It had been a while.

Perhaps it is the phrase that Real Madrid most wanted to hear around him, like this Saturday afternoon in Granada, where he not only certified his ninth consecutive presence in the Cup final, he also recaptured lost sensations now that the first hour of truth appears it's from the season.

It had been a long time since it was so effective, so forceful, so round.

Unfortunately for Lenovo Tenerife, a recurring victim.

[94-74: Narration and statistics]

It could be concluded that it was a Madrid like a long time ago, or like a long time ago, since these impossible seasons harbor a thousand lives.

Sweet moments that last as long as the next crisis, because the months are measured in an unassailable concatenation of parties.

The exhausted Madrid, the one with doubts, the one with defeats against Barça, the one with 52 points in Istanbul, was a machine in the first cup semi-final.

An overwhelming roller for Tenerife, which he again separated from his first final, like last year.

This time no proper names above the group, which left no gap or crumbs.

40 minutes of concentration like the ones coaches dream of.

Heurtel

opposed MVP,

Jeff Taylor

hit four triples,

Tavares

was, once again, the most decisive guy on the floor,

Rudy

and his basketball knives... Perhaps the most remarkable thing was that players in clear drop in performance such as

Poirier and Thompkins

reconquered smiles.

They scored all 12 of the rotation, until

Deck

, back from his discomfort.

The easy thing for Tenerife would have been to collapse at the first change.

When Real Madrid woke up with five of six in triples (seven of nine, 10 already in the first half) in that basket that seems to have a magic spell throughout the tournament, the easy thing, even the logical thing, would have been to crack.

By the look of the rival, the eyes injected in title;

due to the confirmed absence of the Fitipaldo lighthouse, due to the exhaustion of being always torn to pieces by it.

Causeur's discomfort

The Canary Islands, in this beautiful struggle to always sneak in among the greats, found one of those Madrids that does not forgive and still tried to permanently maintain their composure.

Because

Pablo Laso 's group

it is usually too much when it sniffs blood: it preys, whatever its circumstances.

It's in the DNA.

In the first part there was no trace of doubts or ailments.

Every action was a snap.

It was a matter of guys taking a step forward.

The usual ones and the ones that are less lavish.

Taylor, back from his discomfort, started with three consecutive triples.

The same Rudy, the same Thompkins who seemed, at times, the one before the injury.

So those from Vidorreta, despite trying not to lose their footing against the white solidity and the rain from the perimeter, bailed out water as best they could.

They fell by 14 and, although

Witljer hit

the first triple, a pat by Tavares left them quite touched at halftime.

There was no truce on the way back, again triple as an ally and Tavares as a support for everything else.

With the African giant making a dent, the maximum reached more than twenty (82-60), with the only drawback for the Whites being

Fabien Causeur

's discomfort in his hip.

The Frenchman had to go to the locker room and will be a doubt for the final, where Real Madrid will seek the 22nd title of the Laso era, two years after the last Cup, Malaga 2020: since then, just two Super Cups.

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Know more

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