It happened again at Bayern, this time in Madrid. The ghost of Barcelona ’99 against Manchester took back flesh and ball, even if in that case it was a final; this time it was worth a final.
Until a few minutes before, Tuchel seemed to embody Fabris’ revenge in “Schoolmates”, even if Carletto Ancelotti he certainly doesn’t have the heaviness of Finocchiaro. Behind the trench of a conservative dribble and a series of time wasters that bordered on the embarrassment of theatrics, Bayern did not realize how Modric with his entry he rationalized the flow of the Madrid maneuver, even if it wasn’t his main fault: the Germans pretended to ignore that at a certain point he started to “play” the Bernabeu, with all the consequences of the case.
In a matter of minutes Joselu leveled Carletto’s eyebrow raised to a circumflex accent, plunging Kane back into the nightmare of the empty noticeboards, Davies’ beautiful goal was thwarted.
In Bavaria the beer mugs were ready: they will be emptied anyway, except that it’s called cerveza.
Paolo Marcacci
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