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A Cock and Bull Story (Una Historia de un Gallo y un Toro)


Sheffield Stags 2 (Thomo, Sniper)

Team: Miller, Shabba, Gallo, Thomo, Albert Finney, Molinero, Snake, Irish. Subs: Dr Love, Josh, Gangsta, Sniper.

Porcos Bravos 1 (Martin)

Team: Santi, Marcos, Fontaiña, Fran, Argie, Serge, Victor, Martin. Subs: None

Venue: Gym Plus, Crookes, Sheffield.

Attendance: Approx 20 including Boroman, Homer, Ronaldo and Big Duncs in the home end and Nando and Pablo in the away end.


As Spring dawned the sun dutifully adorned the pitch that was later to become the battlefield of the sixth playing of the Anglo-Galician Cup.

The Sheffield Stags, 3-2 up in the series so far, handed debuts to Craig, son of Dave aka The Miller, and nicknamed Molinero (Spanish for “Miller”) and Josh, son of Scott aka “Monkey Boy”. The Monkey Boy sitting this game out along with Fenners due to injury.

Before the game the flag of St George hung proudly behind the Stag’s goal whilst at the other end the flag of Spain, emblazoned with a black bull (El Toro), fluttered behind the goal of the Porcos Bravos. Those responsible for flying the flag over the visitor’s goal were then subjected to a few choice words as they strode back to the safety of their own half. Their plan to rile their Galician counterparts had succeeded.

The first half was a tight contest, devoid of many clear cut chances but far from devoid of comedy as Sergio of the Porcos somehow managed to fall over the ball with no-one within 5 metres of him. At least he fell due to some form of contact; this could not be said of the rather impressive dives of the “Argie”, Lutsky.

The half had promised to be an open affair, as early as the second minute Shabba’s last ditch tackle prevented Marcos from having just the Miller in the Stag’s goal to beat, and then soon after, a snap shot from the Argie flew just wide after he had been cleverly played through by Fran.

The Stags were restricted to very few chances and, other than one or two long range efforts, their best moments came as Thomo’s deflected corner struck the front post and Gallo’s free-kick struck the pie-seller.

Gallo was having a half to forget. A miss-hit back pass allowed Martin a great chance in front of goal but he was denied as The Miller expertly tipped his effort over the bar. The Miller showed further great reactions a couple of seconds later as he crawled back onto his feet to quickly remould his bright-blond hair, just in case the cameras were watching. Then as the half wore on and as the ageing legs of Gallo were visibly ageing even more the Stag’s veteran cynically clipped the heels of Marcos “The “Engine” as he threatened to break clear.

Just before the end of the first half it appeared that the Porcos Bravos had taken the advantage. An almighty scramble in the Stag’s penalty area ended with Sergio wheeling away in delight after prodding the ball home following Molinero’s goal line clearance from a Victor effort. However as the diminutive “27-year-old” celebrated Victor demonstrated the spirit in which the cup has been played by admitting to a hand ball offence during the melee.

The second half was a slightly more open affair as the Stags began to abandon their touch-tackling defensive game and started to play a bit more football. John, “Irish”, was handed a glorious chance to open the scoring when a slick move instigated by the forever youthful Albert Finney (Little Ray) found the Stag’s overseas player on his own in front of goal. Unfortunately the Wolverine look-a-like could not keep his header down and it whistled just over the bar, much to the relief of Santi between the Porcos’ sticks.

The Sniper was getting a little more joy from his battle with the ever-impressive Fontaiña and his harrying of the Porcos central lynchpin resulted in a loose ball that Thomo controlled and volleyed inches over the bar.

However despite the early second half pressure from the Stags it was the Porcos that took the lead. A hopeful ball over the top (and it’s the Stags that get abuse for the occasional long ball!) found Martin in space behind the Stags defence. As “El Delantero” bore down on goal he appeared to over-run the ball but somehow the man who has made scoring an art in this fixture, squeezed the ball in at Miller’s near post. The Miller, clearly expecting a cross, was left floundering in his area.

The Porcos hero was to quickly turn to villain. A few minutes after the goal, and as the Stags were trying to force a way back into the game, the hero-turned-villain handled the ball a couple of metres outside the area. Controversy surrounded the decision with the offender claiming that it was ball-to-hand rather than hand-to-ball. TV replays confirmed his ill-fated claim but they also confirmed that possession was gained, and the danger cleared, due to the handball. The arguments could run for ever but the one thing the history books will show is that the resultant free-kick was emphatically dispatched by Thomo. A left foot rocket which left Santi, the Porcos ‘keeper, motionless as the ball nestled high into the back of the net.

With the scores back level the impetus was clearly back with the Stags and it wasn’t long before they took the lead. Gallo picked the ball up in the middle of the park and with plenty of time he picked out the Sniper. With space in the Porcos area the fleet-footed striker clinically finished the ball low and hard through the legs of the despairing Santi.

The Porcos trailing for the first time in the game looked for an equaliser and Sergio’s long-range effort caused a few nervous moments for the Miller as he needed two attempts to safely gather the ball with an on-looking Argie waiting to pounce.

Despite this effort it was the Stags that looked the more likely to score again as the advantage of having a few subs, and as the Porcos were carrying more weight this time, began to show. The Stags released Dr Love into the game, sporting a pair of 1980’s jogging bottoms, and once his legs were finally doing what his head wanted them to, he gave the left hand side of the Stags some much needed balance and experience as the game entered it’s final stages.

Firstly the Sniper was excellently denied by Santi as he broke clear and then he saw a dipping volley fall agonisingly onto the back of the net. Irish also tried his luck from distance but his effort was high and not-so-handsome and it sailed over the bar, over the fencing and onto the changing rooms building before bouncing down and shattering the windscreen of Shabba’s car. I guess you could say it was cracking effort after all!

In the dying minutes the Snake, who had been admirable at the back all game for the Stags, succumbed to a moment of madness as he tried to dribble his way out of defence and was caught in possession. Fortunately for the Stags as Martin broke free Gangsta, in his usual no-nonsense defensive way, shepherded the ball, and the man, in to touch just as the striker was about to pull the trigger.

At the other end the Sniper had possibly the easiest chance of the match to double his tally but the “fat” striker woefully pulled his shot wide from a couple of metres out. The ball threatening the corner flag more than it threatened the goal.

The Stags looked comfortable but there was one last nervous moment for them to endure as the Porcos played a long free-kick into the Stags area and Fontaiña, who had lost his marker (I was in two minds whether to name Gallo again), narrowly failed to connect with the ball with the goal at his mercy.

That was the last action of a compelling and hard-fought game and one where the Stags deservedly ran out winners and ultimately regained the Anglo-Galican Cup.

Stag’s Man of the Match: The Snake – commanding non-stop defensive performance, ably supported at the back by Shabba, Gangsta and Gallo. His private battle with the Argie saw one or two crunching tackles, from both parties, and he controlled the game from his position at the back.

Porcos Man of the Match: El Toro.

El Mejor De Todos Los Instrumentos, La Infantería Británica


Cuando despertamos, la Copa no estaba allí.
No va a ser fácil acostumbrarse.
Porque en todas las noches cerveceras que quisimos, la tuvimos en nuestros brazos.
Porque desde Octubre de 2008 hasta Marzo de 2010, no hizo falta verla a diario, ni siquiera visitarla esporádicamente, para saber que nos pertenecía.
Era nuestra, porque nosotros se lo decíamos, y ella no lo negaba.
Hay en cada momento de despedida una imagen de la muerte.
Pero la VI, no es el largo adiós.
Fue, un amargo hasta luego.


La otra crónica, la escrita según el tradicional método galeguidade ao pao, informa:

Sheffield Stags 2- Os Porcos Bravos 1.

Sheffield Stags: Dave Moxon (Gk);Gallo;Shabba;Gansta;
Dave Thompson (1); Snake; Sniper (1) ;John Callanan;
Albert Finney;Josh Dyball; Craig Molinero; Dr Love;Fenners.
Os Porcos Bravos: Santi (Gk);Serge;Fontaiña;Lutzky;Viktor;
Frank;Marcos; Martín (1)
Venue: Gym Plus Ground,Crookes Road.Sheffield.
En perfectas condiciones.
Attendance: Una treintena de privilegiados.Por primera vez,
Os Porcos tuvieron seareiros en Inglaterra gracias a Nandiño y
Pablo King Spider Crab.
Incidencias: Primera mañana primaveral de 2010. Ligeramente
nublado.Temperatura agradable. Os Porcos estrenaron
uniforme negro. Los Stags jugaron de blanquiazul Wednesday.
Snake fue el M.O.T.M por parte inglesa. Su pasional forma de
jugar el partido, se puede odiar o defender, pero no dejó indiferente
a nadie, y fue clave en la victoria de los anfitriones.
Marcos fue el Man of the Match por parte de los gallegos.
Desde la foto inicial hasta el amargo fin de la VI,
dio todo un ejemplo de aptitud y de actitud.


Partido igualado desde el pitido inicial. Bastante más de lo que estaba previsto en un principio.
Los ingleses hicieron valer su condición de locales, y jugaron al límite del reglamento todo el encuentro.Los gallegos tuvieron la posesión del balón, en una trabada primera parte que acabó sin goles. Acababa de comenzar la segunda mitad cuando Martín Fisher, fiel a su cita con el gol, clavó una pelota imposible en el marco Stag. Pero el tanto, no fue suficiente acicate para la escuadra Brave. Los 27 minutos restantes se les hicieron interminables. La negra espalda del tiempo se cebó especialmente en el centro de campo porco bravo. Se vieron los kilos, pero en la aciaga jornada matinal, faltó el talento que se presupone.
Con la perdida de fuelle visitante, llegó la ofensiva sheffielder.En pleno asedio inglés,una discutible mano, cobrada como falta por los sajones,fue lanzada magistralmente por Thommo. Espoleados por el empate, los Stags no tardaron en marcar el segundo tanto, aprovechando un gran tunel en la defensa de Os Porcos. Con el intercambio final de golpes, tanto pudo llegar la igualada, como el tercero de los ingleses. No sucedió ninguna de las dos cosas.
La CUP se queda en Inglaterra, tras año y medio de estancia en Galiza.
El cómputo global refleja cuatro victorias a dos para los Stags de Sheffield.

It Is Simpler To Believe Sheffield Equals Steel.It Is Just A Simple To Believe That Sheffield Lies At The Centre Of England.


Programa Oficial de la VI Edición.

18 de Marzo. - Resaca de San Patricio. Os Porcos Bravos llegan en autobús,coche y tren, a la capital del Reino. El vuelo, rumbo a Londres, despega a las 15 horas. Hora prevista de aterrizaje, a las 16.06 ( hora local). En el aeropuerto de London Stansted, espera el microbús que nos trasladará a King´s Lynn, Norfolk, East Anglia. Un par de horas de asfalto. Nuestro hotel, o particular Casa Rosada en este, otrora importantísimo puerto, es el Elizabeth Dukes Head Hotel, sito en Tuesday Market Place.
La ciudad de King´s Lynn, a orillas del río Ouse, fue conocida en la época medieval como Bishop's Lynn. Conserva en su aceptable casco histórico, un importante número de construcciones de aquellos tiempos felices, cuando formaba parte de la Liga Hanseática y desde sus muelles, se exportaba lana a toda la Europa continental.

19 de Marzo.- English breakfast. Paseo matinal apto para los más valientes.
Salida prevista, a las 9.20 horas, dirección Sheffield.
Sobre las 12. 30, saludaremos una vez más al familiar The Psalter Tavern, nuestro castillo en la ciudad del acero. Debemos efectuar el "check in" a uña de caballo.
On the road again, hasta alcanzar la Thornbridge Brewery, Derbyshire, acompañados por una nutrida delegación Stag. En dicha cervecería, nos recibirán los dueños. Pompa y circunstancia.
Una muesca más, que se añade a nuestras anteriores visitas a las fábricas de Theakston, Black Sheep Brewery ,The Kelham Island Brewery o The Burton Bridge Brewery.
A eso de las 15:30, tenemos reservada una copiosa comida en el cercano The Castle Inn ( A 300-year-old coaching house) en Bakewell, Derbyshire, en pleno parque nacional del Peak District. Bakewel es un precioso y típico pueblo inglés, mundialmente famoso por su pudding.
Volvemos a Sheffield, al filo de las 19.30. Salvaje run amok de pubs, por el centro de la ciudad: The Devonshire Cat, Bath Hotel, The Red Deer, Frog and Parrot, entre otros.
Luego, que cada palo aguante su vela.

20 de Marzo.- El rock and roll comienza temprano.
A eso de las 11:00, descendemos hasta The Sheffield Tap, un nuevo pub de real ale, que se encuentra en la Sheffield Station. A las 12:30, caminito al New Barracks Tavern, donde estos días, se celebra un festival de Real Ale. Nos preparamos a conciencia para el partido de las 15 horas, entre el Sheffield Wednesday y el Derby County ( Ligas de 1972 y 1975, F.A. Cup de 1946 y la Charity Shield de 1975). Dos históricos dandose de hostias. No olviden nunca, que el Wednesday nos ha regalado las entradas. Muchas gracias a los Owls. Por otra parte, los veteranos de la II, volveremos a encontrarnos en un campo de football inglés, con Nigel Clough. El mundo es un pañuelo.
Finalizado el partido, regresamos al hotel, tomamos un poco de aire y bajamos caminando hasta el Porter Brook, donde nos esperan los sheffielders Blades. Cenamos curry en el Ambars, y luego; luego la noche es tan joven...

21 de Marzo.- El PARTIDO. 11 de la mañana.El Battlefield, es el mismo que en la III y la V Edición: El magnífico Gym Plus Ground, Crookes Road, Sheffield. Ellos apelan a la juventud de Yorkshire. Nosotros confiamos, un año más,en nuestros kilos de talento.

21 de Marzo.- Ya debe ser primavera. Tercer tiempo en el Milestone Pub. Cuando se acabe, acudiremos al Fat Cat,donde nació todo.
Empieza aquí, el tercer pub crawl del viaje. Los veteranos de las anteriores campañas se lo conocen de memoria.Es el,ya clásico, Martha´s Trail. Obviamente,no puede faltar una visita a The Kelham Island, nuestro entrañable Calamar, nombrado por segundo año consecutivo,como mejor pub de las Islas Británicas. Sálvese quien pueda, y espero que los higados de todos Os Porcos estén a la altura del reto planteado.

22 de Marzo.- A las 10.30, nos despedimos de Sheffield. Proa hacia London Stansted. Tras 150 minutos de carretera, una larga parada técnica en The Queen´s Head; Newton, Cambridgeshire. Los motivos,que nos sobran, se encuentran en The Pub Sign Says: You Are Still In England.
Reservamos el shopping habitual para la tiendas del aeropuerto.Más piontas, y un sincero hasta luego a la Vieja Inglaterra.
El itinerario del vuelo: Salida a las 18.00, llegada a Oporto a las 20.50, (Ambas horas son locales).En la ciudad lusa, aguarda el microbús que nos sube hasta el hogar,dulce hogar.

Galiza nos llama. Somos los defensores de la fe.
E coma sempre, o de sempre, Galicia Über Alles !

IT'S COMING HOME!!!!!


Shabba honours the blog with the below entry;

As the famous song goes, "It's coming home! It's coming home! It's coming, the Anglo-Galician Cup is coming home".

As the Galicians hit the shores of Old Blighty again next week it's with open hearts that we once again spend some quality drinking time with our amigos.

The local real ale pubs will be stocking up again as we try our best to drink every barrel they provide, but this year there will be one big difference to last year...

Not the fact that Fran has reached the age of 40, no my friends get ready to go home empty-handed with a tear in each eye, as the Anglo-Galician Cup will be staying well and truly in it's home town of Sheffield this year, as the mighty Stags will once again rise from the ashes and be victorious.

Sunday 7th August 1588 the Spanish tried to invade our shores all those years ago, on Sunday 21st March 2010 they will again try to defeat us, but yet again this will come to no avail as we batton down the hatches and send them packing.

We may not have Sir Francis Drake or Lord Sheffield this time, but with Thomo, Gallo, Finney and Shabba we will show them the true English fighting spirit.

It's coming home! It's coming home! It's coming, the Anglo-Galician Cup is coming home!

Psichological warfare II: training day at the Stags HDQ?

While our boys are working their ass off in the killing fields, we suspect that the Stags have their own way to get ready to face the coming Porcos Bravos storm(see video).
Is this the Thin Red Line that held up the Empire?

Psychological warfare I: A single training day in Porcos Bravos´life



Os Cochos da Galizia marchan en breve cara onde agroman a bosta e as Cruces de Ferro. Os sheffilianos ameazan con sacar a xuventude. Mais nós temos outeiros de area e gatos grosos. Como dixera aquel gordo con cara de gato entre habano e habano: Loitaremos nas praias, loitaremos nas pistas de aterraxe, loitaremos nos campos e nas rúas, loitaremos nos outeiros...

Stout Marches,- Strong Heart ¡




Uno se evade siempre para regresar.
Cuando lleguen los brumosos días fronterizos, entre el fin del invierno y la consagración de la primavera, y empiece a florecer la nada en los páramos de Yorkshire, Os Porcos Bravos volverán a Inglaterra.
En las tierras de nuestro segundo reino, pelearemos para defender la corona, lucharemos por retener el trono de la Anglogalician Cup. No será fácil.
Por lo tanto,no os aconsejo el trabajo,sino la lucha.No os aconsejo la paz,sino la victoria.¡Sea vuestro trabajo una lucha, sea vuestra paz una victoria!
Por lo tanto,seguid los sabios consejos del maestro Coffee.¡ Abandonad todos los vicios, que os lastran en cuerpo y alma!
Por lo tanto.¡ Afilad vuestros anhelos!
Porque viene la Sexta, y el nombre de su jinete es Porco Bravo ,y un océano de cerveza les sigue.

Figure A Man's Only Good For One Oath At A Time; I Took Mine To Os Porcos Bravos.


Escena invernal hiperbórea.

La mañana llegó,y traía un nuevo día.
El Lérez fluía pardo,cansino, huraño, indócil.
El cielo exhibió, rutinario, toda su gama de grises. Distinguí el confederado y el acero. Luego lo dejé.
Las horas en el trabajo se apilaron una encima de otra, lentas como un tortuga muerta.

Al caer la noche, busqué refugio en mi taberna favorita .
Una voz me recibió llorando como si cantase, que hubo un día en el cual Texas se hundió en el mar.
Sentado en un decadente Boot Room, pedí la primera pinta. Óxido, herrumbre.
Porcos Bravos apostados a ambos lados de la barra. Tertulianos rápidos como ráfagas de ametralladora. E igual de certeros.
Mientras apuraba la tercera, el tema estrella era la influencia de Kierkegaard sobre el Heart of Midlothian F.C. entrelazado con las posibilidades de que Heidegger ganase esta temporada la Scottish League Cup.
Empezaba la quinta cuando me enteré, supe, conocí, que nos volvíamos a Sheffield en Marzo de 2010. A jugar al fútbol. A jugar al fútbol, uniformados de negro carbón bajo las nubes de la Pérfida Albión " - Poesía eres tú, pensé-". Esbocé una sonrisa.
En el momento en que la sexta se reducía a un par de gotas moribundas, y la conversacion versaba,esteril, sobre el arte en la dinastía zhou oriental, algunos diletantes optaron por volver sobre el asunto de los Braves."-Que aburrido, aullé-". Preguntaron cuando íbamos a ponernos a entrenar en serio para la VI Anglo-Galicia Cup.
Esta vez sí que sonreí abiertamente.

Y pedí dos más.

Anglo-Galicia Cup – The Origins


Just a little over eight years ago a friendship began that was to going to lead to the creation of the Anglo-Galicia Cup.

September 2001 was remembered, and still is, by most as being the fateful time when many died in the 9/11 attacks. On that day I was swimming in one of Galicia’s amazing rivers and enjoying the late-summer sun near the town of Ponte Caldelas. However what most history books will forget is that a few days earlier a more momentous occasion happened…

My father, later to be known to the unfortunate locals of Pontevedra as DJ Dennis, moved to Pontevedra in Spring 2001. His first description of Pontevedra was that, “…it smells like cabbage and is full of hippies.” Hmmm, hardly the most inspiring image.

Trying to dispel my fears and encourage me to visit him in the vile smelling town of flower people Dennis “sold” me three things about why Pontevedra was a good place to visit;
1) The town has an amazing medieval centre where there are so many bars. Two of his favourites being O Grifon and The Highlander.
2) The area of Galicia is unspoilt by tourists, in particular the English and the Germans (neither are particular welcome when trying to enjoy a holiday).
3) There is a man, called Fran, who loves a lot of things English, in particular real ale and Liverpool FC, and who regularly argues in the streets with another man who supports Manchester United.

The images of 1 and 2 were good. Of number 3 I pictured an aging, grumpy man who was showing the signs of alcohol abuse. Maybe this was a vision of Fran in 2009!

Once I’d finally plucked up the courage, and stocked up with LSD, I ventured to Galicia for the first time via flights to Paris and Porto. My first night in Pontevedra was a relaxing evening eating tapas and drinking wine in La Alqueria Mudejar. My second night in Pontevedra was less serene, the first meeting between Thompson and Mendez Brea.

I stood in O Grifon for the first time and, armed with shoebox full of bottles of real ales, I awaited the entrance of the quickly becoming infamous Fran. Every time a person entered O Grifon I peered over towards the door to see if the man I expected to look like a Galician Columbo had arrived. Still no sign of the wizened US detective look-a-like but then out-of-the-blue a younger (slightly younger!) man said hello to Dennis and then proceeded to introduce himself to me. Alas Fran was not "Pedro" Falk but in fact a Galician version of Hugh Grant. Obviously a far less handsome and far less charismatic version.

Handing over the real ales (some of Yorkshire’s finest) I was shocked and surprised to hear Fran announce that he’d already tried and tasted each and every bottle that I’d brought from Old Blighty. Knowing him as I do now the only shock would have been if he had said that he’d not heard of the ales!!!

Several pints later and a friendship was born. Over the next few years I continued to visit Pontevedra and enjoyed many many, generally alcohol-fuelled, meetings with Fran, his family and friends (all of which I now consider my friends apart from the Argie, Lutsky ha, ha, ha, ha). Whether I was staying at Fran’s home in Bon or meeting him in London or Liverpool during one of his Old Blighty pub crawls, the beer and nonsensical discussions were never far away.

In September 2005, and despite Fran’s best advice, I proposed to my now wife Lizzi, whilst at the Grand Canyon. This gesture not only led me to being off the market to the rest of the world’s women but it also led to the planning of the first game of the Anglo-Galicia Cup.

As is traditional a stag party would be in order and our plan was to hold it in Pontevedra and include the inaugural Anglo-Galicia Cup match. Many questions were pondered…Had Pontevedra ever accommodated such a party? Could Pontevedra hold and recover from such a party?? Would the game harness Anglo-Galician relations or would there be blood spilt on the pitch and/or in the bars afterwards??? And most importantly, who would come out on top of the first meeting between these newly spawned rivals?????????

Regardless of the above, 17 Englishmen (The Sheffield Stags) invaded an unsuspecting Pontevedra in April 2007. On Sunday April 29th, and after the Stags were “entertained” by the Porcos Bravos to a large and very heavy meal (including numerous bottles of local wine (the type that turns a table cloth blue!) and local firewater), the first whistle of the Anglo-Galicia Cup sounded (or was that the ringing left in my ears after the Aguardiente?)…

…the rest is fast becoming an integral part of footballing history.

Birra´s Klav: unha homenaxe (II)




Detalles fundacionais
Unha formación típica dos primeiros birras estaba composta por cinco parellas de irmáns (os M., os V., os S., os G. e os C.) máis un misil teledirixido ao que lle asignaremos un H. por seguir co tema das iniciais. Unha auténtica bomba H, todo hai que dicilo. O detalle desta irmandade de irmáns (e de primos) non é menor. O feito de zouparse entre eles (cada irmán co seu) durante anos, -en especial no campo de fútbol- daba lugar, sobre o terreo de xogo, a un nexo estraño, ese que se establece como consecuencia de coñecerse demasiado ben e demasiado mal simultaneamente. Era o equipo de Caín e Abel multiplicado por cinco. Só que todos eramos Caíns e Abeles simultaneamente.

Unha consideración sobre un nome
Alguén falou aquí, nos comentarios da entrada anterior de "Cans e Birrias". Podo asumir que eu era a birria do equipo. Nalgún comentario máis, lembráronme a miña tendencia a deixar a miña banda lixeiramente descuberta (eehm). Se eu era o birria, os demáis serían os cans, e, podo garantilo, eses cans mordían. E de qué forma. Mordían na presión aos contrarios. Mordían nas combinacións diante da área rival. Mordían nos centros dende as bandas e nos pases en profundidade. Realmente o de "Cans e birria", se un o pensa é un afortunado acerto semántico.

Fútbol é fútbol
Como todo gran equipo, o birra´s tiña a súa némese: unha lexión de mozos altos e espigados patrocinados por unha panadería de Cangas cuxo nome non son capaz de lembrar. Como unha especie de sombra, aquel equipo remataba cruzándose co Birra´s en mundialitos e torneos 24 horas da época con regularidade. Representaban o cristiano-ronaldismo na era anterior a que a espuma do cabelo se puxera de moda entre os futbolistas. Eran o equipo mellor peinado do Morrazo. Vestían equipamentos impolutos combinando afortunados cores marelo-ovo con sutiles verdes-semáforo. Saían ao campo e un pensaba "hostia, 300, pero aínda Miller non fixo o comic". E todo aquel monte de saber estar, de presencia estética e imaxe construída con paciencia víñase abaixo (ás veces) ante a presenza da tribu de Adán, chegada de máis aló da terra de Nod. Na miña memoria, os enfrontamentos remataban sempre de mala maneira. Tanganas, agarradas, entradas rozando o ingreso na unidade de traumatoloxía do hospital máis cercano, e a bomba H, ríndose de todos eles na súa cara, correndo polo campo celebrando algún gol imposible que lle daba a victoria (non sempre) ao Birra´s. Era divertido xogar contra eles.

Unha historia de baños
Os partidos remataban de madrugada habitualmente. Este é un recordo que teño gravado. Tamén sospeito que eu ía só a altas horas da mañana a xogar porque sempre estaba sobrio. Iso facía de min un inútil necesario, en especial cando chegaban as primeiras rotacións e parte do banquillo estaba tratando de non quedar durmido no campo. Pero ao que ía. Os partidos remataban de madrugada habitualmente. Lembro varios baños na praia de Pinténs. Alí a auga sempre estaba boa (maldizione, isto parece xa un folleto turístico patrocinado por Turismo Rías Baixas), e segue a estalo hoxe en día. Sempre había lúa chea. E non sempre celebrábanse victorias. De feito, en ocasións non sei nin o que se celebraba, pero daba un pouco igual. O ritual dos partidos non estaba completo sen o baño posterior na praia. E iso era un tradición que traiamos da casa. Sempre me considerei un privilexiado por poder disfrutar de tal cousa con naturalidade, como se fora o máis corrente do mundo. Hoxe sei que non o é.



Conclusión
Alguén dixo nun comentario anterior, "non tes datos, nin memoria". Lamentablemente é certo, pero malia non ter ningunha das dúas cousas, sei que precisaba facer esta homenaxe. Que non sería completa se non dixera, a Fran, a Santi, a Charlie, a Marcos, a Alber, a Pablo, a Jose, a Paco, a Javi, e á bomba H. Grazas por todos os bós ratos co Birra´s e por todos os veráns de case dúas décadas. E unha última cousa. Dende fora, vese nos porcos ese espíritu de irmandade de irmáns, de festa permanente, de perseguir o mar e a lúa chea nas crónicas deste blog das andainas polos campos de Sheffield e polos pubs de Inglaterra. Adiante porcos!