You know better, but you stare anyway, unable to resist. Your breath is ragged, your legs jelly beneath you, the bitter taste of acid in your mouth, your sweat suddenly cold even as you know you’re overheating. It’s hard to imagine a worse fate that watching your enemy take pleasure in your miserable end, but here you are, riveted, unable to run, unable to scream for help.
You are the hunted, they are the hunters–it’s like the footballing equivalent of “The Most Dangerous Game“. That, to me, is what it must have been like to be an Inter midfielder during yesterday’s match, awed by the sheer skills and silkiness of our midfield panthers assassins, Andres Iniesta and Xavi. Despite our lineup being a 4-3-3 by design, we played almost a 4-4-2 that allowed Iniesta free reign through the middle, playing that sunken striker role that we’ve seen Messi working on for the last few weeks.
Sometimes you feel like a fool because you deployed a meaningless set of midfielders in a tactical formation that would hardly give (cough Mourinho cough) and sometimes you fail to realize how good the entire squad of your favorite team is and guess they’re going to draw 1-1 in a crucial match at home (cough er, no one! who would do such a thing? cough). Without Ibra, Messi, and The Yaya, what chance did we have against a side feature the likes of…wait, who do they have again? Because I can’t remember a single one of their players making any sort of a contribution, unless you count kicking the legs of blaugrana-clad players a contribution. In which case Lucio, Chivu, and Thiago Motta all played. And Diego Milito almost lost his life by bumping Puyol. Does he not know that he can kill people with his hair via judo-esque moves? It’s true!