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"I'll announce the starting lineup for tomorrow's match."
The day before the twenty-first round of La Liga, after finishing training, Simeone gathered the squad as usual to reveal the eighteen-man squad and starting eleven.
André, expecting to hear the same names as always, suddenly heard his own.
"André. Hey, kid—what are you doing?"
"Boss... are you calling me?"
"Who else would I be calling? If you don't want to start, I'll swap you for someone else."
The dazed expression on André's face sent the other players into fits of laughter. After spending time together over the past weeks, everyone had learned that despite his fierce, almost intimidating appearance, André was actually an easy-going guy—friendly, quick with a joke, surprisingly good company.
There was only one thing that set him off: being called King Kong.
By now, aside from Vivas—who seemed to take perverse pleasure in pushing André's buttons during their extra training sessions—nobody dared use that nickname anymore. As André himself put it, he had "won people over with virtue."
The squad understood that "virtue" involved some fairly aggressive persuasion techniques.
"No, no, no, Boss—I want to start! Absolutely! Put me in!"
For the twenty-first round, Atlético Madrid would face Getafe at the Wanda Metropolitano.
With less than ten minutes until kick-off, the starting players from both sides emerged onto the pitch. The home supporters erupted in a tsunami of cheers and applause, and then the familiar melody rang out across the stadium—the sound that meant everything to the people of Atlético.
Atleti, Atleti, Atlético de Madrid...
The club anthem. Sixty-eight thousand voices joining as one, the words echoing off the Wanda Metropolitano's towering stands. An indispensable part of every Atlético home match. When this song filled the stadium, it signified that Atlético was carrying the dreams of all its people forward.
For this match, Simeone deployed his most trusted 4-4-2 formation.
Jan Oblak in goal. The back four consisted of Arias, Giménez, Lucas Hernández, and Godín. The midfield quartet featured Lemar, Thomas Partey, Rodri, and Saúl. Up front: Griezmann and André.
Getafe, under head coach Pepe Bordalás, lined up in a mirror-image 4-4-2.
This was André's first start for Atlético Madrid. It represented Simeone's trust—his faith in the seventeen-year-old's ability to handle the pressure of a full ninety minutes against quality opposition.
André didn't make him wait long for a return on that investment.
Seventh minute.
Griezmann picked up the ball in midfield and slipped a pass into André's feet at the edge of the penalty area. In one fluid motion, André flicked the ball up, spun away from his marker, and struck a volley on the turn.
The ball flew past the goalkeeper before he could react.
1-0. Atlético had opened the scoring inside ten minutes.
Having taken the lead, Simeone's men didn't sit back. They intensified their attacks, pressing Getafe deeper and deeper into their own half. The visitors' defence looked increasingly precarious, particularly when André and Griezmann combined in the final third—their quick, intricate passing left the Getafe centre-backs chasing shadows.
Twenty-sixth minute.
André dropped deep to receive a pass, then used his trademark footwork to twist away from his marker. He surged forward with the ball, building momentum, when he was hauled down about twenty-five yards from goal.
The Getafe midfielder Maksimović received a yellow card for the foul. Though calling it a "trip" would be generous—watching the replay, it looked more like André had been grabbed by the shirt and physically dragged to the ground. Even after falling, Maksimović was still clutching André's jersey, and André had dragged him along for a good five metres before finally going down.
When he stood up, André held out his shirt to show the referee. A massive tear ran through the fabric.
The free kick fell to Griezmann. His strike curled past the goalkeeper's fingertips and into the net.
2-0.
The Atlético supporters in the stands were going wild. Nobody had expected the match to be this comfortable. Getafe weren't pushovers—they sat sixth in the table after twenty rounds, firmly in contention for European qualification. Yet they were being dismantled.
First-half stoppage time.
If the fans thought they'd seen everything, the final moments before the break proved them wrong.
André received the ball at the edge of the box. What followed was a masterclass in close control—he weaved through at least three Getafe defenders, his feet a blur of feints and touches, before slotting the ball calmly into the corner of the net.
3-0.
His second goal of the match. A brace on his first start.
André sprinted toward the section of the stadium packed with the most fervent Atlético supporters. He stopped in front of them and opened his arms wide, as if embracing all forty thousand of them at once.
"KING KONG! KING KONG! KING KONG!"
The rhythmic chanting thundered around the Wanda Metropolitano.
André couldn't help but wince internally—but even he had to admit, the recognition felt good. The nickname was annoying. The love behind it? That was something else entirely.
Standing nearby, Griezmann felt a twinge of something that might have been jealousy. The kid had been here for weeks. Griezmann had given years to this club.
But watching André with the fans, seeing that raw connection forming in real-time... it was hard to begrudge him anything.
The match finished 3-0.
André's brace and Griezmann's goal had secured all three points, keeping the pressure on Barcelona at the top of the table.
After this round, the top four positions in La Liga remained unchanged—all four sides had won their fixtures. But André had done something more important than affecting the standings: he had cemented his place as a starting forward.
A week later. The twenty-second round of La Liga.
Atlético Madrid travelled to face Real Betis at the Benito Villamarín Stadium. André started again.
Betis, playing at home against one of the league's powerhouses, deployed classic defensive tactics—deep block, packed defence, minimal ambition going forward. The message was clear: keep it tight, steal a point if possible, limit the damage if not.
For most of the match, it worked. Atlético dominated possession but couldn't find a breakthrough. The clock ticked toward ninety minutes with the score still goalless.
Then, in the dying moments, Atlético won a corner.
Griezmann stood over the ball, whipped it toward the centre of the box, and André rose between two Betis centre-backs. His leap was explosive, his timing perfect. The header flew past the goalkeeper and into the net.
1-0.
Atlético had snatched all three points in the final seconds.
But that wasn't even the best news for Simeone's men.
Ten minutes after the final whistle, reports filtered through from another stadium. At the Camp Nou, Barcelona had faced fierce resistance from Valencia. The match had ended 2-2.
Barcelona had dropped points.
By the end of the round, the gap between Atlético Madrid and first-placed Barcelona had shrunk to just three points.
The title race was well and truly alive.
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