The nation that is Madrid is a disappointed and dejected place today. A city of fervor and dance has been reduced to listless sighs, as Barcelona were able to prance upon the sacred Bernebeau with precise intent.
The reason for this is simple and unequivocal: Jose Mourhino.
There is nothing special about keeping your best players on the bench for fear that they might fail to see victory. There is nothing remotely sporting about leaving Kaka, Benzema and Higuain on the bench and playing seven men on defense in the lazy attempt to stifle a team that plays forward while you discredit a century of footballing philosophy.
In the interest of full disclosure, I am in fact a Barcelona fan. Before Barca, there is the game. Every fan knows this. The game comes first. Barca's arch rivals have been dismantled by one man afraid to play forward.
How exactly does one, with an approximate 500 million Euro payroll, designed to play offense, look the entire team in the face and say, "Sorry, but I don't trust you to score?"
More specifically, how does one tell that to Christiano Ronaldo, who has his "unselfish" arms raised in the air while the rest of the team retreats in fear, not of their opponent, but of their manager and his tongue?
Ronaldo raised his arms and was shifted from lone striker to right wing. A tactical move? Perhaps. Perhaps as tactical as his coach's outright refusal to play football.
To blame Barcelona for bad plays is one thing. To blame Mourhino for the loss that Madrid suffered is another thing altogether, in that it is a fact.
Ask a Madrid fan if they enjoyed that style of football. Ask any fan of sport if they wouldn't rather put their best foot forward and give it a "good effort."
Barcelona played forward away.
Madrid played back at home.
Nobility and decency are in the grander intentions at the outset of the match.
One team played to win, and were not afraid.
One coach played not to lose, and was scared.
The result was proper.