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Round thirty-five was pushed forward to accommodate the Champions League schedule.
Perhaps fortune was finally favouring Atlético Madrid.
At home against Valladolid, Atlético encountered stubborn resistance. The visitors parked the bus in front of their goal and refused to budge.
Before kick-off, rumours had circulated that Barcelona had privately offered a bounty—stop Atlético, and there would be compensation. True or false, it was impossible to say. But based on Valladolid's performance, some things seemed less than coincidental.
Two matches a week tested Atlético's fitness. Simeone's absence from the touchline remained a problem that couldn't be ignored.
As the minutes ticked away, the pressure on the players mounted. In moments like these, someone needed to step up.
Seventy-eighth minute.
Thomas's long-range effort was blocked. The loose ball fell to Lemar on the wing, who immediately delivered a cross into the penalty area.
André was surrounded by three defenders. Lemar's ball was aimed directly at him.
While tracking the flight path, André battled physically with his markers. Even with his exceptional strength, the demands of two matches per week combined with the tight defensive attention had taken their toll. But this was the moment to grit teeth and persevere.
A whole season's work couldn't be wasted by one or two matches.
Lemar's cross had been struck with the outside of his foot, generating vicious spin and a late dip. As the ball arrived, André felt hands pulling him from behind—he couldn't jump.
He thought the attack was finished.
But the Valladolid centre-back in front of him misjudged the dip. The header missed completely. The ball dropped directly in front of André.
He controlled it with his chest, knowing immediately he had no chance to turn.
Back to goal. As the ball fell, André flicked his heel toward where he remembered the target being.
The penalty area was packed with bodies. The goalkeeper's sightline was completely blocked. By the time he spotted the ball rolling toward him, it was too late—the finish was curling toward the far corner while he'd positioned himself near the near post.
He could only watch it nestle into the net.
1-0.
Eightieth minute. Atlético had the breakthrough.
Even the stadium announcer and the television commentator couldn't immediately identify the scorer. It wasn't until André burst out of the crowd that everyone realised who had delivered.
"GOAL! André Ronaldo! André! Our hero! He is the guardian of Atlético Madrid! KING KONG! KING KONG! KING KONG!"
The announcer was barely coherent. Under his lead, the entire Wanda Metropolitano sang as one. The fans knew André disliked the nickname—but in this moment, nothing fit better.
In their eyes, he was their guardian. Their King Kong.
The television commentator abandoned all professionalism.
"I can't believe what I'm seeing! It's André! André has stepped up! At the moment Atlético needed a hero most—André delivered! This is incredible!"
On the pitch, teammates sprinted toward André and tackled him to the ground.
Nobody paid attention to his screams. They piled on top of him frantically.
At this stage of the season, the pressure had been suffocating. This goal was the perfect release. Even Oblak ran the entire length of the pitch to join the celebration—and being last to arrive, he ended up on top of the pile.
The fans could clearly see him wiggling deliberately once he landed.
"HELP! I'm being crushed to death! Thomas, you absolute—did you just say 'harder'? HELP!"
"I'm going to kill every single one of you! Thomas! George! Just you wait!"
André's salvation finally arrived. Whether the referee was annoyed by the excessive celebration or simply couldn't bear André's screams any longer, he ran over to break it up.
The players dispersed, jogging back to their positions. The most battered were André and Griezmann, who'd been at the bottom.
"Antoine, have you lost your mind? Why did you tackle me first? You got crushed too!"
"These guys are truly awful."
"Don't worry." André cracked his knuckles ominously. "After the match, I'm going to have a 'chat' with every single one of them."
"Good. They need to be taught a lesson. They've crossed a line."
"You think you're not included?" André hooked an arm around Griezmann's neck. "You started the whole thing. Don't think I didn't notice."
"I didn't! Let go—André, we're on the pitch! Everyone's watching!"
The Atlético supporters watched Griezmann trapped in a headlock, dangling like a child being disciplined by an older sibling.
The stadium erupted in laughter.
My image, Griezmann thought desperately. Completely destroyed.
The interaction between the strike partnership lightened the atmosphere entirely. Despite only a one-goal lead, a strange calm settled over the stadium.
The goal proved to be the only one of the match.
Final score: Atlético Madrid 1-0 Valladolid.
Three precious points secured.
The title race continued.
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