Clash

Estadio Olímpico de la Cartuja.

Just beyond the mouth of the tunnel, the roaring waves of sound churned up by both sets of supporters sent a violent tremor reverberating through the concrete walls.

"Once you see the stands painted in those three distinct colors, your heart will hammer against your ribs. The sheer scale of the roar belongs to another dimension entirely."

Like a sudden flash of light, the words of Éric Abidal, Barcelona’s technical director, sliced across my memory. He had not been exaggerating in the slightest.

Beside me, Nicolás couldn't stop shivering. His shoulders jittered relentlessly. Reaching out, I gave him a few firm pats on the back, signaling for him to breathe.

"You holding up?"

"…Yeah."

Though the physical trembling ceased, the rigid tension carved into his features showed no sign of softening. Naturally, nerves of this magnitude were never going to evaporate with a few hollow words of comfort.

Right then, the festive musical performance echoing from outside cut off sharply. It was the signal that walkout was imminent. Up at the head of our line, Rubén Castro broke off his relaxed banter with the Barcelona players, his expression snapping into focus.

A few moments later, the front rows began marching out of the tunnel, stepping into the blinding wash of white sunlight.

The moment our boots crested the final step onto the pitch, the muffled thunder resolved into a deafening, crystal-clear symphony of screams, cheers, and roaring applause. I marched past the silver Copa del Rey trophy mounted on its pedestal near the benches, falling into step with the Las Palmas squad as we fanned out along the left side of the halfway line. Spread across the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠center circle lay a massive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠red-and-yellow banner emblazoned with the official crest of the Copa del Rey.

Before the ceremonial handshakes, the stadium loudspeakers blared the solemn strains of the Marcha Real—a reminder that this was, after all, the King's Cup.

The coin toss went in our favor; Las Palmas would kick off. As I flexed my fingers, wiggled my toes inside my boots, and tuned into the quiet hum of my muscles and joints, I kept one eye trained on the match referee.

"Those bastards were talking about you an awful lot," Castro remarked, casually wandering over near the center mark. The relaxed cadence of his voice and the wry set of his mouth reflected the seasoned poise of a man who had weathered hundreds of these battles. He was tense as well, no doubt, but he knew how to channel that nervous energy into fuel, unlike Nicolás.

"…Do you know them personally?" I asked.

"Ran into them plenty back during my Real Betis days."

"Well, they'll have plenty more to say after today."

"Heh, damn right they will."

Castro reached over and gave my hair an affectionate, vigorous tussle. I let it slide without complaint. If keeping the veteran's spirits high helped us win, I could tolerate far worse than a messy hairstyle. Still, feeling a bit sheepish, I turned my gaze back toward our own half to review our formation.

Our rearguard was anchored by a three-man backline: Aythami, Martín Mantovani, and Mauricio Lemos. The engine room in central midfield was manned by Javi Castellano and Kirian Rodríguez, with Nicolás Varela stationed at the tip of the diamond to link play. Flanking them, Alberto de la Bella and Eric Curbelo carried the grueling responsibility of patrolling the touchlines, shuttling up and down between defense and attack.

Given that Barcelona's starting eleven lined up exactly as Flores had predicted, the tactical blueprint was set. All that remained was for every man to execute his role to perfection.

Fweeeeet!

The referee’s whistle shrilled through the sweltering air, signaling the start of the first half.

For the opening ten minutes, both sides prioritized absolute stability. Las Palmas coiled tightly into a low defensive block, dropping five men across the backline, while Barcelona refrained from taking reckless risks. The attacking output on both ends amounted to little more than a pair of speculative, long-range efforts from outside the penalty area.

Then arrived the twelfth minute.

The moment Barcelona initiated their first true progression, their rigid 4-3-3 shape dissolved into fluid chaos. The initial fault line cracked open in the center of the pitch, right where the opposing midfield engines collided.

Composed of Sergio Busquets, Arturo Vidal, and Frenkie de Jong, Barcelona’s midfield trio advanced the line with effortless poise, easily brushing off our frantic attempts at disruption. On paper, it was a balanced three-on-three contest against Kirian Rodríguez, Javi Castellano, and Nicolás Varela. Yet watching our midfield repeatedly forced onto the back foot, the chasm in quality became painfully obvious.

A crisp, seamless one-two pass dismantled the defensive zones of both Javi and Kirian in the blink of an eye.

"Dammit!" Kirian spat out a venomous curse after losing his mark, while Javi hastily backpedaled to delay their entry into the attacking third. But in that exact fraction of a second, Barcelona’s midfielder swept the ball wide to the right flank. Lofted smoothly through the air, the ball descended with exquisite timing directly into the path of their surging fullback.

"Bella! Pick him up!" Aythami bellowed from the center of defense, snapping out orders to De la Bella.

A sharp gasp caught in my throat. Barcelona’s entire unit was moving like an interconnected set of precision gears. The moment their right winger, Antoine Griezmann, sliced diagonally toward the center of the box, the midfielder who had initiated the pass instantly drifted into the wide channel to occupy the vacated space. With Kirian failing to track back in time for double coverage, De la Bella found himself marooned in an impossible two-on-one predicament.

"Lemos! Cover!"

Compelled by the emergency, Mauricio Lemos broke out of our back three ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to charge toward the wide corridor. Aythami, as the commanding center-back, was forced to step up to track Griezmann's diagonal run, which meant our entire right-sided defensive structure had been completely stretched and consumed.

Did anyone realize what that meant?

It meant that while Las Palmas had exhausted every available chess piece, Barcelona still had one man left completely unaccounted for—their legendary number ten, lingering with quiet menace right inside the penalty box.

Shit.

"Javi!! Watch ten—!!"

Even though I saw Javi Castellano already scrambling to adjust his footing, I screamed at the top of my lungs. It didn't look like Lionel Messi would have an abundance of space, but this was a man who needed nothing more than a handkerchief's worth of green grass to tear a defense apart.

A low, drilled cross from the right fullback whipped viciously across the penalty area. Cruelly enough, the delivery possessed pinpoint accuracy.

From the moment the ball met his boots to the instant it found the back of the net, it took merely two touches.

His first touch deadened the ball’s pace instantly, simultaneously shifting his body weight to carve out a curling shooting lane toward the left corner of the net. Then, with a deft flick of his boot, his second touch dispatched the ball cleanly toward the top left corner. For a heartbeat, the ball appeared to be drifting wide of the frame, but the savage spin dragged it sharply inward, tucking it inside the upright. Our goalkeeper could only watch, rooted to the turf without the slightest chance of reacting.

Messi jogged toward the corner flag with a modest, understated smile. The sheer nonchalance of his celebration only magnified the crushing sense of helplessness weighing down the Las Palmas squad. Javi Castellano’s face was an absolute study in despair; he had been completely undone by that first subtle feint of Messi's shoulder and hips.

"Tch, that madman hasn't changed a bit," Castro muttered as he strolled back toward the halfway line, but I couldn't bring myself to reply.

The parting warning of Roberto Ríos, our assistant coach, replayed relentlessly in my mind.

"Barcelona is an elite machine that balances ruthless efficiency with unpredictable flair better than any side on earth. If we can walk away having conceded only once, consider it a miraculous triumph."

The euphoric anthem bellowed by tens of thousands of Barcelona supporters transformed into a suffocating shroud of dread that filled my chest.

In the wake of that opening goal, the momentum tilted overwhelmingly in Barcelona's favor. We hadn't surrendered possession continuously, but the mere act of advancing our defensive line or stringing together progressive passes had become timid and paralyzed.

"Rodri! Focus!!"

Even now, out on the right wing, a pass directed toward Curbelo beyond the halfway line wobbled off course. Caught off-balance by Kirian’s scuffed delivery, Curbelo had no choice but to stretch his leg to its absolute limit, just barely nicking the edge of the ball. Fortunately, it ricocheted off the opposing marker's shin and bounced out of play.

"Get your heads in the game!!"

"Javi! Step up and close down!"

"Nico! Move your damn feet! You're frozen out there!!"

From the heart of our penalty box, Aythami and his center-back partner Mantovani roared in frustration, jabbing furious fingers at our midfield. As Kirian and Nicolás shrank beneath the reprimands, I lingered near the attacking third, calculating the precise moment to intervene. We could concede that we were being outmatched, but we had to etch into their minds that Las Palmas still possessed teeth. If we didn't demonstrate that our counter was dangerous, we would collapse in the first half just as we had against Real Sociedad.

Thankfully, our opportunity arrived sooner than expected.

In the nineteenth minute, Barcelona’s attack broke down. Aythami’s clearing header sailed cleanly over Barcelona’s midfield line, dropping smoothly into the path of Nicolás Varela.

With an unexpectedly silky first touch, Nicolás brought the ball under control and drove straight across the center circle. It was our very first genuine counterattack of the match.

Against five recovering Barcelona defenders, we had Nicolás pushing through the center, myself advancing alongside him, and Castro lurking out on the right. In that split second, my eyes locked with those of our Argentine Parrot. We instinctively ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠knew we were reading the same page. Ironically enough, Nicolás seemed determined to faithfully apply the lessons from the scouting dossier Castro had handed him.

With the center of his right instep, he punched a crisp, forward-spinning pass straight toward me. It was hit with blistering pace—difficult to control, yet offering the perfect momentum to spring an attack.

As Barcelona’s back four collapsed inward to squeeze the space, I slipped past the defensive midfielder's challenge and cushioned Nicolás's pass with the inside of my right big toe. Glancing peripherally at the defender barrelling into my back, I immediately dropped my shoulder and torqued my torso to the right, riding his momentum.

A heavy hand clamped onto the back of my jersey. The suffocating physical pressure threatened to shatter my breathing rhythm, but as long as I could wedge my lead shoulder past him into the path of progression, I didn't care if he ripped the shirt off my back or pinched my ribs black and blue.

"Kim!"

Castro’s voice tore through the din as he darted closer, having momentarily peeled off his man. Without a second thought, I slipped the ball into his stride.

With his back firmly turned to goal, Castro trapped the ball dead under the sole of his boot. When a hulking, Goliath-like center-back crashed into his back, our aging David hunkered low, digging in his heels and straining with every ounce of sinew to buy time. Just as I had done moments earlier, he was holding the line until I arrived.

Seven paces from the edge of the penalty arc. Four paces remaining between me and the stationary ball at Castro’s feet.

I burned the first two strides breaking free of the defensive midfielder's clutches, then channeled the remaining two strides into pure, explosive acceleration. As the guttural groans of Castro wrestling the center-back rang in my ears, I locked my focus onto the motionless white sphere. I needed to strike it with delicate precision—brushing through it softly, as if scooping up a handful of cotton candy.

Twenty minutes into the match, burning air finally scraped against the back of my throat. My lungs expanded and contracted near their absolute limit, yet my vision remained razor-sharp, cataloging the positions of the defenders with crystalline clarity.

One was plastered against Castro’s back. One hovered behind to the right. Two were actively backpedaling on the left.

The path is open.

Curving around the right side seemed like the optimal trajectory, but in truth, the angle mattered very little. What truly mattered was the unwavering reality that I had already resolved to break through.