Football is back.

The real one, the one that counts, the most disinterested, the one with the center-back with glasses or the one with the chubby goalkeeper, the one who doesn't admit to fights, the one who isn't under suspicion:

your son plays. You

know you're getting older because of things like this: Much more than a Real Madrid-Barcelona, ​​you are interested in an Amorós-San Cristóbal. It is not a classic with floods of people and night lights, but with a dozen parents standing there, scattered around in the sun.

You don't go into the field with three beers, but with two churritos

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