Gran communicator, Bartolomé Beltrán left a lasting mark on Mallorca football.
Our emotional education forms in childhood in the most heterogeneous ways: perhaps by reading a Robert Graves novel like The Siege and Fall of Troy, or by a three-set tennis match. It can happen while listening to a symphony, such as the revelatory moment of hearing Bruckner’s fourth for the first time, or in the face of the loss of someone dear. There are decisive moments that unfold in mere hours or minutes, and others that settle over time like a pervasive atmosphere. These thoughts crossed the writer’s mind as news of Doctor Beltrán’s passing arrived. He was a media star in the years of youth, and his televised quotes were almost obligatory, especially for students sharing a flat with medical peers; and even more so for Mallorca fans, because he was responsible for bringing to the island one of their few sports idols: the Argentine Héctor Cúper.
In memory, there have been two great Real Mallorca teams. The first is the one from childhood: a squad with a French accent thanks to coaches Lucien Müller and Marcel Domingo, and forwards like the “Tronco” Magdaleno and Rolando “Rolo” Barrera, though those names did not perfectly align with the writer’s recollection. It was not a team that stood out in achievements, although with Serra Ferrer there was a playoff appearance in the only year that format had been used, but it was the stuff of dreams for many Mallorca supporters after years of wandering through the desert. The team of Paco Bonet, Torito Zuviría, Miodrag Kustudić, Gerry Armstrong (who did not fully triumph) represented a different kind of football. A decade later Beltrán arrived and brought Cúper with him in a way that is hard to explain, alongside a flood of players largely unknown to most. Through a game that recalled a modernized catenaccio, where order and physical discipline ruled above all else, Cúper managed to connect—perhaps more than many coaches ever have—with a society unaccustomed to sporting success as well as to the experiments of the jogo bonito. Later would come Real Mallorca at its best: the era guided by Luis Aragonés and Samuel Eto’o, which yielded a Copa del Rey victory. Yet by then the writer was no longer a child or a young adult, and while those triumphs brought joy, they carried a distance that adulthood inevitably adds, a sense of myth receding into memory.
What role did Doctor Beltrán play in those years? A crucial one, even if only for the symbolism of his discourse. At first, every sign pointed to failure. Beltrán was a physician, yes, but above all a television communicator, not a sport professional. The key may have been luck, guidance, or perhaps a blend of both. More important still was the magic he brought to the team in a period of struggle, a magic that made the club believe—perhaps even know—that it was better than its numbers or its history suggested. In this sense, he became a master of self-esteem: not everyone can say the same. In less than three seasons, he helped construct the modern Mallorca. And his work stood alongside the influence of the club’s current ownership, rooted far beyond borders in the United States. Rest in peace, Doctor Beltrán.