The swells. Eduardo Galeano Crisis 
The fan
Eduardo Galeano
Once a week, the fan runs away from home and attend to the stadium.
flutter flags, blowing their noisemakers, fireworks, drums, rain snakes and the confetti, the city disappears, the routine is forgotten, there is only the temple.
In this sacred space, the only religion that has no atheists exhibits to their gods. Although the fan can see the miracle, more comfortably on the screen on TV, prefer to undertake the pilgrimage to this place where you can see in flesh and blood to his angels, dueling against the demons of the day.
Here, the swelling waves her handkerchief, swallows, gulp, swallowed poison, eat the cap, whispering prayers and curses, and suddenly breaks into an ovation throat and jumps like a flea embracing the stranger who shouts the goal to his side. The duration of the pagan church, the fan is a lot. With thousands of devotees share the certainty that we are the best, all referees are sold, all rivals are cheaters.
rarely the fan says, "now playing my club." He says, "Today we play." Well twelfth player knows this is he who blows the wind pushing the ball fervor when she falls asleep, as you know the other eleven players who play without swelling is like dancing without music.
When the game ends, the fan, who has moved from the podium, celebrating his victory, what did they rout, which gave them beating or crying their defeat cheated us again, judge thief. And then the sun goes down and the swelling is gone. Shadows fall on the stadium being empty. In the burning cement steps here and there, some of fire shooting flames, while they off the lights and voices.
The stadium is left alone and the fan returns to his solitude, I who have been us, the fan away, dispersed, lost, and Sunday is gloomy as Ash Wednesday after the death of the carnival.
Eneko Bullets, Manel Fontevilla and Eric Castell Drawing 
Eneko and Manel Bullets and Eric Castell
Fontdeville
