name was, or is called Pepe. Pepe Rojas, specifically. One day, apropos of nothing, not party through or anything, was presented in class with something really hard to see: the computer (no one called him gear) full of "Spain." In boots and all.
Pepe was stupid. Or not. What happens is that I still had not learned the word "repellent", better defining Pepe. That's right. Repellent. An ugly child with the face of flan that used to boast of the goods that gave him the tourist bazaar his family that morning monopolized everyone's attention with its team of "Spain", even though we all knew it came from that kind of store "Ceuta". I remember a dead silence in the class dyed green. Respect, admiration ... envy. And that that shirt, those trousers and those means were not Adidas! I do not remember in my childhood seeing any original equipping of Spain. Who wanted a football shirt was more than a store Sports, a costume. The elastic-to say something, they had no shield had to buy it separately and then sewn together. Guess not, but I have the feeling that Pepe, even without a shield, he spent the entire morning in the middle of the class, such was the general astonishment. Everyone wanted to be Pepe, with his whore mother.
a couple of years ago I walked into the store to see if it was or, rather, to determine whether, even when it would be able to recognize. I thought so, but I came close third by not being sure, third because he was very busy, not to stay third Ironing receiving the classic response "because I do not remember you. "And is that twenty-six or twenty years (talk about that time, do accounts) the business was in a good place, but it turns out that this same site is now much better. Just the hotel right next to Ana Torroja in the heart of Tarifa. I saw that selling football teams, but there he was, dispatching boats Delial, cheap flip flops and the like.
repellent I'd like to see Pepe and hug. I no longer friends with whom he shared the saga of Malta, and may Pepe, of all the suckers around me at the 1 º A morning after that feat, were alone, with me, do not lay the break, when the score indicated a meager 3-1. "- How do you not let him? How do I command you to sleep? " I repeated over and over again the next day. I did not understand anything.
One afternoon, after school, and my mother walking in Tarifa, I saw Pepe. This time he was accompanied by two other kids in my class, Raul (I), the classic chulito blond bangs and Jesus, a chubby and plump type unenviable either. All three, however, went with his team "of Spain." A name fails me, because I remember the blond guy saying something like " this is Alexander, but always tell Alexanco." I was speechless. I wanted that team. My mother protested and asked what were these kids dressed "of Spain" instead of taking the shirt of Cadiz, which was what I had brought the Kings. But to me I did not care Cadiz, from Tarifa I stayed away and, yes, I was in first that year, but I do not know very well what it was or even had first learned to love it. Instead, "to Spain," yes.
Many of us have as first memory clear the scoring football in Malta. Before, I can guess bits unfocused disappointment. The voice of my grandfather appellant (" the English are not bad ... "), a man with black hair, handsome, moving spasmodically in the small area with a green and black shirt, a serious monotone voice coming out of television and a kind of global disillusionment and resignation. It was the World 82. My head keeps only some loose feelings and images, which is not little, but not enough.
I beg your pardon, but this post is a tribute to all those who, from that game, we realized that something big was coming even though that is not important, even when we are not going to change life much or too little , but nothing but the English team could provide the highest doses of ecstasy football and sports, for which we dating as disappointing as the European Championship 88 (still have not found anyone to share how to start a daily supplement a photo 1x1 cm Vialli's head and burned on the terrace with a lighter), non-qualifying Euro 92, the tedious friendlies and qualifying matches, the exasperating was Clement, who only defended those who simply wanted to win as soon as possible, without waiting for a cyclical change or anything. Win. Win. In the next. Always waiting. Always on the edge. Always mediated by the injustice and lack of competitiveness.
not for me to eject anyone from this forum, but do not give those alluded get on the car now. This is ours, who never lost hope, that when others talked about the dismissal of Toshack tried, unsuccessfully, to change the subject by proposing a Irureta as coach. People is now gone, he left without this equipment will provide a joy, not vitally necessary, but hey, what good would have come, like my grandfather, the father of J. as A., who had time to enjoy the victory two years ago in Vienna. It's also people who can not tip on the screen as I would like two or three people who wish you well. Wait
Netherlands. No matter win, but if we win better. More of that another day. Now playing otherwise.
said that Raul had left (or Alexander), Pepe and Jesus back. My mother had been wondering why no T-Cádiz. In these protests. Months later, my grandfather bought a pair of shields in Sports Play, the sports shop longed Cornet Soto Guerrero. One was plastic, very shabby, the truth, the other was embroidered, very cool. My grandmother sewed the red shirt. My team had not long overdue. I guess that was purchased in the store of Pepe. Still I keep it. And I would not change by any miserable Fred Perry. You may not for a kiss from the skinny, hear. And it is that football, gentlemen, it is.
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