Countdown to kickoff: ten minutes.
Warm-ups had concluded, and both teams retreated to their respective locker rooms.
Inside the home dressing room, Simeone was waiting for his players. He was preparing to deliver his final pre-match team talk. There was no need to discuss tactics anymore. For days, the players had attended intensive tactical meetings after every training session. Everyone knew exactly what their role was on the pitch.
Football is not a cold game of numbers. It is a battle between human beings, and humans are not machines. Emotions affect everyone. Before a match of this magnitude, the most critical task for a manager is ensuring the team maintains fierce fighting spirit without losing their heads to adrenaline.
Simeone looked around the room, meeting the eyes of his players one by one. A surge of pride swelled in his chest. To lead a team this far, to stand on the precipice of such a defining moment, was exactly what every football manager lived for. This was a final in all but name. A do-or-die clash for the title.
"Listen up, boys," he began, his voice steady. "In ten minutes, we step out for the most important match of our season. We've waited a long time for this moment. All the hard work we've put in over the last few days has been for one purpose alone: to beat them today and win La Liga. Atlético Madrid has won this honor before, but the last time we lifted that trophy was seventeen years ago. Shane was barely two years old then. I'm not even sure he was off milk yet."
Simeone didn't want the atmosphere to become suffocating, so he threw in a small joke. The room responded as expected, breaking into light laughter. Shane played along, shaking his head and wagging a finger at his manager. The crushing tension that usually accompanied such a massive fixture instantly softened, leaving behind a sharp, focused energy.
"I'm glad to see you smiling," Simeone continued, his tone shifting back to business. "This is our home. Barcelona is a formidable opponent, but we have absolutely no reason to fear them. On the contrary, they should be the ones afraid of us. What we need to do is step out onto our pitch, play our style, and make sure that when the final whistle blows, those same smiles are still on your faces."
Shane stood up from his bench, raising a fist in the air.
"This is our territory, brothers," he shouted. "We have our own way of playing. We have to destroy them today."
"Destroy them." The dressing room roared back, their emotions fully ignited.
At the same time, in the away dressing room, the Barcelona manager was delivering his own pre-match speech.
"We've already lost to them twice this season," he said, pacing the floor. "This is the most important match we will play all year. Over the last few years, we've played in many massive games, including two Champions League finals, and we won them both. We have absolutely no excuse to lose to this team again. You all know exactly what needs to be done."
The Barcelona players sat with clenched jaws, their intensity bubbling to the surface.
"Let's crush them. Take the title."
"That's right. Remember, no matter what happens out there, never forget who we are. We are Barcelona."
Out in the Calderón, the noise had subsided significantly. The players hadn't emerged yet, so the fans were conserving their energy, saving their voices for the battle ahead. In the press box, the reporters finally allowed their faces to relax. The previous wall of sound had been so intense that many feared their eardrums would need days to recover.
The starting lineups had just been distributed, and the press box was buzzing with analysis. Barcelona's starting eleven was entirely expected. Valdés in goal. A backline of Jordi Alba, Piqué, Mascherano, and Dani Alves. The classic midfield trio of Xavi, Iniesta, and Busquets. And a front three of Alexis Sánchez, David Villa, and Messi.
Atlético Madrid's lineup was equally conventional, fielding their most trusted starting eleven. Courtois in goal. Filipe Luís, Godín, Miranda, and Juanfran in defense. A midfield of Raúl García, Gabi, Shane Carter, and Koke. With Costa and Griezmann leading the attack.
Both sides were free of major injuries and boasted fully healthy benches. This match was going to be a pure test of raw quality and on-the-day form.
"What kind of strategy will Atlético use today?"
"They'll probably sit back and defend first, right? Their counterattack is lethal."
"Playing against Barcelona always comes down to the same few things. Compress the defense, crowd the center, win the ball, and break fast. It's all about efficiency."
"It's a cliché, but it works."
Just as the journalists were deep in discussion, a massive roar erupted from the stands. Everyone immediately turned their eyes toward the player tunnel. The two teams had finally begun to emerge. The deafening cheers of the Atlético fans reclaimed total control over the stadium as the starting twenty-two, led by the refereeing crew, slowly marched onto the pitch.
Some players went through their usual pre-match rituals as they crossed the touchline, bending down to touch the grass or pointing to the sky in prayer. Shane did none of that. He figured that instead of placing his faith in God, it was better to trust in himself.
"Here they come."
Up in the broadcast booth, the commentators instantly snapped to attention. They sat up straighter, their voices growing louder, some even cracking under the strain of shouting over the ferocious stadium atmosphere. Down on the pitch, the stadium announcer was reading out the Atlético starting lineup.
"And next, our number ten."
"SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU."
The volume of the crowd skyrocketed in an instant. The sheer force of the sound wave seemed to ripple through the air, visibly shaking the fine drizzle that was beginning to fall from the sky.
Raindrops had already gathered in Messi's hair like morning dew. As a stray lock fell across his eyes, he could actually feel the deafening roar of the crowd vibrating against it, shaking a bead of water loose until it dripped past his vision. He glanced over at Shane Carter, who was standing at the very back of the line just like him. Then Messi turned his gaze back to the pitch and took a deep breath.
He did not want to lose this match again.
The pre-match formalities concluded quickly, and the players scattered to their respective positions. The referee stood in the center circle, checking his watch. For a brief second, a heavy silence fell over the entire stadium, but it was merely the calm before the storm.
The whistle blew. Costa tapped the ball backward to Griezmann.
Boom.
The stadium's roar spiked instantly, hitting its absolute highest peak since the gates had opened.
"The match has begun," the lead commentator roared, pressing his headset tightly against his ear.
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