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Einstein did not deceive me.
Lance felt that the 15-minute halftime break had passed in only one minute, while the 15 minutes since the second half kicked off felt like 45, even harder to endure than a school lecture.
Leading 2-1, Barcelona did not lose their composure after Lance's 1v7 goal. They kept playing composed football, using possession and the high press to constantly squeeze Atlético's shape. In those 15 minutes, Lance barely touched the ball. On the rare occasions they launched a counterattack, both Griezmann and Torres were tightly marked when Lance played the long pass. And if Lance pushed up himself to receive, there was hardly anyone left behind him to win the ball back. It felt like being caught between a rock and a hard place.
"How are we supposed to play? How has Barcelona not collapsed yet?"
At the 60-minute mark, Griezmann looked like he had already run 90 minutes. He was bent over, hands on knees, trying to drag air into his lungs.
"You're too weak." Lance couldn't help himself.
"Damn it." Griezmann didn't even have the energy to fire back.
After several sprints up and down the field and physical battles with players like Piqué, he was nearly at his limit. A few minutes earlier, his poor first touch on Lance's long ball had cost them a perfect counterattack opportunity.
"Take it slow."
"We're still trailing."
"I know you're anxious, but don't panic yet. Maybe Barcelona is even more anxious than us."
"Why?"
Griezmann didn't get an answer. The throw-in was taken, the match moved on, and he had to get back into position.
The Spanish commentator José Ángel was going hoarse. This Copa del Rey match was operating at one of the highest levels of football seen all year.
"Atlético's defense is very tight; they have held firm under this pressure! Messi, Iniesta, Busquets... Iniesta, Rakitić, Piqué, ter Stegen..."
"Atlético are sitting in an active low block just outside the penalty area, conceding space to Barcelona to avoid being penetrated at the back. With Godín out, they have to rely on numerical cover to plug the gaps. It's a smart approach."
"Both sides are in a temporary stalemate; Barcelona are clearly feeling the urgency to extend the lead..."
José Ángel was right about Barcelona's anxiety. Against any other team, a 2-1 lead with time running down would be enough to sit back and manage the game. But this was Atlético, and with Lance on the pitch, 2-1 was not a safe score. These opponents needed at least a three-goal cushion before anyone in the Barcelona camp could breathe easily.
With their only remaining trophy of the season on the line, Barcelona were not going to gamble. They continued to pass patiently around the center circle, keeping the ball, keeping the pressure.
Time slipped away in the tense back-and-forth.
Even without a goal from either side, every attack had both sets of fans on the edge of their seats.
"Messi!!!"
"That shot saved by Oblak! A world-class save!"
"Suárez!!! Plays it to Neymar!! Beautiful!"
"Oh, so close — Neymar just couldn't get a touch!"
"Atlético counterattack!! Lance's penetrating pass — perfectly weighted!!"
"Fernando Torres!!!"
"Ter Stegen!! Rushes off his line early to smother the one-on-one! Incredible!"
"Corner kick! Atlético's first corner of the second half..."
"Lance!!!!"
"The [Aerial Thunder Beast Shot] rattles the crossbar!!"
Two shots for Lance in the entire match: one goal to pull it back, one off the woodwork that gave Barcelona a cold sweat. Every time the ball reached Lance, the opposing players flinched.
Barcelona stopped pressing so high and became noticeably more cautious.
In the blink of an eye, the match was entering its final moments. The fourth official raised the board.
"We've unknowingly played 90 minutes of football! Neither side scored in the second half, but the tension has been extraordinary."
"Four minutes of stoppage time. The match has been relatively clean with minimal stoppages."
"Barcelona are still leading 2-1."
"If this score holds, it will be time for Barcelona to lift the trophy."
Atlético had already used two substitutions, taking off a backup center-back and left-back Filipe Luís, who had picked up a yellow card, bringing on a cover for the left side. One substitution remaining.
Griezmann and Torres were running on fumes, but Simeone kept them on. For the final change, he took off Ángel Correa and brought on midfielder Augusto, pushing Lance further forward to form a front three with Torres and Griezmann.
"Lance, the coach wants you focused on attacking. Leave the defensive work to me."
"That's right, Lance — we'll all create the chances for you."
Augusto, still finding his legs after coming on, relayed Simeone's instructions.
Facing the prospect of ending the season without this title, every Atlético player had made the same decision: believe in Lance. Everyone had one job — pull the defense, create space, play the supporting role. Even if it meant being invisible on the highlights reel. Winning the trophy mattered more.
There was no speech needed between friends.
Lance just patted his teammates on the shoulder. His eyes said everything.
[Rage Value: 79%]
It would take a while before the meter was full. He needed to score first and drag this into extra time.
The problem was how to win the ball back from Barcelona and break their passing rhythm.
Even when the ball was far from him, Lance never stood still. He kept adjusting his position, watching, reading. [Isagi Yoichi]'s [Space Perception] had deepened his understanding of everything happening on the pitch. He always carried a strange sense of dual vision — the limited perspective of a player on the field combined with something like the top-down camera of a football game, tracking everything at once.
The puzzle kept shifting with every movement.
90 minutes. 91. 92.
With two minutes of stoppage time left, the Barcelona anthem was already ringing from the stands, the Catalan fans celebrating what they believed was done. Social media had already moved ahead.
"Barcelona are champions!"
"We are the champions! BARCA!!"
"It's only the Copa del Rey, nothing to brag about. We haven't even crowed about the league title yet."
"Exactly. Atlético take the league, we have a shot at the Champions League. Whose season counts for more?"
"Real Madrid, clear off!"
Real Madrid fans had wandered into the conversation, already counting their Champions League medal.
"The Copa del Rey is still a championship — one with a long history. Don't pretend otherwise!"
Barcelona fans finally exhaled. The season would not end empty-handed. After all the pressure, all the defeats to Atlético, this would be their vindication. The strongest MSN attack line in world football deserved at least one trophy.
When the Barcelona anthem floated over the Bernabéu, the chants of "BARCA! BARCA! BARCA!" could be heard clearly across the whole stadium. Almost every Barcelona player on the field believed it was already over.
Only Lance's eyes lit up.
He moved.
Rakitić had the ball. Logically, the right choice was a simple pass to Busquets on the left or a backpass to Piqué. But Rakitić's legs were heavy. The closer the clock got to the final whistle, the heavier the mental weight became. He was afraid of a mistake. Afraid of being the one who gave it away.
He didn't play it first time. He stopped it, turned his body to shield.
In that tiny hesitation, Lance made his decision.
"Over here!"
"Here, here!"
Messi, Iniesta, and Busquets all called for the ball simultaneously. Rakitić hesitated for 0.2 seconds. In those 0.2 seconds, he saw Lance's tall frame bearing down on him, eyes fixed and hungry.
"Oh no—"
Rakitić panicked. He tried to drag the ball to the safe side with his right foot and play it back to Mascherano.
The next second.
Footsteps accelerated.
A gust of wind, and Rakitić's pass — barely off his boot — was gone.
"Beautiful!!! Lance!! He read Rakitić's decision completely!!"
"Atlético complete a steal at the most critical moment!"
The interception was like flipping a switch. The tempo of the entire match lurched forward. Every Atlético player — Griezmann, Torres, all of them — was already sprinting. This time, they were not leaving Lance alone. This time the whole team was going with him.
Simultaneously, the Barcelona players reacted like startled birds. Whoever they had been marking was suddenly irrelevant. Every one of them converged on Lance.
Lance felt the walls closing in from all sides. He didn't panic.
He turned half a step and chipped the ball softly off his instep, floating it over Busquets' head and dropping it perfectly into Torres's path on the left.
Torres headed it forward to Griezmann. Griezmann drove with the ball, dropped a shoulder to hint at one direction, then paused his rhythm for just a beat. Then he burst, changed angle, and pushed past Alves with the change of pace, driving toward the edge of the area on the left.
"Griezmann!! Atlético's counter is moving at real pace — almost everyone is pouring into the Barcelona box!"
It looked like a final charge. A cavalry attack, shoulder to shoulder.
Griezmann carried the ball into position like a textbook run. He slowed to small steps near the box, cutting inside, making Piqué shift his weight and reach. The moment Piqué committed, Griezmann would hook the ball past him and shoot.
"Griezmann!! Shoot yourself!!"
Piqué lunged. Mascherano closed from the other side.
"Wait!! Fake!! He hooks it back and rolls it across the middle!!"
Griezmann cut it back square to Torres in the center.
Barcelona's defensive shape had broken. Mascherano spun and slid to block. Ter Stegen moved quickly across to cover the far post, cutting off what looked like Torres's only shooting angle.
Torres shaped to shoot.
Ter Stegen was already diving in anticipation.
Torres held back.
A feint. He pulled it across instead.
To the right.
Before the question could even form in anyone's mind, a red-and-white number 10 had already arrived at exactly the right spot.
[Isagi Yoichi]'s [Space Perception] — placing Lance precisely where he needed to be, at precisely the right moment. Half a second earlier or later and the angle would have been gone.
Lance didn't take a touch.
He struck it immediately.
[Aerial Thunder Beast Shot]
Bang.
From a tight angle on the right, a thunderball driven diagonally hard and low, finding the corner Ter Stegen had vacated.
Unsaveable.
Swish.
"Goooooooal!!!"
"Oh oh oh oh oh—"
"93rd minute!!! A team goal — Lance's steal, a sequence of precise, instinctive combination play, and Lance himself with the finish! A desperate equalizer in the dying seconds!!!"
"2-2! Atlético Madrid have ended Barcelona's title hopes and dragged this into extra time!"
The stadium erupted.
The Barcelona fans who had been singing thirty seconds ago sat frozen, faces drained of color. The Atlético end had dissolved into tears and embraces.
An unexpected goal. And yet, with Lance involved, a completely reasonable one.
But even as Atlético fans were still holding each other, the big screen cut away from the replay.
The camera snapped back to live play.
"What?! There's more — Atlético are still attacking!!"
93 minutes and 52 seconds. Less than ten seconds on the clock. Atlético had already driven into Barcelona's final third, and Lance was carrying the ball, winding up to shoot.
Not content with a draw and extra time — were they going to finish this in regular time?