Cuesta dilucidar qué resulta más indignante, si la enésima indisciplina cometida por Christian Cueva o sus balbuceantes intentos de disculpas, tan creíbles como las excusas de un congresista (y eso que los viajeros a China han puesto la valla bien alta).
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The biography of El Cholo, as his friends call him, is full of faults, scandals, and dozens of regretful faces like those Bart Simpson tries after a prank. To wash away his guilt, he hides behind the fan's lack of understanding or the lack of investigation by the press. He claims to be receiving help and that footballers carry a heavy "backpack" that is difficult for ordinary mortals to understand.
Well, the only thing we don't understand, dear Christian, is how a footballer touched by privilege, the owner of unique talent, perhaps one of the best number 10s that our country's football has seen, is also a diligent creator of missed opportunities, the Terminator of his own successes, the stereotype of the anti-hero that literature and cinema have depicted so many times with the same self-destructive destiny.
I remember the many times that journalists have recounted with laughter one of the many anecdotes that color your biography, like when you escaped from concentration at the San Martín University to participate in a pickup game where the winner was rewarded with a cow. Also, of course, the many times you buried any criticism or dissent with one of those short dribbles that make the stands cheer or those filtered services, into space, that Lapadula thanked you so much for or that Orejas transformed into the unforgettable Barranquillazo from the previous qualifiers.
I don't forget, dear Christian, that the return to the elite 36 years later arose from those three magic fingers hiding in your right boot. That unforgettable night at the Nacional, when the New Zealanders went crazy watching the ball from side to side, the key to qualification came out of your feet with a superb assist that Jeffry turned into a missile to open the path to ecstasy.
Neither do I forget how unfairly you were attacked on that sad afternoon in Saransk, when misfortune crossed your path and the penalty that should have given us the advantage over Denmark went searching for the clouds, because football not only brings joy but also deflates pride and mistreats hearts.
But I'm tired. Not only of this endless string of apologies that you give us every few months, but also of this childish easiness with which you see life, of that sum of irresponsibilities that your career is made of. I'm tired of feeling like a victim of this umpteenth extortion maneuver - do you remember the 'galácticos'? - because in the absence of quality, players of your caliber know that coaches, technicians, and clubs will hardly do without their services.
Yes, in the football realm, faults are erased with a nutmeg, an assist, a goal. But you know what? I'm tired.