The triumph of the good man

They were celebrating in the center of the La Cartuja field when someone told Ernesto Valverde that everyone would run to sing with the Athletic fans in the background. He had the cup in his hand. They took positions. A countdown was made: three, two, one and the coach flew to the bottom. But no one followed him. The entire squad stayed in the central circle applauding him from a distance, while the stands chanted his name and surname, that of the man who, finally, forty years later, had won the title most desired by the red and white fans. That little deception gave him the prominence that he deserves and that he always tries to avoid and allowed us to break our hands applauding him. I was there and I still have red palms. A few seconds later, as if in a hurry to be the center of attention, Valverde left the cup on the ground, made a gesture to the team, who now ran towards her and stood aside. I thought: here is a good man.

The Athletic Club is the fruit of many seeds, thousands, millions, planted over 125 years by so many men and women. We remember them these days of celebration in Bilbao, from whom we not only inherit a feeling, as the cliché goes, but something that is much more important: a way of relating to that feeling. In my case it is my

(grandfather) and the moment that determines the way I see those colors is one shared with him. But it wasn't seeing the child's barge pass on his shoulders, nor the experience of a final, nor a goal in the last minute, nor a historic comeback. What determines the way I understand Athletic Club is a reprimand. It happened in a random game in San Mamés. I would have been nine, ten, eleven years old.

took me with him. Not much happened and that was the biggest event for me, accompanying him to football on Sunday. Everything fascinated me. I kept every moment for myself: the car trip, seeing San Mamés from Artxanda confused among the city buildings, cheering and always letting Athletic win, meeting family and friends, the previous moments outside the stadium, the chants, the goals, the smell of freshly cut and pure grass. And, after the game, the return home in silence listening to the radio, with a point of sadness or joy depending on the result, but happy to be with him, feeling that of all the possible places in the entire universe, that car was where he wanted be. One of those afternoons, during a random game, it happened that sitting in the stands next to

, I imitated some of the fans around us and insulted an opponent who was pretending to be thrashing around on the ground, wasting time. I don't know what the insult was. It doesn't matter either. But as soon as it left my lips,

glared at me and with a severe tone unprecedented in him, pointed to the ground and exclaimed: “Not that here.” Oh, how many times have I returned to that moment. I remember his disappointed look and my spontaneous pain because I felt that I had defiled San Mamés, a sacred place for him, with my behavior.

From that teaching, over time I learned that the great value of Athletic is a way of being and behaving. I understood that this is why we love Iribar so much and why everywhere they sing about him being “cojonudo”. I understood why, being able to score a goal, Zarra threw the ball wide not once, but twice, when an opponent was injured. I understood why they applauded us in other stadiums, why when we traveled as fans many people welcomed us with a smile. These weeks I have experienced all this again: in Seville the days before the final, whose affection has won us forever. And after the game, with the tears of Óscar De Marcos, who never stops running, who has been denying the universal law of energy conservation for years; with Unai Simón's happy kiss to Agirrezabala; with Iñigo Lekue remembering his

on the balcony of the City Hall; with Dani Vivian's spontaneous jump of joy, always so formal; with each and every one of the players remembering those who preceded them in the locker room and could not lift the Cup, singing “for me and for all my teammates.”

I am aware that I give more importance to those scenes because I project the gaze of my

, that gaze that struck me that ordinary afternoon in San Mamés. Beyond results, it is how we behave that makes my heart swell with pride for my club or, sometimes also, because no one or nothing is perfect, it hurts a little. There is too much talk about the values ​​of sport, but without making them explicit. Like everything, it depends on the people. In the wrong hands (or feet), sport can mean winning at all costs, going over your rival, destroying your body for a result, squeezing people to the limit of mental destruction. But in the right ones it can be teamwork, taking care of those next to you, trying a little harder because your partner doesn't have the day today, remembering in your success all those who made it possible, knowing that victory is not worth it if It doesn't leave a good residue. We need more of the latter, because sport is talent, but it is also a way of behaving, of committing. Talent is individual, you have it or you don't have it and that ends with you; but commitment challenges us and reaches us all, it is contagious and creates society. Those are the seeds I was talking about before. Athletic is, it should be, a sentimental constitution, more a way of acting than of being, a territory of good men, of good women. Athletic is my

. Athletic is Ernesto Valverde on the pitch of La Cartuja embodying the triumph of a way of doing things, his own, which is also that of the club that he loves and has once again made a champion, a good champion.

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