«It has already turned out well for us, Sporting is us»

Sporting is everything. Sporting is 4-1 against Barça with three goals from Quini and one from Ferrero. Entering El Molinón with Ángel, Dad and Mom to see the last minutes, when the doors opened. «Dad, is the blonde Maceda or Tocornal?» Sporting is a Germany 1 – Austria 0, the Molinón was the center of the world and we went down in posterity. Sporting is Alejandro Bayón, who never reproached me for joining the Capuchin film club and going with Dani to the Molinón. Sporting is Dani in 1986: they hung our cards around our necks with a chain so we wouldn’t lose them. We were 12 and 10 years old, we bit into the red and white apple and never wanted to try anything else.

We were very happy. We were brats but we stood at the bottom, the entire stand standing, leaning on a railing so as not to be crushed by the avalanches. The first part was towards the south end, the second towards the Piles. Transhumant nomads, Juan Cueto called us in a book, that we followed Enzo Ferrero. Vaqueiros of elevation who were content to see the goal that Sporting was attacking. Paying attention to the drawing of captains, we started heading north if the coin had favored the rival and the tables were reversed.

Quini and Ferrero left, Villa and Narciso arrived. Felipe Miñanbres, Juanma. I liked him because he was from Luanco, but since deep down he was bloodless, he used to be the target of Jorge Gimeno’s whoring, who knew my pain points. We never stop being friends. Sporting is Ablanedo writhing on the ground after Hugo Sánchez’s kick. Clinging to the rusty green fence we discover that the world is a dangerous place where the bad guys always win. Sporting is Aníbal, who came from Los Barrios to see Madrid with all the Moranes and who continues to come with Hugo. Now they have joined Sporting.

Sporting is the best classroom in the world. Third year of BUP at the Piles Institute. Afternoon shift, the lights came on as soon as it got dark and people started arriving. Sporting is Edu. Jordi, Chubi, Buján. When it was 5-5 against Madrid in the Cup, we ended up losing 0-3. On the way back we went to the Bernabeu with the La Fueya club, the oldest, and they scored 4 for us.

Luhovy, Iordanovy, Nilsson. Luis Enrique and Manjarín. Juanele and Villa. Avelino and Carmona Méndez.

With Edu and Dani we went to Logroño and Luhovy scored. We slept in Miranda de Ebro and ended up seeing a winery in Haro with Pepín Braña. We did not go to Istanbul or to the Milan heist of Berlusconi, Sachi and Ancelotti. We returned to the Bernabeu many times. And to Nou Camp and Sardinero and Pucela. And to Cádiz with Fernandisco. And to Eibar when Marcelino and Rodado. They put 3 of us in Jaén and back by car to La Virgen del Camino. Some for Gijón, me for Galicia. We went to Castellón, with Paul and Jordi, both half meringones. Paul from Brussels, decades paying the bill religiously. Edu from the Canary Islands. And Alavés scored a goal. We almost died of cold, the same as Cholo Juvacho. We went with Manolo Preciado to the reparation match. And there has not been a football fan born who has known such happiness, Gooooooal from De las Cuevas!

Riazor, Lugo, Ponferrada, Ferrol, Pontevedra, Ourense…

Sporting are Isa, Paloma and the Sala. Sporting is us, damn it.

We whistle at José Fernández at the fateful La Arena Shareholders’ meeting. I went to London in the fateful ’98 season, when we were the laughing stock of Europe. Then Perillo. Then Light. Light is everything and it is Sporting too.

The Fernándezes are also Sporting. And those who went to school with us, we have been doing our hair for 50 years, and they are still in the Young Grada. And he sells them tickets. And the fartones politicians and other mayors and populists. And those who fed in the manger and would want to continue even if we went the way of Recreativo, Hércules, Salamanca or so many other clubs as historic as ours or more. It is endearing to see how they discover, more than thirty years later, that Real Sporting de Gijón SAD is not theirs. Not even his friends. They are also Sporting. And those who decided to continue paying the bill despite everything. And those of us who decided to continue paying the bill from a distance, except in some years when our stomach said “no more money from Fernández.”

And Lorita. And Cote. Sporting is Cote. I returned it from him, his left glove. That moral beacon, that demand for a working-class neighborhood. That “they will not pass” with those who wear black and with the mafia that is no longer there. Lying face down on that once again immaculate grass. Covering his tears for that damn goal against Eibar that has us crazy. Sporting are Cote and those who are crazy in the head and went to Elda.

Because we are all Sporting. And it’s going to turn out well for us. It has already turned out well for us. It’s going better for us and we deserve to finally get things right once and for all.