By Franklin | SoFlo Sports Buzz
PSG: 4
Inter Miami: Please stop asking.
Okay but seriously…
HOW DO YOU GO DOWN 4–0 BY HALFTIME?!
HALFTIME.
My TV tried to turn itself off like, “you sure you want to keep watching this?”
The game started, and SIX MINUTES IN, João Neves decided to headbutt our soul into the dirt.
Goal. Boom. 1–0.
Okay, early punch. Shake it off.
BUT NO.
THE PINK BOYS FOLDED LIKE A CHEAP LAWN CHAIR AT A KENDALL COOKOUT.
Then Neves again.
Bro didn’t even celebrate. He just looked at us like we were an appetizer.
Somebody needs to check if this man is even real.
IS JOÃO NEVES A GOVERNMENT PROJECT?!
And then…
THE AVILÉS OWN GOAL.
MY SPIRIT LEFT MY BODY.
I stared at the wall for three full minutes, and when I blinked again it was 3–0.
BRO BOOTED IT INTO OUR NET LIKE HE WAS GETTING PAID IN EUROS.
At that point I opened a Gatorade and poured it directly into my eyes.
It did not help.
Then Hakimi made it 4.
Before halftime.
BEFORE.
HALFTIME.
I looked out the window and a pigeon was just sitting there. Staring at me. Judging me.
And honestly? He was right to.
Messi tried.
He had a header. A free kick. A dramatic pause like he was waiting for the PSG theme song to stop playing in his head.
But he looked around and saw 10 teammates having an existential crisis in high-def.
NOT EVEN THE GOAT CAN HERD A BUNCH OF FLAMINGOS IN SLOW MOTION.
Busquets looked like he was buffering.
Jordi Alba looked like he was checking flight prices mid-game.
And PSG?
THEY WEREN’T EVEN SWEATING.
66% possession for PSG.
THAT’S NOT POSSESSION. THAT’S A HOSTILE TAKEOVER.
We were just renting the field at that point.
Three shots on target.
Three.
WE HAD AS MANY CHANCES AS I HAVE PATIENCE WHEN THE DRIVE-THRU GIVES ME THE WRONG SAUCE.
Second half?
Just sad jazz.
Felt like the funeral of our midfield.
No energy. No press. Just vibes. Sad, broken, Florida humidity vibes.
I tried to distract myself. I reorganized my spices. I built a playlist called “Copa del Nope.”
Nothing helped.
BUT HERE’S THE THING.
We made it.
We beat Porto.
We were in the Club World Cup.
We wore the pink. We showed the world what South Florida sounds like.
Then we got hit with a baguette full of goals and sent home in a carry-on.
But I’m still here.
Still yelling.
Still believing.
BECAUSE IF YOU ONLY RIDE WITH THIS TEAM WHEN WE WIN, THEN YOU’RE NOT BUILT FOR MIAMI SPORTS.
Next up: Montreal.
New match. New mood.
Let’s bounce back, fix the defense, and get Avilés some therapy and a prayer candle.
Mascherano, my guy, we believe in you.
Just maybe… stop letting teams walk straight into our penalty box like it’s a TJ Maxx.
Still pink. Still proud.
Slightly unwell.
Franklin out.
Yelling into a conch shell. Crying into a pastelito. Still #VamosMiami.