When I played calcio as a practice scrub for a third-division prima squadra, one of my friends on the team was a hot-blooded Spaniard. He was a really good guy with a cute girlfriend and a great little dog named Psycho (seeko). He hooked me up with some software I needed, and I left my old Playstation with him, although I doubt he got much use out of Maddens. He collected more yellow and red cards than the rest of the team combined, but I never once saw his temper flare off the field, not even when I called him rather early in the European morning to announce that the USA was leading Portugal 2-0 in the World Cup.
It made me laugh, though, when I asked him one day which team he supported in La Liga. He looked at me as if in disbelief and said: “Madrid… alla morte!” I sure hope he wasn’t on one of those trains.