title with no practical benefits whatsoever. Rather like an OBE, in fact. Or possibly even worse, what with it not involving a medal, tea with the Queen (Gawd bless her, etc) and a marvellous British sense of undeserved superiority. Indeed, unlike Victoria Beckham, Spain's Winter Champions don't even their get their hands on anything big and shiny. Just one reason why Real Madrid goalkeeper Iker Casillas described it as "a sham, a joke, a clown's award".
It is a virtual title, which means it's not a title at all. Yet it's not completely meaningless. With the Spanish league split into two identical halves (or vueltas), the Winter Championship - "awarded" at the end of the first vuelta, when everyone's played everyone - is a genuine achievement with psychological value; a realistic gauge of the season.
Which is why Casillas's comments look rather too convenient (except that, honest as ever, he said so while Madrid were top). For this year's Winter Champions are not Real Madrid but Valencia - and they virtually won the virtual award thanks to a shock Casillas blunder on Saturday night, which as sports daily AS not unfairly put it, was the night's "big news".
During their torturously awful preview show, Telemadrid had added "Ikerman" to their superheroes catalogue alongside Superman, and the helpfully deciphered "Batman, the man bat, and Spiderman, the man spider". Yet the man who, until now, has been league's most brilliant superhero suddenly turned into Flap Boy instead: the one whose special powers enable him to handle crosses with all the ease and familiarity of an Islamic fundamentalist. Twice Casillas dropped easy catches before the error that cost Madrid. With nails striker Darko Kovacevic steaming in, Flap Boy flapped, palming straight to Valery Karpin who scored the only goal for Safe Hands Sander's Real Sociedad.
It wasn't really Casillas's fault, though; Madrid were dire. They were without soccer sensation Dave Becks, replaced by second-rate Beckham wannabe Guti - not as good at football, not as good at haircuts, not as good at clothes, not as good at having a pretty face and, married to revolting society thing, Arantxa de Benito, not even as good at choosing a wife (but, presumably, better at going out with actresses that used to be actors).
Subbed in the second half, Guti whinged "how easy it is to make changes round here", and he had a point: Carlos Queiroz, limited by an absurdly short squad and the, ahem, "restrictions" of the must-play Galácticos, keeps making the same changes, regardless of performances. Yet while Guti wasn't Madrid's worst player, with him in the middle Madrid created nothing for an almost absent Ronaldo. And, as Marca's Julian Ruiz put it: "Madrid without Ronaldo is like a garden without flowers. A sad, withering garden."
Prancing round that garden, skipping gaily, earth-shudderingly and giggling was Atlético Madrid's tubby Godfather Jesús Gil. His belly heaving in delight, his nostrils full of past-it pollen, Gil could afford to laugh: Atléti have moved into a Champions League place and, he said, they'll soon catch their city rivals.
"Real Madrid were dreadful. So much money makes you too bourgeois. That's the law of life. With such luxury they don't have the stomach to sacrifice themselves," burped big-bellied multi-millionaire Gil with magnificent, if inadvertent, irony. "We're not so small. Don't forget David and Goliath."
But while Gil loved it, the greatest beneficiaries were Valencia. Madrid's defeat allowed them to take the Winter Championship with a 1-0 victory over Albacete, thanks to a penalty from Jorge López. A penalty which, as the Madrid press helpfully pointed out, was a little ropey. Mop-topped creative genius Pablo Aimar was pushed over, although it was outside the box, if not as far out as AS reckoned: they moaned that "a surreal penalty gives Valencia the winter title", even though the full-speed replay does look inside.
But while AS inevitably cried, Albacete boss César Ferrando - who last week wetly quipped "that wasn't a referee, it was a flautist" - kept his mouth shut. "I haven't got any jokes about the referee this week," he said as his embarrassed offspring peered out from under a table, "because I promised my son. Besides, Valencia worked well and never, ever lost their shape." Which was true: victory may have been fortuitous, but Valencia deserve their third Winter Championship (following 1943-4 and 1947-8).
Superbly organised as ever, with Jorge López adding guile on the right, the Chés have made the best start in their history: 13 wins, four draws and two defeats. Yet again they boast the league's meanest defence, with president Jaime Ortí insisting: "This team reminds me of the one that won the league two years ago." Only it's better. Now, with Aimar flying and the unfortunately named striker Mista solving their goal-scoring problems with Ricardo Oliveira as back-up, Valencia also have Spain's second-best attack. "We may lack Madrid's individual talent, but we are a great team", said midfielder Ruben Baraja.
All of which is a miracle, considering the bickering, politics and in-fighting; considering the shadow cast over the club by ex-president Paco Roig; considering that Jesús García Pitarch, the man who does the signing, and manager Rafa Benítez can't stand each other; considering that Benítez, whose player requests have been ignored by the club, justly moaned: "I asked for a sofa and they brought me a lamp"; considering that Pitarch brought a winger called Canobbio who turned out not to be a winger at all.
"We're stretching ourselves to the limit and achieving a lot. With a couple of little things..." Benítez told a bunch of inference-missing reporters, "do I mean signings? I think it's pretty obvious that I do. With a couple of tiny little things we could be fighting for the lot."
And he may well be right. It's a virtual title at the moment, but the real thing could be, well, a reality by the summer.
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