But how far back, in fact, does the rivalry go?
How about cerca 1200 anno domino?
There’s an interesting bit in old Spanish epico
That later would star Chuck and Sophia (that’s Loren, not Coppol-0)
So if you’re just killing time in the Stadio Olimpiako
Read El Poema del mío Cid, Cantar Uno
Tiradas 55 to 58 or so. (Below!)*
Far and wide, news spread of the mighty Cid.
Soon Count Remond of Barcelona heard of his deeds:
How the Cid, Ruy Díaz, was overrunning the land.
The Count felt mighty dissed. He was pissed.
The Count was a sabelotodo and no tenía abuela:
“He done me wrong, this Viviarian Cid.
Disrespected me in my very own crib:
He whacked my nephew and never said sorry;
And now this. But no problemo, don’t worry.
I never bothered him; I never threw down;
But since he seeks it of me, forget it, it’s on.”
Against Mourinhos and Cristianos
came Catalans, Frenchmen and Argentines.
They set on El Cid from Gijón to Almería
And from Olimpiako they journeyed three days.
But soon at a new Camp they’ll stay.
Meanwhile don Rodrigo with his shiny baubles went
from ridge into valley as he makes his descent.
And in there in the Camp he heard from don Remond.
My lord Cid sent word in hopes it were word:
“Texteth the Count that give it up should he.
I don’t touch his junk. As the Beatles say, let it be.”
Thereto the Count cried: “No way, José.
First we’ve to vote, and then … let’s play.
And you, Special One, shall rue the day!”
Back hastened the ambassador as swiftly as he could.
And my lord Cid of Vivar knew how it all stood
At least where he stood would not be the stands. Again.
“Ha!” called the Cid. “Don your cleats, all ye caballeroos,
Slick back your hair and sleeve up your tattoos.
Count don Remond will bring on relentless attacks;
On blaugrana waves of Masias he sends left back after crack.
A goleada on the counter … it will not go thus.
Their shirts are striking but they’re all very short,
While each of us star in “Los Galácticos, Parte Dos”.
And with shinguards are our gams are girded well.
We shall kick them and foul them and force their passes wide.
And if they should reach our half, let us force the offside.
And meanwhile on the sidelines I’ll raise some Special hell.
This nobody, this clown … this guy he pretends not to know!
Yeah, well, he’s got fiercer friends than Manuel Preciado.”
When thus el Cid had spoken, all were in good array;
The Sergios put on their serge suits and got to the coach.
They beheld the Catalan army downtable, holding its course.
And at the end of month, close to the level they were,
And the Cid was ready to give his first command.
[Will history rewrite itself? Tune in Tuesday for more!]
*Loosely adapted from the even looser English translation of the Poema del mío Cid available at the Online Medieval and Classical Library (http://www.omacl.org)