ALEX’S ANGLE: THE FINAL WORD ON DARK ARTS AND THE POSSIBLE DIEGO.
The team undoubtedly has a number of exceptionally talented and attractive members, but regrettably, some of them seem eager to learn the dark arts of the game.
The Celt and Mario Hermoso had an unintentional collision midway through the first half. Hermoso went down, clutching his ankle, screaming in agony, and writhing around on the ground, giving the ropey referee the impression he might never walk again.
Diego Simeone, that despicable excuse for a human being, went into a well-rehearsed routine on the touchline, leaping around like a mad dervish, pleading for his injured player to get justice.
Throughout my entire career in newspapers and media, I’ve encountered a number of managers at various levels who have verged on being the definition of a basket case.
This sorry product from Buenos Aires could definitely be the head of the crazy brigade.
Simeone and his friends gave Ivan Kruzliak a lot of grief while the match official relived the incident on the handy touchline monitor that was positioned just yards from the Atletico bench.
The Slovenian appeared to be as at ease as the man on trial for capital punishment.
He nearly smeared his fingerprints while reaching into his upper pocket to reveal a red card to a perplexed Maeda.
Stretcher bearers were not needed, and Hermosa, looking like Lazurus, miraculously recovered to play the entire game without even the slightest limp. Sick doesn’t quite cut it.
I did some research on past meetings between the clubs prior to the first game.
When I co-wrote my old friend Davie Hay’s best-selling autobiography, “The Quiet Assassin,” he called their motley crew of shady characters who had run Celtic off the field in 1974 “odious thugs.”
As I researched historical occurrences, I discovered these terms.
It is unfortunate that the Madrid team must leave their supporters with such hurt emotions and excruciating memories.
Madrid had always conjured up images of the legendary Real Madrid team, with Di Stefano darting through the middle, Gento sweeping spectacularly down the wing,
Puskas and his deadly shooting ability, and Santamaria’s towering defensive work, before the Parkhead first leg debacle.
These treasured memories have been thoroughly worn into the ground by one enormous, unsightly, awkward foot.
There was something familiar about the sentiments.
Really, not surprising given that I wrote them.
The observations were published in the esteemed World Soccer monthly magazine.
At the time, I worked as a sports subeditor for the Daily Record and was 22 years old.
I was able to work as a freelancer for the newspaper for magazines that weren’t directly competing with it on newsstands.
I was contacted by the magazine’s editor, Phillip Rising, at the Record, asking if I would like to work as their Scottish football correspondent. I was unable to turn down the offer.
Memories of that embarrassing evening in Glasgow’s east end from so many years ago slowly returned to me.
In 1974, they left a bad taste.
Unfortunately, nothing alters, my friends.
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