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“12 hours after the game that, the commentators claimed, ended the great Era of FC Barcelona. Other’s claim that this will be the last Pep will see of Barcelona. Near this time last year Pep’s words were, "I will stay one more year and then we will see. If i then lose my passion i'll go home, rest and try to find it again." - Senor Pep Guardiola. In other words, he will not leave for another team. Today I read the most touching article, as a FC Barcelona fan it important for the aiding of the rehabilitation of my heart after the game which slipped through our fingers. Pep’s words today were, "Now, we will have to recover and think about the next season.” His use of the plural pronoun “we” proves that he represents himself together with the team of Barcelona. In short it means he will be staying for the season to come. If this is not the news we may gift a sigh of relief to, what will be? Our coach which art in Barcelona, Guardiola be thy name. Thy era come, thy wil

Football is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it. But destiny was fortunate upon the Spanish; immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Power was given to the footballers; great and mighty warriors. And eleven, eleven positions were gifted to FC Barcelona who, above all else, desired true football.  Concerning the football club of Barcelona: Barcelona have been great footballers in the four farthings of the Catalan region for the many years of Guardiola’s reign. Earlier, they were known to be quite content to ignore and be ignored by the world of the Busy Folk – Madrid being, after all, full of strange creatures beyond count. Barcelona seemed of little importance to the heavily populated capital, previously being neither renowned as great warriors, nor counted among the very tall. In fact, it has been remarked by some that a Catalan’s only real passion is for football. A rathe

I catch sight of an object peeping out from a cardboard box in the far corner of my bedroom. It is a tattered white ball. I gently lift it up with the tips of my fingers. It holds the memory of a dream. A dream that fought the world to become a reality.     Our house was not the most fashionable of places, not even in comparison to the rest of the underdeveloped Rosario area. The creamy wallpaper was peeling, the roof of our kitchen leaked and there was nothing that could counter the mould in our bathroom.  At the age of seven I couldn’t quite comprehend what the doctors meant when they told my parents that my brother was in possession of a growth hormone deficiency. I didn’t understand the restless fear that seemed to haunt their faces. I did not understand that this meant that Leo, who lived and breathed for football, could no longer dream. But, I did understand with absolute clarity that my heart was becoming overwhelmed by the sadness surrounding me. So, I decided to do t