Kindred Spirits
The moment I took possession from Castro, center-back Clément Lenglet peeled off him and thrust out a shin across my dribbling path.
Tap.
Clipped cleanly by my right boot, the match ball escaped Lenglet's reach by a single step. A dull scrape against my instep told me he’d caught a piece of my boot, but the contact wasn’t nearly enough to unseat my balance, so I shrugged it off cleanly.
“Roberto! Alba! Pinch inside!”
With their defensive midfielder and one center-back pulled out of position, Barcelona scrambled to assemble a makeshift back three: the distant right-back made one; center-back Gerard Piqué made two; and the nearest man, left-back Jordi Alba, made three.
“Alba! Back off, I said!”
Piqué’s urgent bark checked his teammate's stride, sending the pelican-faced left-back scrambling into a hasty retreat.
Shame. It would’ve been much better if he’d lunged right there.
The flicker of regret faded quickly as we breached the penalty box one after the other, taut with suspense. Gerard Piqué and Jordi Alba had tightened the gap between them into a staggered, diagonal wall. Sergi Roberto on the far right flank didn't matter, so I erased him from my mind.
For now, the only thing that mattered was that Jordi Alba was my first obstacle. How I deceived him and which way I cut would dictate how the center-back covered—and whether this attack lived or died.
Driving forward at peak acceleration, I charged right down his throat. The moment the distance shrank to less than a pace, I dropped my left shoulder, shifted my eye line, and swapped the foot controlling the ball. Left shoulder feinting right, head and eyes fixed left, the ball rolling from right foot to left—a messy, chaotic tangle of conflicting cues.
Predictably, Jordi Alba didn't take the bait. Gerard Piqué lingering behind him kept him from committing to a rash tackle. So I nudged forward another half-step to turn it into a duel of raw reflexes. Honestly, Alba hadn't even been the true mark of that feint anyway, so it hardly mattered.
Swish.
Barcelona's left-back lowered his center of gravity and sidestepped twice, choosing retreat over a direct challenge. The instant I read his retreat, I chopped down with the inside of my left boot to brake. Immediately after, the top of my right foot pushed the ball toward the center of the box, just a couple of quick strides away.
The center-back stepped out to close down the shooting lane, but my earlier deceptive feint still anchored his feet, halving his defensive reach. Having unconsciously shifted half a step to his right earlier, he had surrendered that much more room on his left.
The moment I wound up my strike, I committed to the trajectory. Rather than risking a soft curler that might get blocked by a recovering defender, ripping it with raw power was the better bet. The target was the exact spot Messi had pierced for the opener—the top left corner.
Crack!
Gerard Piqué stretched out a lanky leg, but the sheer velocity of the shot brooked no interference. The goalkeeper's desperate, outstretched fingertips proved just as futile.
“E-YEE!”
Thirty thousand out of sixty thousand seats. The roar of the Las Palmas faithful shook the ground, fully rivaling Barcelona’s.
Since minor knocks can sometimes harbor real injuries, I promptly inspected the instep that had taken the scrape. If I hesitated for even a second, Castro or Pedri... wait, Pedri wasn't on the pitch. Regardless, Nicolás and the rest would swarm me, ruffling my hair and shouting into my eardrums.
“Damn, he's the spitting image of Leo.”
“My bad. I think I leaned too hard to the right.”
“Forget it. I didn't react in time either. That upper-body feint completely fooled me. Next time, let's concede the flanks a bit. Keep the diagonal shape, but squeeze the middle tighter.”
“Won't that leave the angle out wide too exposed?”
“That's for Stegen to worry about.”
“Haha, fair enough.”
Barcelona's defenders exchanged feedback casually, as if reviewing an everyday training drill. From the outside looking in, you'd think they were just playing a casual scrimmage.
“Ack!”
Before my petty temper could flare, I shoved my elbow into Castro's stomach. A ridiculously exaggerated reaction for such a light jab.
I told you not to mess with my hair.
Twenty-third minute of the first half, just two minutes after our equalizer.
Number ten. Barcelona’s talisman sprinted toward the corner flag, his jersey fluttering in the wind. Aythami and Mantovani, whose faces had been glowing after our goal, now dropped their heads with ashen expressions.
While thunderous chants from the Barcelona supporters rocked the stadium, I replayed Messi’s movement in my head: near the penalty box, slightly tilted to the left of center. Mantovani and Aythami directly ahead, with Rodríguez and Javi Castellano giving chase from the flank and rear.
'Damn, he's the spitting image of Leo.'
Suddenly, the Barcelona center-back’s words echoed in my mind. At first, I hadn't understood what he meant, but now the pieces fell into place. The broad set of the shoulders, the rhythm of the dribble, the burst of acceleration, even the preference in finishing. With completely different physical builds, we operated on the exact same logic.
He had steered Rodríguez's closing path into Mantovani's lane, obstructing them both so neither could attempt a rough tackle. And where Aythami stood his ground, knowing that getting snagged by the shirt would be trouble, Messi had effortlessly escaped the trap with a clean one-two. Of course, he hadn't spared a single thought for Javi Castellano trailing half a beat late from behind.
The spot where he collected the return pass was just inside the penalty box line. While the defense hesitated to commit in such a lethal zone, a snap shot half a beat ahead of time drilled into the right side of the net. That was it.
Right. I still couldn't say for sure, but the way our minds worked was unmistakably similar.
Speak of the devil. Just then, my eyes locked with the man himself as he jogged back toward the halfway line after finishing his goal celebration. With my teeth clenched, I held his gaze without flinching. I knew it was petty, but I couldn't help it. Deep beneath my prickliness, fierce competitive fire was flaring to life.
Having hit its stride, the final surged forward, accelerating with the roar of the crowd.
[25'] Collected a pass from Nicolás and drove through the center. Lenglet committed a foul, earning a free kick.
[27'] Messi rattled the woodwork after running onto a through ball from Vidal.
[31'] Right outside the box. A heel flick set up Castro, whose ambitious shot flew wide.
[32'] Barcelona counterattack. A cutting pass sliced open the left channel, followed by a low cross whipped across the box—Messi forced a sharp save on target.
And then, in the thirty-sixth minute of the first half: another attacking opportunity for Las Palmas.
Having shaken off his early nerves, Nicolás drifted between the second and third lines, making his presence felt in the central channel. Catching Barcelona's midfield off guard, he drove aggressively through the half-spaces. To think he’d been trembling like a leaf before kickoff... the world really is full of surprises.
“Kim!”
The rolling pass sliced cleanly into the attacking third, taking an uncanny trajectory that deftly bypassed the defensive midfielder's interception attempt. The touch as it cushioned onto my boot was exquisite.
Noticing Barcelona's backline retreating, I drifted toward the right. From what I'd observed so far, the combination of left center-back Lenglet and Jordi Alba was softer to crack than the opposite side.
Meanwhile, Barcelona’s back four dug in right along the edge of the penalty box. They formed an irregular diagonal shape to squeeze the center, completely outsourcing the marking of Castro to their defensive midfielder. For me, it wasn’t a bad deal at all, as it granted me room to build momentum.
From the edge of the second line into the hole, charging toward the front line. My lungs, fully expanded beneath my ribs, vented a sharp breath with every stride. After roughly four paces forward, the distance between Jordi Alba and me shrank to half a step. Planting my right foot as an axis, I scraped across the leather of the ball.
His eyes stayed pinned downward, twitching slightly, but he offered no decisive response to my feint. Following my predetermined course, I channeled my remaining breath straight into driving my thighs.
“Ngh!”
Downshifted for a split second, my internal gearbox redlined once more with explosive torque. Clenching my teeth, I ripped open the right channel of the box. The instant Jordi Alba realized his feet had no hope of keeping up, he reached out with clutching hands in a desperate final stand.
I snapped my shoulder inward, slamming right into his outstretched arm.
Ahem.
It had been pure instinct, but it was still surprising to find myself using Mantovani's technique of all things. According to the Argentine owl, the trick was to make contact as far from the torso as possible. Sure enough, the deliberate collision forced his arm muscles to buckle, and Alba’s grip bounced off helplessly.
All that remained was to look up, sight the frame of the goal, and finish with a strike.
Grab.
Suddenly, something snagged me from behind by the waist, then collided flush against my thighs, wiping out my center of gravity entirely. There was no way to brace against an ambush like that. My limbs tangled, and I went tumbling across the turf.
In the same breath, the Estadio de La Cartuja exploded with a deafening cacophony of boos and roars.
“…Mierda.”
Lying right beside me, Jordi Alba cursed under his breath as he caught the referee’s signal.
Penalty kick.
While the Barcelona defenders swarmed the referee in furious protest, Castro trotted over and explained what had just happened: Alba had used his free arm to drag down my lower body as he fell.
“…And they're still protesting?”
“Standard procedure.”
“Right.”
“Still, though... you're unbelievable. Stripping one of the best defenders in the league like that.”
I gave a slight chuckle at Castro's flattering remark.
“I just did what Flores told me to, and things seemed to work out.”
“Flores? What did he say?”
“Just slam right into him. He said speed or whatever doesn't really matter.”
“……”
“What's that look for?”
“…Never mind. I'm going to take the penalty.”
Frowning deeply, Castro turned and marched toward the penalty spot. I hadn't lied, so what could have possibly ruffled his feathers this time?
...He really did tell me to just react on instinct, after all.
A moment later, amidst the tense, theatrical fuss that always accompanies a penalty kick, Castro converted Las Palmas's second goal. It was an audacious, brazen strike right down the dead center of the net.