It must be 5:00 PM somewhere in the world. That’s what I tell myself as I pour a stiff glass of whiskey over ice before the sun sets on a gloomy day in my city. I sit in the corner of my room, curtains drawn and blocking out the world outside as 2020 delivers yet another hammer blow to happiness.
I thought the ‘new normal’ was about sitting in short pants and having longer days than ever before, now I face up to the daunting new normal without Lionel Messi at FC Barcelona. After a shambolic season full of politics, mud-slinging, name calling and half-hearted attempts at course correction – FC Barcelona have been rocked to their core by their icon, the talisman and heart of the team announcing his intention to pack his bags and leave Catalunya behind.
Storm clouds gather in the distance and a wisp of smoke rises from the ash tray as I contemplate the sporting ramifications of this marvel of science wanting to move on from the football club I have supported all my life. The mesmeric movement of the vapors catches my eye and reminds me of the times that Argentine wizard danced through defenders as if they were merely mild obstacles to the wind as it conquered the world. Trophy after trophy, highlight reels that could span the planet multiple times if laid out back to back; and now we sit on the cusp of an ugly divorce. Just like when an alcoholic is faced with the reality of the damage, to both his wallet and his liver as he faces sunshine for the first time in hours.
Over twenty years have elapsed since a contract was hurriedly signed by FC Barcelona with a young Leo Messi on a napkin, of all things. Today, as he uses bureaufax to inform the club of his intent to leave – on a free transfer no less – no amount of wiping will stem the tide of tears. And I cry, not just for Messi, but for a football club so grossly mismanaged that this seemed inevitable.