Optimism is weird.
Optimism is infectious.
If you’re a properly indoctrinated culer, optimism is not to be trusted.
Put another way, four people are at an ice cream parlor in the middle of an ice arena. The four wait staff skate over with perfectly made sundaes, the cascade of ice flecks as they skid to a halt, carefully aimed to dust the top of the confection. It’s perfect.
Three of the people dig in. The culer says, “It’s poison. Or frozen yogurt. I bet the chocolate is white chocolate or something.”
It’s just what we do.
So when Hansi Flick came rolling in with talk of improving how the team does things, and bringing in his own cadre of physios aimed at not having a team that finishes matches like sleepwalkers, everyone shrugged. What else would you do? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. Setien, Valverde, Koeman, Xavi, all of them, a conga line of men saying things, promising magic.
Some fell for it, others were like, “My ass.”
Setien was a disaster, Valverde let down by veterans making like Jenga towers. Koeman, the joys of Luuk aside (speaking of towers) was a plain-spoken bum. Xavi came in and, even though he wasn’t ready, had a run of luck as everyone else in the league underperformed, and backed into a Liga title. Then came reality, and it bit. Hard.
So forgive us if at the blandishments of Flick, most of us were unmoved.
In preseason, there was something interesting, but there always is as the kids frolic, running and pressing and showing energy, only to have the veterans return and act like pylons. Preseason was fun, but represented nothing, but many thought, in the wake of the 0-3 pounding the team took in the Gamper — I mean holy hell, who LOSES A GAMPER??!! “Uh, oh … here we go.”
In the first official match, there were signs of … something? There was structure, cohesion, a team that looked like it knew something of what it was doing. The football was … fun? More crucially, in the second half the team was better than in the first as Flick made smart adjustments and substitutions.
The second match, the Nico Williams Derby, brought more interesting things and Kounde pocketed the Wantaway Williams, and after the match an Athletic Club player said that Barça was both technically and (are you sitting down?) physically stronger than his team.
Welcome to Weirdsville.
In the third match, in the first half, Rayo Vallecano(!) ran over a tired-looking Barça team, and people thought, “Here it comes. This is why we can’t have nice things.” The shining light that was Marc Bernal was extinguished, damping the fire of what was in fact the team’s most interesting win in a match of two halves. Again, the second half was better, and late into yet another match the team had energy and dynamism, sundering yet another opponent with key goals.
Valladolid. The fourth match. A win was expected. A party wasn’t. Seven goals that could have been more, a team firing on all cylinders against an admittedly substandard opponent. It was the expected. What made this outing particularly optimism-inducing is that last year’s team would have made rough work of dispatching an inferior opponent, maybe even eking out a draw. But a football score? Just what the hell is going on here?
Optimism.
There is a new manager bump. Sometimes. Other times a new manager has the same junk that got his predecessor fired and he, too, has the stank. What is rare is that a new manager comes in and, with essentially the same group, forges a team that looks different.
Raphinha isn’t a headless chicken, Lewandowski isn’t trying to make like Gulliver playing Iniesta in the Christmas pageant. The back line is proactive, anchored by Kounde and Balde as suddenly the flanks that were an invitation to opponent parties last year are closed. Pressing is making the midfield less of a field of daisies as Raphinha works like a sled dog in defense. Even Eric Garcia is playing like someone who belongs in the squad.
Somehow, over a summer, the players are stronger, with more stamina, and they have a clue. And the team is playing like it. In cycling, racers do base miles, usually two or three thousand miles before the really hard stuff starts, now that there is a foundation. You can go deep, knowing that you’ve done the prep work. Optimism comes from that foundation. It’s early days, but Flick looks to have his team believing in something, believing in each other.
There is less frustrated gesticulating after conceded goals, less negative body language and energy that was such a trademark of the Xavi years, even coming from the manager himself as gestures of frustration and exasperation flowed from the bench. That shit is infectious.
Flick, on the bench, watches play, talks to his assistant, constantly looks like a man trying to solve a problem. He prods and guides, talks to players individually. You don’t see him screaming and gesticulating, and when players come off there are hugs and pats of encouragement, even when the player filled his pants. Because the optimism and positive energy necessary to build something needs to happen even when a member of that team isn’t holding up their end. That, too, is important.
“You will be better. I appreciate what you tried to do today. Thank you.”
Bernal went down with an injury, another Masia savant, wise and gifted beyond his years. He looked to be the solution to the midfield question, then came ligaments. Damnable, fragile ligaments. Casado rolled in, and the system continued to work with adaptations based in the personnel doing the work.
This is weird. If you’re properly culer, you don’t know what to do with this feeling, so alien. Last year the team rolled into the second leg of a tie against PSG with the lead, then notched an early goal. Wait a minute, could it be …
Nope. Araujo got the stupids, the team went down to ten, Xavi kept being tactically stupid and the payoff for fleeting disappointment was losing to a team that ain’t shit, ain’t never gonna be shit. This is what optimism gets you. A pie in the face. Wipe the custard from your eyes and you see a smirking Al-Khelafi. To hell with optimism.
This is four matches. Everything could still fall apart, players could come back from this stupid, stupid international break designed to ruin early season momentum and coherence, injured and out of form.
But for the first time in a very long time, there is disappointment that for two weeks, we won’t get to see the team that we love doing magical things on the football pitch. And no, I don’t mean Femeni.