In the end the calendar was cruel, serving up a metaphor for the season, for football and for life. Like something out of a sitcom, someone had double booked a celebration and a funeral. Same time, same place: mid-May, a Saturday evening at Los Carmenes. Newly confirmed league champions Real Madrid had come to play Granada, who had just watched on television in the hotel as the relegation they long knew was coming finally got sealed, players sitting in tears en route to the ground, where it was all they could so to stand in formation, applaud their opponents on to the field and then lose again.
As for Madrid, they came, played, won and got out quietly, the party postponed. The Federation had suggested giving them the trophy that evening, but they said no. Instead, it was silently handed over behind closed doors the following morning, then taken on a bus down the Castellana to the statue of Cibeles, goddess of fertility and meeting point of Madridisimo. Carlo Ancelotti wore the shades, smoked the cigar, danced with Eduardo Camavinga, sang a while, and then got back to work ensuring they would be back again a fortnight later.
