Tuesday, October 19

Withdrawal Syndrome – Information


HLA Alicante mascot

HLA Alicante mascot
PILAR CORTÉS

You perfectly remember the sensations. Waking up in the morning with a single vision, a single wish, a single illusion. It’s game day and you won’t be absent. You never miss it. You have your team jersey and scarf ready to leave the house and hit the field. The Whatsapp It is full of messages asking if you have already arrived at the pavilion, who brings the tickets, where are we meeting to do the preview or who signs up for the beer afterwards. The Telegram has the gif of “game day” going around since the early hours of the day, and on Twitter everything is messages of encouragement to the team anticipating victory and likes to that basketball blog that never fails us. You recognize perfectly the tickling in the stomach. You have read all the information in the newspaper, you have listened to the talk on the radio. You have already calculated the time to leave the house, pick up your colleagues, park where you can and walk towards the Technification Center greeting familiar faces with the same shirts, the same scarves, the same complicit smiles. Of some you don’t even know the name, but it doesn’t matter. There is an implicit, almost intimate complicity, colors that do not lie, a feeling that cannot be feigned. In the distance you can already hear the atmosphere of Pedro Ferrándiz.

The music at full blast, the balls bouncing on the parquet, the Kali Nord tuning the throat. If you close your eyes you can see their banners, their flags, the coming and going of people in the stands, on the benches, around the scorers’ table. There is something magical about ritual, about mystical celebration, about religious joy. A communion of souls, a pacing of bodies, a symbiosis of voices. You are already there. That is your place, with the charm of repeating, with each appointment on the calendar, that waiting in line listening to the comments of others about the press conference, the pre-match feelings, the illusion of the meeting. Those steps on the pavement arriving at your seat, greeting more people (those of all life; the families that always go together; the parents of the players; the unexpected companions of the armchair; the child of the drum that hits the hand to the players at the end of the game…).

And you follow the countdown to the rhythm of more music, chants, nerves, clapping, while you look at how the opposing team warms up and try to recognize former players from your club while mentally counting how many shots hit your bases in the seconds that left for the clash to begin. So honks the horn And you already know that there is no going back: the battle finally takes place, that display of game, tactics and muscle that you have been waiting for days, because it is the invisible food that gives illusion to your days. The kick of the match, of each basket, of each assist, lasts all week, nourishes you with energy to face the long days of work, the bitter hours of dealing with the ups and downs of life, because that is your refuge, that It is your home, that is, in its own way, your family.

And then there comes a fateful day when, without asking you or giving you explanationsWithout seeing it coming, with the pain of a betrayal down your back, fate takes that drug from you all at once, without teaching you to unhook yourself, without hot cloths. And you’re lost, in full withdrawal syndrome, with that live basketball jumpsuit that not even live broadcasts can take away from you. And in the midst of these symptoms (anxiety, nervousness, difficulty concentrating, sadness, insomnia) someone asks you what happens to your team, which has lost four games in a row. And you begin to wonder if the evil that the Lucentum it is the lack of that drug that you give him in each encounter, encouraging, pushing as the sixth player. And you realize that in that basketball equation, in that confluence of stimulating elements that produce a sporting euphoria from which it is so difficult to disengage, you also come into play, and when you look at the players you discover that they, in their own way, they also have their abstinence syndrome.


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