A candy box, forty thousand souls, compelling hymn and a legend that runs throughout Europe. Nervión, in a year with vengeance on the surface and social unrest through the roof, had an unforgettable night. En-Nesyri, reborn after the World Cup, was the executive arm, the tunnel boring machine that liquidated the English. Navas became what he had been all his life again, an eternal rocket hurtling through the band like a tireless meteorite. Rakitic discovered the essence of those champagne football drops that he still has in the cellar. Gudelj played as he likes in that house and in those stands, with the knife between his teeth and without taking any prisoners. Ocampos was a tireless stiletto and a tireless lung for Sevilla. Acuña lived up to its nickname and ‘puro Huevo’ cooked up a great game. Another one for your collection. Badé was an impregnable granite rock, the shoulder of which blessed the Sevillian night. And Fernando Reges, Sevillism’s diesel engine, took out the broom to sweep the whole field. tip, De Gea and Maguire, necessary collaborators, open the door wide for the big party. The stands surrendered and were proud to be part of a team that remains true to its story. Never give up. Never. Everything is earned by hand. Deep.
In the foreground Mendilibar. A simple, normal boy, without fanfare, a coach of the usual, of those in tracksuits and without inventions, who does not go through life with the air of Secretary of State. One of those who, like the late Luis, say “go fuck yourself” more often than “good morning.” He has spent half his life on the bench, made his European debut at the age of 62, knocked out the almighty Manchester United and while he could boast that he turned the team around like a sock, he hasn’t. He hasn’t puffed up his chest, his feet are on the ground, he knows there are still things to improve on and he’s clear that if the SFC hadn’t been in the mud they would never have called him. He has been on the Nervión bench for two moments and the Sevilla fans have given themselves body and soul. They are already ‘Mendilibers’. The secret is naturalness. The simple. Fight like a little one to be big.
Behind the scenes, Monchi and Pepe Castro. They made mistakes, they recognized them, they got more sticks than a mat and they’re all necks again. Rightly criticized and beaten more viciously than necessary, yesterday they enjoyed everything they have built up over the years. A serious club, a competitive team and a beautiful stand with forty thousand dedicated souls. Castro, caught up in yet another internal war for actions, which is already the never-ending story, believed when others stopped believing. Even when it was very cold, he remained steadfast: this is a club that throws nothing away, that does not leave any competition and that transforms when it smells money. At his side is Monchi, who is not infallible, although he seems to have been for years, and who was able to reflect on some of his work last night. The sports father of a giant whose anthem says he never gives up, the brains of a team that has been performing beyond its financial means and income for more than a decade, returned to address clubs that could bury them in money. Castro and Monchi are not perfect and don’t pretend to be, but they are the history of Seville. They were wrong, they recognized it, they got their act together and what they’ve done in the second part of the season has been an exercise in responsibility and respect for their fans and the Shield. It has cost blood, sweat and tears, but Sevilla FC is back. Partly because he never left.
They say you never give up. And it’s true. In its most difficult year, Sevilla is only one step away from another European final. It is an undeniable symptom of his greatness, of the stature he has achieved, of all that he has built with effort and merit, and that as much as some may deny it, it is still valid. Seville has all the virtues that adorn the greats. In his worst year semi-finalist in Europe. Others would kill for it. For Sevilla it is a routine, a habit, another day at the office. On the horizon, Juventus. The dream, the seventh. The promised land, Budapest. “Again? Yes, again.”
Reuben Uria
Source: Goal