NEW YORK — There was a specific moment when I realized the power of El Clasico’s magnetic reach outside of Spain. The year was 2005. I was already living in New York City after moving there two years prior from London but had returned to the U.K. for a brief spell to spend time with family and friends.
It was a Saturday in November, and there I was, at a pub in Clapham Junction. A packed room filled with Barcelona and Real Madrid shirts crowding the tables. All of them with names on the back: from Ronaldinho at the peak of his powers, to an 18-year-old Lionel Messi and the imperial Samuel Eto’o.
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The Blaugrana faithful stood proud at the Santiago Bernabeu. On the other side, the hosts were as Galactic as you can imagine. It was the epitome of stardom. The football version of classic Hollywood elite (indulge me for a moment). Zinedine Zidane was Real Madrid’s Clark Gable, standing next to him were other astronomical entities such as Paul Newman’s David Beckham, the one everyone loved in Jimmy Stewart’s Raul, and, of course, the phenomenon, the mesmerizing Ronaldo Nazario. The Brazilian Marlon Brando. If I kept naming names, this piece might finish by Thanksgiving. So, let’s move on.
The Bernabeu was packed; you could even sense that vibrance from southwest London. At that time, both teams were just a point apart in the table. Neither, however, was top, but it didn’t matter. This Clasico was not about points or a closer path to reach the peak. This was a chance to make a statement. The crowded pub knew it. I felt even Ronaldinho knew it, as just before kickoff he whispered something to a young Messi, and I want to believe that the conversation went like this:
Ronaldinho: “Are you ready to make some history?”
[Messi smiles, nods and walks away.]
In the same manner of a general, Xavi (now Barcelona’s manager) — still dominating the midfield — walked over to every Barcelona player giving advice. Meanwhile, Beckham’s blond highlights were as bright as the proverbial spotlight on his every move for Real Madrid, while Zidane stood there, quietly pondering his first move — probably the same way Rembrandt stared at a blank canvas. The Bernabeu was the Milky Way, and all the stars had aligned in Madrid. There was not an empty seat in the house.
