Parallel lives
Growing up in Madrid during Franco’s reign, witnessing a new Spain, and finding Atlético Madrid fame – this is the story of Michael McCleary.
The first time I met Michael McCleary I presumed he was Spanish. Why wouldn’t I? We were, after all, in Madrid, sitting together on a pleasant October evening in the famous Vicente Calderon football stadium. He spoke just like any other Spaniard I had encountered and there was nothing about his physical appearance or dress sense that raised any suspicion. And like many Spaniards he too initially mistook my country of origin for Holland — that still happens. I think it’s me.
We made small talk during the game and complained about the referee. It is only after, when we swap contact details, that I realised that this man might have a story to tell.
And what a story it is.
Today I am sharing it with you.
I arrive early and order a glass of wine.
The barrel-shaped waiter suggests the Casa del Abuelo house red — “Está MUY bueno,” he promises. I trust his advice, sufficiently impressed by the emphasis on “very,” and compliment his recommendation, his goofy grin an unsubtle I told you so. The light catches the various contours of his shiny crown as he places a dark ceramic bowl of dark green olives before me.
