I fell in love with Real Madrid in 2002, arriving in the Spanish capital, an impressionable 7-year-old unaware of the significance of the club I would soon call my own.
Under manager Vicente del Bosque, Zinedine Zidane, Raúl, Roberto Carlos, Luís Figo, and Co. played mesmerizing football that inspired every kid in the city. Each game at the Bernabéu felt like a magical affair, and the Galacticos conquered La Liga before sacking del Bosque, selling Claude Makélélé and beginning a descent into mediocrity (by Madridista standards) that would last until the conquest of La Décima.
