"...According to the Madrid Meteorological Agency, rain clouds are currently gathering over the Calderón. The probability of precipitation is over 80%."
The team bus rolled toward the stadium. The radio played quietly in the background. But the players weren't paying attention. Most of them had headphones on, eyes closed, mentally preparing for the battle ahead. A few tapped away at their phones.
Only Simeone and his assistant, Germán, took note of the forecast.
The Iberian Peninsula was usually a place of endless sun. Pleasant weather all year round. But that didn't mean it never rained in Madrid. Rain matches were common in the Premier League, but rare in La Liga.
When Simeone heard the news, he felt a slight wave of relief. He actually hoped for a heavy downpour. The kind that left water on the pitch and disrupted the roll of the ball. Because that would be an epic handicap for Barcelona.
By this time, fans were already pouring into the Calderón. The stands filled rapidly. Barcelona's supporters were confined to one corner of the stadium. Even so, they made their presence known, refusing to be drowned out.
Up in the commentary boxes, the broadcast teams were taking their positions.
Countdown to kickoff: 40 minutes.
Barcelona's bus pulled into the stadium parking lot first. As the coaches and players stepped off, the media swarmed them. The Barcelona manager, Messi, Xavi, and Iniesta were the main targets.
"Pep, how are you feeling about the match?"
"Can Barcelona win today?"
"Leo, are you going to score?"
Questions rained down from all sides. But no one from Barcelona stopped to answer. This wasn't an official press conference. They had every right to ignore the noise.
"...The players are stepping off the bus. There's a slight smile on Messi's face. He looks very relaxed."
The Catalan commentator noted quickly. That smile offered a much-needed boost of confidence to Barcelona's supporters.
At that moment, the broadcast switched feeds. Atlético Madrid's bus had arrived at a different entrance.
Simeone was the first to step down. Camera flashes exploded. The sound of shutters clicking filled the air.
Shane Carter was the last to disembark. And naturally, he drew the most attention. Reporters lined the red carpet, thrusting microphones forward, desperate for a quote. But Shane didn't slow down. He walked with purpose toward the entrance.
The wall of microphones parted before him like a path through thorns.
Suddenly, a voice shouted in Mandarin from the crowd. "Shane! Are you ready for this?"
Shane glanced over, flashed a 'V' for victory, and called back: "You know it."
Then he disappeared into the tunnel without looking back.
Countdown to kickoff: 30 minutes.
Germán's main concern was still the weather. As soon as he arrived, he walked out onto the pitch. Thick clouds hung overhead, but there was no sign of rain yet. He felt a pang of disappointment.
"Whether it rains or not doesn't matter. We weren't planning on the weather winning the game for us anyway." Simeone patted his assistant on the shoulder.
Then he turned to the players, who were changing into their warm-up gear, clapped his hands, and barked at them to hurry up.
"Here they come."
Up in the studio, the lead commentator practically shouted into the microphone. Normally, for a La Liga match, the international broadcast wouldn't send an entire commentary team to Spain. The distance was too great. The costs too high.
But for the Champions League final? They always sent a crew. Since Shane Carter and Atlético had reached the final this season, the team was going to fly out anyway. Arriving a few weeks early to cover this title decider? The network could afford the travel expenses.
Sitting next to the lead commentator was his long-time co-analyst, along with two special guest commentators invited for the final.
"The players are out for warm-ups."
The lead commentator had to shout just to hear himself. Because the moment the Atlético players stepped onto the pitch, the passion of the home fans exploded.
A fine drizzle began to fall from the sky. But the light mist seemed to vibrate in the air, shaken by the sheer volume of the roaring crowd.
"They're warming up, and the Calderón is erupting like a volcano. I can't even imagine what this place will sound like if Atlético score."
The co-analyst yelled, caught up in the atmosphere.
The lead commentator turned to his two guest analysts. "Director, how do you see this match playing out?"
One of the analysts chuckled. "Atlético have the home advantage, and they've been incredibly strong against big teams this season. Especially Shane. The tougher the opponent, the better he plays."
"Exactly," the other added. "And psychologically, Atlético have the edge. They can even afford a draw today."
It was true. Atlético and Barcelona were tied on points. But Atlético had won the first encounter at Camp Nou. They held the head-to-head tiebreaker. A draw today meant that if Atlético won their final two matches, the title was theirs.
"Quick. Quick. Get loose."
The fitness coach clapped his hands rhythmically.
The warm-up only lasted twenty minutes. But it was intense. First, passing drills to get a feel for the ball. Then, dynamic stretching to activate the muscles. Next came a high-speed five-on-five drill for the starting eleven. Five attackers versus five defenders in a tight space to simulate match intensity.
Finally, the squad split. The attacking group ran through quick passing and shooting drills to sharpen their finishing.
Twenty minutes. It was far more than just light jogging.
On the Barcelona side, assistant coach Vilanova kept his eyes locked on Shane Carter. He watched Shane receive the ball outside the box during the shooting drill.
One touch. Strike. Top corner.
Again. And again.
Vilanova's expression darkened. As they headed back to the locker room after the warm-up, he couldn't help but lean over to Xavi.
"That kid's finding his range today."
Xavi shook his head dismissively. "When doesn't he? Stopping his long shots is already our main priority."
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