A Dark Hue of Despair

I don’t want to write this week.

I don’t feel like writing.

I don’t feel like doing anything, really.

Actually, that’s not true. I feel like boarding a plane from Somalia and bombing the Bernabéu because a certain team in white got humiliated both in London and in their own backyard, and now my whole world feels like it’s collapsing. I don’t want to be the only one crumbling. I shouldn’t be the only one crumbling. I want some of those players and that old Italian on the bench to feel what I’m feeling, too.

PS: If you’re not a football fan, or if you’re one of those people who only watch football because of their partners, please skip this post. You probably won’t understand half of what I’m saying, and I don’t want to waste your time the way my team wasted my week.

I am shattered.

I am livid.

I could scream until my lungs give out—but the world is asleep, and I’m alone. Who would help me if I passed out in the middle of the night?

Since the final whistle, I’ve been standing at my balcony, staring into the void. Staring into nothingness. Ignoring messages from friends itching to rub the defeat in my face. My silhouette could easily be mistaken for a ghost of times past. All I see are dark windows shielding people who are sound asleep—their teams are probably either in the semi-finals or long knocked out, so they’ve healed. They can wake up the next day and carry on with their lives like nothing happened.

But I can’t.

I can’t even sleep.

I’m lying under the dark ceiling of the sky, a thick shadow of despair hanging over my head. Demons from Barcelona and Manchester are laughing in the corners of my room. I want to slap their ugly faces with our 15 UCLs—but that doesn’t even matter right now. My team has been humiliated, and the whole world is laughing at us.

I’m writing this on Wednesday night when I am still fuming. I know I’ll probably look back later and think I was overreacting. But right now, it feels personal. Madrid has been the one consistent source of happiness in my life since 2017 when I needed a void in my life filled.

I remember the first Madrid match I watched consciously.

(Oh oh, sob story incoming—you can skip this part if emotional stuff isn’t your thing.)

I say “consciously” because I’d watched Madrid way before, but only because I liked their white kits. I had no idea I was signing up for a lifelong commitment to this cult of Madridismo.

My first real game was the 2017 UCL Final—purple kit Madrid vs Old Lady Juventus. A friend of mine back in primary school was a die-hard Juventus fan (or was he just a Madrid hater?), and he spent all Saturday afternoon gloating about how Juve was going to destroy Madrid. I told him to relax—anything can happen in football. I wasn’t even a hardcore Madridista by then. I just loved the kits, the manager in Zidane—and of course, the noodle-hair G.O.A.T, Ronaldo. (If you’re a Messi fan, unsubscribe from this newsletter. IMMEDIATELY!)

Now, Juventus that season were a machine. Only three goals conceded the entire campaign, and they were scoring freely too. I hadn’t even been following Madrid that season. But that Saturday night, while my mum and aunt were asleep, I watched the game for the full 90 minutes. Ronaldo and co. smashed FOUR goals past ‘solid’ Juventus and lifted the big-eared trophy. And it was then that I realized I had fallen in love with the team and club in front of me.

When I love something, I go full research mode. I don’t believe in the love at first sight stuff, I believe loves builds up. It grows like a humble seedling to a robust tree. All my years of watching Madrid unconsciously as a young kid all built up to me falling in love with this club. And even the Barcelona rivalry hate grows on you too. I spent the entire pre-season of 2017 digging through Madrid’s history: their founders, rivalries, wins and defeats, re-watching games, clips way back as far as Di Stefano, Zidane, Guti, Roberto Carlos, Beckham... you name it. There isn’t a single Madrid game I couldn’t break down for you—who scored, what minute, what competition, who was on the bench, and the final score of the game. I take no greater pride than knowing every single thing about my club.

And I chose them. No one convinced me. No one pressured or coerced me. That’s the kind of love I believe in— organic, unforced. But that’s a story for another post.

Which is why it hurts when we get thrashed by a team like Arsenal. Losing to Bayern, Liverpool—even Barcelona—makes sense. They’re great teams. But Arsenal? A club with no real history? A club known for bottling leads? A delusional club? Nah, that one cuts deep. And worst of all? They deserved the win against us. They came with a plan; both home and away they were structured, well-managed, clear ideas on how they want to play, and they executed their plan to perfection.

My team? My hand trembles as I write this. We were clueless! Honestly, my friends and I playing beside the sugarcane fields of Muhoroni could’ve put up a better fight.

I told a friend recently: what “the great” Carlo Ancelotti does is select the lineup, then lets the players do whatever they want. He just sits back, smokes his dirty cigars or chews miraa.

In his first stint at the club in 2013/14, he got away with it because Ronaldo, Benzema, and Bale didn’t need much coaching. They had their own lethal skills to break down any team. That’s how we won La Décima—on pure talent, fight and luck.
In this second stint, he’s getting away with it again because we’ve won two UCLs in three years. The higher-ups at Madrid think that’s success. But anyone who’s watched Madrid since 2021 when he took over—every single game, like I have—knows we’ve been dangling by a thread. Every opponent has outplayed us, whether in La Liga, the UCL, or even Copa del Rey (don’t even get me started on the jokes we play in that competition). We’ve survived solely on moments of individual brilliance: from Vini, Karim, Kroos, Jude, sometimes even Joselu. Yet somehow, the old man keeps surviving, even up to this night as I am writing this. His head should be on the guillotine for his treasonous actions against my club.

In the eras of Zidane and Mourinho, we were a fortress. A true powerhouse. No one dared blaspheme us—online or on the pitch. In games you could see that there was a system, a structure, a clear philosophy. Now? We’ve got an old Italian coach who puts his faith in vibes, long balls to nowhere, the gods of Madrid, and the powerless power of ‘no philosophy’.

When I went into town this morning, all I saw were babes in Arsenal jerseys—proud and glowing. And even prettier ones in our Madrid whites, waiting with hope. This was the game of the season. For Madridistas, a chance at redemption after the ass-whooping last week. For Gunners, a once-in-a-lifetime shot at glory. Everyone knows: if you beat Madrid, you’re practically the best in the world. To be the best you have to beat the best. There’s no higher pride for a club—especially for a small, delusional club like Arsenal—to beat the Champions of Europe.

And now we’ll never hear the end of it.

Look at what you’ve done to me, Madrid. I’m ranting to no one in the middle of the night… about a game of football.

But I know we’ll be back. We just need to sack that old man, endure Barcelona beating us in the last two Clásicos of the season, bear the pain, let ourselves suffer, and the shame to sink in. Then start fresh next season—rejuvenated, hungry, and ready to crush hopes and dreams across Europe. Simple.

Would you look at that—I wrote after all.

I’m going to bed now. I’ll calm down eventually.

Hala Madrid..siempre!!

✍🏽Reagan.