What soccer took

It was 94 minutes. The Holy Father's azulgrana had a corner in favor at the last breath of the aggregate. And in Chapecó, everyone would bite their nails, or squeeze from the nerve, any object within reach.
Expectant silence at the Condá Arena.

The round flew through the air, like a dove looking for some crumbs of bread, on the esplanade of any religious compound. A detour. Then two. A granite leg pushes the spherical and with it, the dream disappears with the final whistle.

The Brazilian Cinderella from the continental tournament, has fallen. Danilo weeps defeated, faced with the impossibility of safeguarding his goal at zero. San Lorenzo, touched by the spokesman of St. Peter on earth, anoints his story with the miracle again.

Twenty-two thousand souls and a few others, crying disconsolate the fall of the little giant. They are accustomed to live under the yoke of the great, in the shadow of history. And once again, football becomes ungrateful. Unjust to those who already suffer, much more; Inclement with the essence of those destined for oblivion.

Humility and work, thank you. Emotions up to the last moment, too. But defeat sinks deep.

Caio Júnior walks the field, raising the faces of each of his warriors. He embraces them and encourages them, drying their tears. Soccer is ungrateful, yes. But, it remains "the most important, the least important." Life goes on. Tomorrow there is morning training and we must continue to exercise the muscle of illusion, to feed the hunger for triumph.

One by one, the greens begin to rise and the tears turn to applause. The tragic defeat, is much sweeter in a club so small for history. The glory is already theirs, even though they are the vanquished.
And then, the unthinkable. Torrico and Angeleri are close to Cleber and Tiaguinho, who are the only ones who have not been able to drown the tears. They offer them their T-shirts, soaked in the narrative of that continental war of ninety minutes. The colors azulgrana become handkerchiefs for the consolation.

Once standing, both cariocas thank the gesture and stripped of their colors to put them in the hands of the rival, who for a moment, becomes the closest to a loved one. The four melt into a hug, and exchange words imperceptible to the human ear. Soccer is over.
Aguirre has not gone to the locker room. He walks quietly, looking for his simile - Caio - to shake his hand. They exchange praises and suddenly, they shout at their respective pupils.

The 22 players, at their pace, come to the center of the field to applaud each other. The rivalry is dead; Soccer has won. The hobby is constipated little by little and the mantle of the victory covers them of the luminaries to all, without distinction. At least for a moment.

Gesture of peace, so needed in our world.

Gesta honorable that the greens have achieved. Only six years has needed Chapecó to put in everyone's mouth; So as not to be a stranger ever again. Only an instant has separated them from fighting for their first star. The one that everyone has grown up watching every night, wishing to be part of the sky.

The one to which 75 stars are added today - and not only one -, if only that spherical had entered. If only the tip of Danilo's shoe, had not kissed the leather on that night of Chapecó. If only the football were less capricious.

If only, the price of becoming a legend was not death.