There’s something inexplicable about this Valencia CF. A mix of psychological drama, competitive bipolarity, and a supernatural ability to frustrate the fans. No matter how you look at it, it’s incomprehensible—and that’s exactly what happened this weekend. Another chapter for a team, a club, and a squad that is a genuine madhouse.
Because, of course, you go to San Mamés, one of the most demanding stadiums in Europe, against an Athletic Club that presses like every ball is the last slice of pizza at a Forma Sport dinner… and you end up winning 0-1. Serious. Intense. Focused. Supportive. Running. Competing. Defending as if their lives depended on it. Missing a penalty but not falling apart. A real team, you might say.
Then comes the inevitable question: Where was this a week ago?
The problem is no longer just losing. The problem is that this team has shown too many times that they play when they want. When they feel like it. When the spotlight is pointed directly at their faces and the threat of embarrassment becomes too strong. Then, and only then, do the legs show up, the character, the high press, and even players who seemed retired early. And a coach who even gets his substitutions right—as long as he’s the one making them, not the team. But let’s leave self-management for another day.
What concerns us today is a pattern more repeated than betting ads during a halftime break. A shameful defeat. Monumental anger. Toxic atmosphere. Criticism. And then, immediately after, an unexpected victory against a strong opponent—or at least an unexpected one. As if the players flip an emotional switch that only works under public threat.
“Oh, people are angry.” Well, okay, today we’ll run. This has happened too many times, and while I don’t like to generalize, no, I don’t think it’s a coincidence.
And that’s precisely what angers Valencia fans the most. Not the occasional loss. Not even the squad limitations. What really grinds their gears is realizing that many times it wasn’t about ability—it was about will. That they could compete. They could bite. They could bring intensity. But only when they decide to take the professional footballer suit out of the closet.
Valencia CF has become that student who fails eight subjects by saying “the exam was hard” and then scores an A the day they’re threatened with losing their video game console. Of course you could. That’s the problem. And we all agree that the main responsibility lies with Lim, the local management, Ron Gourlay, Corberán, and company… but that’s no excuse for not competing either in the first or second half of the season against teams like Oviedo, or for losing disastrously a week ago to Atlético Madrileño pre-Champions.
What happened at San Mamés, in fact, was almost a provocation. Because the team showed exactly everything they are asked for every week: order, concentration, solidarity, and hunger. Competitive hunger. The kind that mysteriously disappears against inferior opponents or in matches where simply stepping onto the pitch seems like enough physical effort. Mind you, they still don’t play well, but at least they looked like a football team. Especially with Dimitrievski, who deserves more authority next season.
Meanwhile, the fans are trapped in a textbook toxic relationship. Because that’s how the Valencia supporter is: they get a football slap one Sunday, and the next Friday they’re already excited again, thinking “this time it’s different.” And the team, expert emotional manipulator, occasionally gifts a night like the one in Bilbao to keep hope alive—just enough so no one completely disconnects.
The great problem of this Valencia is not just football. It’s moral. Because when a team shows it can compete like that and doesn’t do it consistently, it stops being a victim of its limitations and becomes a hostage of its own apathy. It stops being…
