Last week the same columnist reflected on the five seasons when CB Almansa and Afanion appeared and noted not a single official competitive defeat. The writer admits a superstition about luck and language, joking that mentioning a winning streak might invite misfortune. Yet the point lingers: the spoken word has power, especially in the high-stakes atmosphere of playoffs. The idea is not merely poetic; it is a reminder that belief and discourse can influence perception, momentum, and even moments on the court. If a declaration about invincibility could be seen as a self-imposed test, then the natural impulse is to consider how words shape outcomes, even in games controlled by statistics and strategy. The writer imagines how such proclamations could ripple through a team, a rival, and the spectators, echoing the old Argentine superstition that language can carry a curse or a blessing.
Talking about a 100 percent efficiency is, in practice, a setup for a fall. It is mathematical in its hazard: certainty invites a stumble at the worst possible moment. This inevitability is observed in every game, where the power of speech can surprise even the most level-headed observers. The responsibility rests with the narrator to acknowledge that a bold claim might destabilize a team if misread or misapplied. The thought lingers: if the writer’s confident prediction somehow disrupted the performance at La Mancha, the remedy would be a symbolic, culturally loaded tradition, the Kiricocho, historically associated with turning luck through the encouragement of rivals’ misfortune.
Believe in the magic of words, idiots, we’re playing the playoffs.
For those unfamiliar with the tale, the figure of Kiricocho originates in a famous Argentine anecdote surrounding a coach who guided Estudiantes de La Plata to a world title in the late twentieth century. It is said that the coach, an admirer whose visits were accompanied by a string of odd incidents, found that using a jinx could unsettle opponents. The tale quickly became a legend, suggesting that the best way to deploy influence was to pit opposing teams against one another through a shared superstition. The team prospered that season, even as the superstition attached itself to the daily rituals of home and away games. Kiricocho’s name entered the collective memory as a symbol of luck and misfortune intertwined. Classic moments, such as a dramatic save or a near-miss, were sometimes attributed to the aura of this jinx, reminding fans that heroes often arrive with unconventional legends rather than capes.
On a given Friday, when Alimerka Oviedo Baloncesto steps onto Pedro Ferrándiz’s parquet, the superstition reappears in chatter and predictions. If a ball is intercepted midplay or a key pass lands in a defender’s hands, the chant grows: Kiricocho, Kiricocho. The call is not a guarantee of success, but it embodies a shared belief that language and ritual can accompany performance. The writer notes a sense of accountability for the streak and a genuine wish to see the team push through to victory. In that spirit, the belief in spoken words remains a cultural anchor, offering fans a way to participate in the drama without stepping onto the court themselves. The message is simple: the mind matters, and in the playoffs, every edge—no matter how intangible—can be part of the journey toward an important win.