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I remember Lorenzo Segut. But I remember him for his famous phrase and nothing else: “He who bets on the dollar loses.” Admirably wrong prediction, but at the same time he admits that in this supposedly scientific field an element of chance (betting: win, lose; as in front of the roulette wheel. Was there really talk at the time of “financial tempa?”) From the rest of the Segaut, I don’t remember.

I remember Dagnino Pastore, but only because I kept hearing by the name, as it may happen to others, an effect from the homophony made it sound “harmful”. I remember Jorge Wehbe only because of the cover of Humor magazine, that is, because of a caricature of him rather than because of him, without being more precise about what he did or what his name George was.

I remember Juan Carlos Pulissi, but not his tenure, except for a well-known phrase: “I spoke to their hearts and they answered with their pockets” (what if, due to the phenomenon of cardiac displacement, they no longer had a heart, a heartbeat and more feeling than a pocket or pockets?). I remember Jesus Rodriguez, but I don’t remember his time in the ministry. The same thing happens to me with Erman Gonzalez.

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I remember Miguel Roig and Rabanelli, but only in connection with forgetting: to sense, already at that time, a fate that is not remembered (remembering the son of Rabanelli is not the same as remembering). Mostly I don’t remember Nicholas Gallo’s day or two. From Miguel Pierano Yes, but because we were schoolmates (I’m ten, he’s seventh. From the time we beat them 1 to 0 on the sports field, the newspaper already mentioned Clarion). I don’t remember Carlos Fernandez. I remember Hernan Lorenzino, like the other Hernan, Hernan LacunzaBut I think one day they will forget me.

This is what happens over time. When the present becomes thick, when it always astonishes you with the same thing, when it overwhelms you with a kind of eternal return to Nietzsche with no chance of overcoming the dialectical ideals of Hegel, when the past seems to crumble and distort any illusion of the future, it gives me comfort to verify that memory also consists of forgetting , that even the past is partially perforated and allows for possible hinterland, that history could one day change, and that one day things will be different.

And so, on such days, in the gaps of memory, not to escape, but to take a breath. The one who, as often cited, never had Ireneo Funes.