Campeonato

This year, my bride, you'll see how I've changed.
I swear, I won't miss a Sunday at your side.
We'll go wherever you want, to breathe fresh air,
To stroll around the square or to your aunt Raquel's.
You won't see me, like then, on my way back, weary,
With my clothes in tatters, hoarse from shouting,
Not feeling like anything, in a rage, sulky,
And you biting in silence, your desire to go dancing.
 
What do I care about Pontoni's or Pedernera's goals,
The gambetas of Moreno, the runs of Boyé,
To see Negri or the great Tucho, or Grisetti "The panther",
With elegance and courage, even a penalty to stop.
That Romay is a pilot with the brain of a strategist,
And that in the courts we have judges with English surnames,
I swear, my girlfriend, I don't care about any of that!
What do I care about the championship? First there's my Nené!
 
And that Saturday, when he left, the sweet kiss was sweeter,
He even forgot his friend who was waiting in the cafe,
He turned on the light in his room, which illuminated two little squares,
One, his favorite eleven, the other his Nene's.
And as he stared at them, it seemed to him that they were talking to him.
"Tomorrow's match is a tough one; we're playing with El Ciclón".
While she said to him: "I know well that you have to go to the field
you have to go the same way as always, to shout from the board".