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Kalinić's form hadn't given Simeone any confidence, so the manager had started Argentine forward Correa instead. But Correa's season had been equally disappointing, and in the end, Simeone had to settle for a draw against Sevilla.
Still, Atlético Madrid had maintained strong competitiveness across all three fronts so far this season, and Simeone's ambitions were growing. After finishing the league match, the Copa del Rey returned—Atlético faced Girona FC away from home in the first leg of their fifth-round tie.
Against clearly weaker opposition, Simeone's swelling confidence led him to field his strongest available lineup. His thinking was simple: kill the tie in the first leg, give the squad some breathing room for the matches ahead.
For this match, Simeone bypassed Correa and went with Kalinić up front instead. André, meanwhile, sat on the bench for the full ninety minutes.
The result left Simeone irritated.
After ninety minutes of football, he could only accept a 1-1 draw. The sole consolation was the away goal—at least they hadn't left Girona empty-handed.
After returning to Madrid, Atlético immediately faced their nineteenth round league fixture.
The afternoon of the match. The Wanda Metropolitano Stadium. Sixty-eight thousand supporters packed into the stands, a sea of red and white.
Half an hour into the game against Levante, Simeone's expression had turned increasingly grim.
Levante sat eleventh in the table—mid-table mediocrity. In Simeone's mind, this was supposed to be a routine three points. But the scoreboard told a different story.
0-1.
Home team listed first, away team second. The universal convention. And it was mocking him.
Everyone familiar with Simeone's Atlético knew the system: a 4-4-2 flat midfield formation, with both wide midfielders typically being central players rather than natural wingers. Pundits often called it the "4-4-2 Wingless Formation."
The tactical logic was straightforward. During attacks, one of the wide midfielders would drift inward to join the two forwards, creating a three-man attacking unit in central areas. The actual width came from the overlapping full-backs, who would bomb forward down the flanks while the midfielders held central territory.
But today, nothing was working.
Shortly after kick-off, starting centre-back Savić had limped off with an injury—a shadow cast over proceedings before they'd barely begun. Then, in the twenty-seventh minute, his replacement Giménez committed a handball in the penalty area. The referee pointed to the spot without hesitation.
Levante midfielder Vukčević stepped up and converted.
1-0 to the visitors.
What infuriated Simeone wasn't falling behind. It was how his team responded. Levante, riding the unexpected lead, had grown in confidence—actually dominating Atlético on their own pitch for stretches of the half.
If the Levante forwards hadn't been so wasteful, the halftime deficit could have been far worse than a single goal.
When the whistle blew for the break, Simeone marched straight off without a word.
In the dressing room, the irritated manager didn't lose his temper. Instead, he made his adjustments calmly and methodically.
Vitolo came off. Lemar, the summer signing, came on.
But the substitution didn't produce the desired effect.
Levante, who had been trading blows with Atlético in the latter stages of the first half, switched to a deep defensive block after the break. Counter-attacking football. Rope-a-dope tactics.
On the surface, Atlético dominated. Possession, territory, pressure—all favouring the home side. But anyone who understood football could see the truth: Atlético had control without penetration. Momentum without threat.
Levante, meanwhile, looked dangerous every time they broke forward. Their counter-attacks were sharp enough to make Atlético's full-backs think twice about overlapping. The width Simeone relied on disappeared as his defenders grew cautious.
Without width, Atlético could only funnel attacks through central midfield. But Correa, playing as the focal point up front, couldn't hold the ball against Levante's compact defence. Every time he received possession, he was dispossessed within seconds.
The consequence was predictable: Griezmann, the team's creative hub, found himself isolated and starved of service.
"This isn't working." Burgos stood beside Simeone, voice low. "The flanks can't provide support. The opposition only needs to pack the centre. Too many bodies."
"The flanks aren't the main problem." Simeone's eyes never left the pitch. "Ángel can't hold the ball. If he could, he'd draw defensive attention. That would free up Antoine, create space for the wide players." He paused. "Make a substitution. Get André warming up."
"André?" Burgos looked surprised. "Can he handle it? He's only been here a few days."
"There's no alternative. Putting Kalinić on would be even worse. Let's see what the kid can do."
"Alright."
Burgos walked over to where the substitutes were sitting. "Five-minute warm-up, André. You're going on."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Move."
"Oh—okay!"
From across the bench, Kalinić watched André being summoned. His expression was complicated. He'd seen the team struggling, had assumed Simeone would turn to him for the rescue mission. Being passed over for a teenager stung more than he wanted to admit.
"Kid." Simeone put an arm around André's shoulder as he prepared to enter. "Do you know what to do out there?"
"Honestly? No, Boss." André met his gaze steadily. "Tell me what you need. I'll do it."
Simeone almost smiled. "After you go on, hold the ball. Once you've attracted their defensive attention, whether you pass or go yourself—that's your call. Understand?"
"Understood. Don't worry, Boss." André's eyes gleamed. "Just watch me crush them."
Sixty-ninth minute.
Atlético Madrid made their substitution. Number 18, André Cristiano, replaced Correa.
This was André's first time stepping onto a La Liga pitch. His first competitive appearance for Atlético Madrid since joining the club. The home supporters didn't know if this teenager could turn the match around—but they gave him warm, sustained applause anyway.
Encouragement. Expectation. Hope.
Now it remained to be seen whether André would live up to it.
Seventeen years and seventeen days old. That was André's age as he stepped onto the La Liga stage. Not close to the record for youngest appearance in the competition's history—but it was a new record for Atlético Madrid.
The youngest player ever to represent the club in an official match.
History had been made.
Now it was time to make more.
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