Copa Del Rey Final: Barcelona 3 - Real Madrid 2 - In Cold Blood!

When playing against Real Madrid, it is not enough to just win. Playing this institution means understanding that you are playing a fiend that needs execution, a demon that needs to be exorcised, a diseased animal to be culled.

Real Madrid is not a sporting institution. It is a conduit for evil spirits from the ninth circle of hell.

Barcelona understands this more than any other club in football. They are the priests to this demon in white.

These putrid crybabies spent a better part of Friday running agendas against referees. It is the history of Real Madrid – smell defeat, and suddenly they want to choose their own referees. What a despicable, stinking rectum of a club!

And to say that it worked would be an understatement. The referee was tentative. In any other call, Barcelona get at least a penalty. Real Madrid’s Tchouameni, a man as famous for football as he is for breaking limbs (yes, more than one), should have gotten a red card. He played well, Tchouameni, but he was a man with a chip of his shoulder. Rudiger was out for blood; he is a man I hate with such strong passion it is giving me stomach ulcers.

Neither call happened.

But Barcelona always has the antidote for these spawns of Satan.

This was as cold-blooded as Barca could get.

They weren't at their best, Barcelona, but you can always count on their endless fountain of youth to bring up talents who are executioners of these blanco criminals.

The Fountain of Youth

Cubarsi prevented what could have been a certain goal, or at least a chance, with a great interception. Pedri pounced on the loose ball. Before Jude or Rodrygo could press him, the Canary Islands football poet had spun and hit a neat ball over the top for Lamine Yamal to chase.

Chase he did, Yamal, now spotting blond hair and looking like he belonged to the MSN era. He did bring out that MSN spirit too, clearing his man, Fran Garcia, then stopping time and waiting. He could have ordered a burger and soda at that moment.

Pedri was on his bike, rushing to offer support, and once he got off the bike and kicked up his stand, Lamine had prepared him his meal on the table; lightly sautéed, served delicately. Pedri couldn’t not do justice to that ball. All Pedri had to do was stuff himself with the scrumptious meal he had been served.

And he did, striking a sweet shot that sailed over the heads of the Madrid and Barcelona players watching. It was a sweet strike, the ball creating its own path, illuminated by a neat square of light on its way beyond Courtois' outstretched arms and into the top corner. It was a moment that, to be fair, Courtois wouldn’t even have gotten to it, and he is around 6.6. Such was the brilliance with which Pedri tucked away that ball.

Tepid Second Half – But Kounde Delivers

But Barcelona did not play well in the second half. To let Mbappe score his first direct free kick against you is perhaps one thing that besmirches this Copa Del Rey victory. Tchouameni scoring a second whittled any shoots of hope I had of a Barca comeback.

I turned off my stream for a few minutes after that to run after my heart, which had beaten itself out of my chest and was running down the stairs.

But Flick’s Barcelona is made of sterner stuff. They have that halo that repels the strong, pungent forces that Real Madrid carry in their stained white shirts. Those shirts look white, but believe me, they are stained, murky, and muddy.

Kounde, expectant for the entire ninety minutes, delivered the win with five minutes of extra time to go after a wobbly second half from Barca, ensuring that Barcelona would not fall to this terrible thing of evil.

If I sound angry, it's because I am. There is just something about Barca playing Real Madrid brings out the worst in me. And you know what – I couldn’t have it any other way.

Barcelona celebrating a massive W atop Real Madrid tears is what this sport is about.

Onto the next!

Visca Barca!