Ask the Spanish about Joaquín and they’ll remember the jokes, the dances, the stories. But there’s more to him than that
You must be Joaquín, they said, and he was: unique, no one quite like him, a cheeky scamp with a glint in his eye, a grin on his face, an endless supply of gags, the uncontainable urge to tell them and, armed with a gaditano accent, the delivery to do them justice. Ask anyone in Spain for their favourite Joaquín moments and their face will light up much like his and they won’t want for one. Or two, or three, or four.
Maybe they’ll say the day he was presented at Málaga and decided that keepy-ups were fine but stand-up was better, taking the mic and, in front of thousands of fans, telling a joke instead; the time, asked what the best thing about rooming with Álvaro Cejudo was, he replied that waking up to a cup of coffee and a good morning kiss; or the night he hypnotised a hen, live on TV.
These days, pretty much the only time an interview with him doesn’t end with the presenter saying “tell us a joke, then” is when it starts like that. And somehow, he never lets them down. Eduardo Iturralde González, a Spanish referee, recalls one match during which Joaquín, not impressed with his decisions, sidled up to him and asked: “I heard you got married.” “Erm, yes,” Iturralde replied. To which Joaquín grinned: “You’re making a mistake.” Most, though, will mention that interview when, asked his hobby, Joaquín said tennis, the camera spinning round to see Julio Baptista doubled over. “‘Tennis,’ he says! He’s never played tennis in his life,” Baptista blurts out. “I don’t even know to pick up a racket, Húlio,” Joaquín replies, rumbled and rolling about.
Yep, ask the Spanish about Joaquín and they’ll remember the jokes, the dances, the singing, the one-liners, the stories, the times he fell about laughing and they couldn’t help falling about with him. Look up “Joaquín’s best moments” on YouTube, and there will be giggling not goals. Which is great, but it’s also not entirely fair. “I haven’t been playing at the top for over 16 years because I’m funny,” says the 36-year-old. No, he’s been there for 16 years because he’s brilliant, too often lost amid the laughter.
When Joaquín was little, he used to climb out the window and sneak down to the local bullring in El Puerto de Santa María, where he took on tiny toros.. One of nine kids, he attributed his strength to being breastfed until the age of six, and it wasn’t just that he said so, it was that he recalled football matches in the plaza where while the other kids would head to the water fountain for a drink, he would head straight for his mum. He stood out young, all tricks, skills, speed and daring, a winger always willing to take people on. Spain’s best player at the 2002 World Cup, a revelation whose tournament ended cruelly, the kid who missed the vital penalty, the image of him staring blankly out of a window more painful because it was so undeserved; the leading light in a young, dynamic, exciting side that came up from segunda, he turned down José Mourinho aged 20. “That takes balls,” he said later, but he liked being at Betis and, besides, there were bigger things to come. Or so everyone thought.
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You must be Joaquín, they said, and he was: unique, no one quite like him, a cheeky scamp with a glint in his eye, a grin on his face, an endless supply of gags, the uncontainable urge to tell them and, armed with a gaditano accent, the delivery to do them justice. Ask anyone in Spain for their favourite Joaquín moments and their face will light up much like his and they won’t want for one. Or two, or three, or four.
Maybe they’ll say the day he was presented at Málaga and decided that keepy-ups were fine but stand-up was better, taking the mic and, in front of thousands of fans, telling a joke instead; the time, asked what the best thing about rooming with Álvaro Cejudo was, he replied that waking up to a cup of coffee and a good morning kiss; or the night he hypnotised a hen, live on TV.
These days, pretty much the only time an interview with him doesn’t end with the presenter saying “tell us a joke, then” is when it starts like that. And somehow, he never lets them down. Eduardo Iturralde González, a Spanish referee, recalls one match during which Joaquín, not impressed with his decisions, sidled up to him and asked: “I heard you got married.” “Erm, yes,” Iturralde replied. To which Joaquín grinned: “You’re making a mistake.” Most, though, will mention that interview when, asked his hobby, Joaquín said tennis, the camera spinning round to see Julio Baptista doubled over. “‘Tennis,’ he says! He’s never played tennis in his life,” Baptista blurts out. “I don’t even know to pick up a racket, Húlio,” Joaquín replies, rumbled and rolling about.
Yep, ask the Spanish about Joaquín and they’ll remember the jokes, the dances, the singing, the one-liners, the stories, the times he fell about laughing and they couldn’t help falling about with him. Look up “Joaquín’s best moments” on YouTube, and there will be giggling not goals. Which is great, but it’s also not entirely fair. “I haven’t been playing at the top for over 16 years because I’m funny,” says the 36-year-old. No, he’s been there for 16 years because he’s brilliant, too often lost amid the laughter.
When Joaquín was little, he used to climb out the window and sneak down to the local bullring in El Puerto de Santa María, where he took on tiny toros.. One of nine kids, he attributed his strength to being breastfed until the age of six, and it wasn’t just that he said so, it was that he recalled football matches in the plaza where while the other kids would head to the water fountain for a drink, he would head straight for his mum. He stood out young, all tricks, skills, speed and daring, a winger always willing to take people on. Spain’s best player at the 2002 World Cup, a revelation whose tournament ended cruelly, the kid who missed the vital penalty, the image of him staring blankly out of a window more painful because it was so undeserved; the leading light in a young, dynamic, exciting side that came up from segunda, he turned down José Mourinho aged 20. “That takes balls,” he said later, but he liked being at Betis and, besides, there were bigger things to come. Or so everyone thought.
https://www.theguardian.com/football...P=share_btn_tw
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