As I have never discovered the pleasures that masochism gives, I usually remove the sound of the television in most football broadcasts. It is a universe of phrases and common places with the capacity to provoke in the receiver the blush, the stupor, the boredom. Not only irritates the litany of stupid things that you listen to, but also the shabby little nonsense that accompanies them. You can hear such unintentionally dumb things like: "We've been five minutes into the game and we're already clear that the two teams want victory." It is assumed that it is a professional who has reached such a sophisticated conclusion. And lately they also act as critics and publicists. Every ten minutes you are describing the excellence of the series, films, contests, that your chain exhibits.
For this reason, it is an oasis to meet with sensible, funny narrators, in possession of knowledge, irony and personality as that exemplary society formed by Carlos Martínez and Michael Robinson. And they are also reporting a tense, exciting, unpredictable game, like the one played by Atlético de Madrid and Juventus. The vibrant spectacle choked me when after marking Atlético the cameras focus on an individual in a trance that raises his genitals and massages them in a compulsive way. It is not King Kong when it gets irritated. He would beat his chest to assert his authority or give himself courage. It's Simeone. I feel embarrassed, embarrassed, it is a repulsive image. His conviction that he prefers his team to play badly and win is debatable, but legitimate. His degrading public display of the supreme power of the testicles to succeed in life could only be explained by zoology.
It is not the only regrettable thing in that game. The tacky millionaire, the professional whiner, the arrogant blackmailer, the one who needs to be worshiped all the time, one Ronaldo, tells the Atlético public that he has won five Champions and they zero. No mention to his companions.