The history of football is a sad journey from pleasure to duty. As sport has become an industry, it has been banishing the beauty that is born from the joy of playing just for the sake of it. In this world of the end of the century, professional football condemns what is useless, and what is not profitable is useless. No one likes that madness that makes a man a child for a while, playing as the child plays with the balloon and as the cat plays with the ball of wool: a dancer who dances with a light ball like the balloon that he goes to the air and the ball that rolls, playing without knowing that he is playing, without reason and without a clock and without a judge. The game has become a spectacle, with few protagonists and many spectators, football to watch, and the spectacle has become one of the most lucrative businesses in the world, which is not organized to play but to prevent play. The technocracy of professional sports has been imposing a football of pure speed and great strength, which renounces joy, atrophies fantasy and prohibits daring. Luckily he still appears on the courts, albeit very occasionally, some cheeky dirty-faced man Who comes out of the script and commits the folly of dribbling the entire rival team, and the judge, and the audience in the stands, for the pure enjoyment of the body that launches into the forbidden adventure of freedom.
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