The alarm went off at 3 a.m.
It has been less than five hours since I was able to finally fall asleep. Kickoff is still 18 hours away. I pack my things for a special game day, but it is not that different.
The single biggest sign that you aren’t going to your regular Metropolitano match is that you choose those jerseys you save for the great occasions. In my case, it is a 1997/98 jersey, which feels old-school enough.
In the scorching Sevilla heat, you need a backup jersey just in case. For me, it is
the 75th-anniversary edition with Koke’s number 6 on the back. I dream of getting that one signed some day by Mr. Jorge Resurrección Merodio himself.
My son is sporting a special edition jersey of the Copa with Marcos Llorente’s name stamped on the back. His personal backup is his lifelong idol’s jersey with number 7 on the back. He has grown up loving Antoine Griezmann with all his heart. This is my kid’s first final, and maybe (let’s hope not) Antoine’s last. It does have a full-circle feeling to be able to pay tribute to Atleti’s French superstar in this last Copa dance.
Tonight’s game will be the eighth time in a final for me, most of them on press duty for the defunct Esto Es Atleti website. They have all been Cholo Simeone-led games.
Last night I tried to catch some z’s reading my friends’ piece on how they experienced the previous Copa final. It is a perspective I always find refreshing, and it felt as a core part of their coming-of-age Atleti voyage. The majority of our readers have a similar international experience.
My experience is radically different however, as my family was already a two generation Atlético die-hard family before I was born, hardened in a post-Civil War Spain where Atlético de Madrid represented a working class essence that was far from mainstream in the conservative neighborhood where my mother grew up.
She emigrated (almost exiled) for 15 years to the United States, where I grew up with two cemented certainties: one, that I would one day live in Spain and two, that I was a designated Atleti fan from birth. Atleti fan by birthright, you could say.
When I finally did move to Spain, my first day at school taught me two things distinctly as well. The first is that learning Spanish as a 10-year-old kid would be one of the biggest challenges of my life. The second is that in Móstoles, the southern Madrid town where I grew up after moving to Spain, practically no one was an Atleti fan. The other 30 boys in class thought you were extra weird for not being a Madridista, let alone the funny accent. Not only did I not speak a lick of Spanish but I had even chosen to further ostracize myself by electing to follow what they labeled “the wrong team.”
That made every small win a glorious victory, I celebrated plays by Paulo Futre, passes from Jesús Landáburu or saves by Abel Resino with the passion Real Madrid fans celebrated Liga titles. My childhood, not so uncommon in the 1980s and 1990s in Spain, forged Atleti as a core value in our way of life, the Atleti way.
Reminiscing on the last Copa del Rey final, for me it was a bit less of a final and more of another chapter in that unending eternal dispute versus our nemesis Real Madrid. The venue made it feel like a special away game. The difference was that instead of the odd thousand heading into enemy territory as usual, half of the Bernabéu was painted in red and white, in a wave of color and sound that the normally-dull Castellana Avenue stadium isn’t used to hosting.
The vibrant atmosphere was the finish line for a 3 km walk where Atleti fans paraded down one of the main arteries of Madrid, from close to Plaza Castilla to the north end of the stadium (the same end Atleti fans will populate tonight in Sevilla). Atleti won the atmosphere battle undoubtedly, and snapped the long-running predominance that Real Madrid had had in the rivalry. Over the years I would witness Atleti defeat Real Madrid two more times in finals, in a Spanish Supercup and a European one. Sandwiched in between are the sad Champions League finals that Atleti should have conquered.
I got my first abono (season ticket) right after the historic 1995/96 double, back when Atleti winning a trophy was a true unicorn sighting. Finals and trophies were scarce and far apart. Nowadays, despite the reigning anxiety, Atleti has been able to collect one-third of its trophies during the Simeone era.
As we continue on this trip to the final, I’m realizing that this one is special. I’ve gone to finals on a bus before, but this massive exodus of over 26.000 colchonero fans feels exceptional. Most have opted for buses and cars to cover the 530 kilometers (around 330 miles) that separate Madrid from Sevilla.
The tragic double high speed train accident back in January on the same train line that joins the two cities has pumped the brakes on people wanting to travel by railroad. Rail traffic has decreased 15 percent since the accidents. That means the bus has turned into the most sought-after way of making it to tonight’s Copa final.
The first stop, 200 km (100 miles) away from Madrid, is a surreal congregation of 500 people in Atleti jerseys in the middle of nowhere fighting the sleep while ordering a coffee and enjoying (or enduring) the sunrise.
At the time of writing, more than 200 buses are making their way in the wee hours of the night and early hours of the morning from many destinations to the Andalusian capital that has hosted the last eight Copa finals. Though it is the temporary home of Real Betis, Estadio de La Cartuja is the only great football venue in Spain that is neutral. The Spanish Wembley was built by the same architects who erected the Metropolitano Stadium. So Cartuja does feel like visiting a little brother. It is a home away from home.
The venue, the need to win a trophy, the sheer amount of fans that will travel to Sevilla from Madrid without a ticket undoubtedly will have Atleti fans massively outnumbering the rivals in every facet. We have done our part. The only thing left is for players to do theirs.
Our final destination is still many miles ahead. But someone grabs the bus mic and pulls it near to their phone. The speakers start blasting: Muchachos (hoy viajamos otra vez).
Boys, we are on the road again.
And we smile because tonight, as always, it is not about winning. It never was and it never is.
It is always about this crest, and these red and white colors.
(Note: Special thanks to Juanma Álamo and Peña Aris for letting us hitch a ride on their bus. The trip has been part of the celebration.)
