There’s substance to this summer story of Juventus not only wanting to buy Cristiano Ronaldo but Madrid being willing, at least, to talk to them about the deal.
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It’s only really beginning to sink in but Sunday was a personal farewell to Andrés Iniesta.
In January 2011 I got a phone call from Alan Pardew, then the Newcastle manager, who wanted to replace the aggressive, physical, aerially successful striker he’d just lost to Liverpool.
One of the least appealing elements of this profession is telling the truth.
It’s best to start with an admission. I adored Neale Cooper, the player, the person, the voracious lover of life.
By the time the dust settles in Kiev I’ll be just a few days away from my Aeroflot flight to Moscow.
I was working in Pizzaland in central Glasgow that blighted and cursed afternoon in 1986 when the media announced what we’d all known for weeks was true: that Alex Ferguson needed to extend his horizons and move to Manchester United.
Although they are the two men of the moment one looks like a kid and the other still bears the nickname The Kid.
And so to the case of Ousmane Dembélé. Have you seen the French winger?
The Europa League final on Wednesday should be the ultimate “boy done good” story for Antoine Griezmann.
It’s Clásico weekend. And the last time this head-on collision between Spain’s capital and the centre of Catalunya took place on a football pitch with one of the two teams already La Liga winners was exactly 10 years ago.
If everything has gone to plan then this morning Andrés Iniesta will have announced he’s choosing not to renew his contract at Barcelona, that he’s heading off to play football in China and that a Camp Nou era has ended.
If you were watching the Liverpool 5-2 Roma game on Tuesday then I bet you’re still thinking “Wow!” and trying to make sense of it.
I reckon that few of us who’ve holidayed on Spain’s Costa del Sol would place Marbella in the category of resorts which are “a quiet haven of restraint away from the madness”.
Sport is beautiful, but sport is cruel. To some extent it’s the law of the jungle – you survive, and emerge, if you’re the fittest, the toughest, the nastiest. The “best” doesn’t always cut it. And, eventually, everyone gets gobbled up.
Everybody’s talking about the beautiful thing which happened in Turin this week – Ronaldo’s goal.
Almost as iconic this week as the sight of Spain’s sixth goal fizzing past Willy Caballero to complete Isco’s hat-trick against the 2014 World Cup finalists was Leo Messi demonstrating that the pain of it all was too much.
Messi would vomit. Per Mertesacker would urgently visit the loo dozens of time a day before a match.
Sometimes stats just don’t matter.
Not many weeks go by without someone asking for my help in order to come and work in Spain.
The smug, obese man sat there sweating profusely.
As I was on my way to the Jose Mourinho press conference in Sevilla my mobile phone rang and I got a nice wee adrenaline buzz from the fact that it was one of my all-time favourite players.
In Spain there are many who call Cristiano Ronaldo “El Bicho”.
As a feisty, some have said chippy, Scot I can freely admit that, much though I love my adopted country, there are dozens of people around Spain who to this day don’t know how close I came to chinning them when i first arrived to live here all those years ago.
Basically, it’s the Christmas miracle which keeps on giving.
It goes without saying that were Madrid coached by anyone other than, say, Florentino Perez’s son then he’d be in the dole queue this morning.
Sevilla FC turned 128 on Thursday. So if you want to sing Happy Birthday in Spanish to the same tune we use in the UK and send it to them, go right ahead: “Cumpleaños feliz, cumpleaños feliz ...”
On the face of it, Ronaldinho conjured up the timing of a true showman when he chose to announce his retirement just as Coutinho arrived at Barcelona.
It has always intrigued me greatly that football, like ordinary life, has “sliding doors” moments.
On the face of it, the Coutinho operation should be nice and simple for FC Barcelona.