Chapter 102: PSG vs Barca- A storm in Paris
The Parc des Princes shook like a living beast as the announcer’s voice boomed through the deafening roars. This wasn’t just football anymore, this was history replaying itself in real time.
And for every name that the announcer called, the stadium erupted in noise, either cheers or boos.
When the likes of Dembele, Vitinha, Doue, Nuno Mendes, Marquinhos, and Hakimi were called, the noise was deafening, literally rising through the roof as the home fans cheered at the top of their lungs.
But when a certain Samuel Moses’s name was called, the noise was also deafening, but instead of cheers it was boos.
In the tunnel, Sam’s face twitched.
Never in his career had he been booed so loudly.
Yamal laughed beside him. "Seems like they really hate you".
He chuckled. "Well, I don’t blame them".
The starting XIs for both teams were the possible best that they could field. Neither of the two coaches held punches, they went all out.
For Paris Saint Germain, starting in a 4-3-3 formation, Donnarumma started in goal, while ahead of him was the defensive quadruple of Achraf Hakimi, Marquinhos, Pacho, and the electric Nuno Mendes.
In midfield was the trio of Vitinha, Joao Neves, and Fabian Ruiz, while the attacking trio comprised Ousmane Dembele, Kvaratskhelia, and Desire Doue.
For FC Barcelona, Hansi Flick went with his favoured 4-2-3-1 formation with Joan Garcia in goal, while ahead of him was Kounde, Araujo, Cubarsi, and Balde. Pedri and Dejong formed the double midfield pivot.
The 4-men upfront were Gavi in CAM, Lamine Yamal in right wing, Raphinha on the left, and Sam leading the line as the striker again.
Sam adjusted his knee pads, his face unreadable. Across the tunnel, Marquinhos slapped his chest, shouting "Paris!" "Paris!" as Kvaratskhelia rolled his shoulders, his eyes burning like a furnace.
The tension was palpable, and then... the referee gave the signal.
FWEEEEE!
The game kicked off.
From the very first seconds of the game, Barcelona barely played the first pass when PSG pressed with the ferocity of a starving lion.
João Neves snapped at Pedri’s heels, Vitinha darted forward like a blade, and Dembélé pounced on Balde with a hunger only betrayal could feed.
The noise... it was unbearable. Fifty thousand throats roared as if Paris itself had risen to swallow Barcelona whole. Every Barça touch was met with whistles, and every PSG interception with a roar that rattled the foundations.
"Calma!" Flick screamed from the touchline, hands gesturing downward to indicate calm, but calm was impossible here at the Parc des Princes.
By the 8th minute, PSG had already fired three shots.
Kvaratskhelia cut inside past Koundé, his curling effort tipped over by Garcia. Dembélé ripped down the middle, Araújo’s block denying him by inches.
As for Sam, reading the momentum of the game, he dropped deeper, shielding the ball and linking play, but every time Barça crossed halfway, a white wall of Parisian shirts smothered them.
Barcelona weren’t just passengers though. Despite PSG’s high-intensity game plan and the hostile atmosphere of the stadium, they had players with enough quality to create chaos even in a cauldron like this.
Yamal, bold and fearless, finally danced past Nuno Mendes in the 14th minute, slicing into the box before Marquinhos lunged to block.
In the 19th minute, Sam peeled wide, dragging the Parisian defense apart as his cross found Raphinha only for him to volley wide.
For a heartbeat, the Parc gasped. Barça weren’t broken yet.
But PSG smelled blood.
And then, the breakthrough came in the 22nd minute.
It came from a loose ball as João Neves pounced, slipping it to Fabián Ruiz, who immediately released Kvaratskhelia on the left.
The Georgian devil surged forward, his first touch electric, leaving Koundé stumbling. Araújo slid across to cover, but Kvaratskhelia chopped inside with venom, curling a demonic left-foot rocket past Garcia into the far corner.
GOAL PSG! 1–0!
The Parc des Princes exploded.
Red and blue smoke burst into the air as Kvaratskhelia slid on his knees, arms wide, face contorted with fire as his teammates mobbed him.
The cameras zoomed in on Sam.
His jaw was tightened, his eyes narrowed, but his expression never cracked. He walked back to the center circle, clapping his hands. "Vamos, vamos!"
The storm didn’t stop there for Barca. If anything, it grew worse.
Doue hunted Balde like prey, and Dembele literally haunted Araujo with his press, taunting his former club with every dribble he made. The electric Vitinha controlled the rhythm, snapping passes and driving forward.
Barcelona clung on by grit.
Araújo made a colossal block on Doue at the edge of the six-yard box, and just a minute later Garcia saved point-blank from Vitinha after a deadly one-two combination with Mendes.
Every time Sam touched the ball, he was swarmed by two, three men. Yet even then, he found sparks; at one point beating his man with a chest control to turn Pacho, before a flick to release Pedri.
But Barça’s attacks broke against PSG’s tidal wave.
And then, taking advantage, PSG dug the dagger in the 41st minute.
The ball fizzed between Dembélé and João Neves before finding Vitinha just outside the box. The Portuguese midfielder barely glanced up as he shifted the ball past Gavi’s lunge before unleashing a thunderbolt with his right boot.
It flew... past Garcia’s outstretched glove, kissing the net like destiny.
GOAL PSG! 2–0!
BOOM!
The Parc des Princes erupted like a volcano.
Fans bounced, flares lit the skies, and the stands shook as though Paris had finally exorcised years of torment. Vitinha roared, arms pumping, teammates piling onto him in delirium.
On the touchline, Luis Enrique clenched a fist. Hansi Flick barked orders, his expression icy, but inside his gut churned.
Just before halftime, Barcelona had their final breath as they nearly struck back to half the Parisian lead.
Sam dropped deep, spun João Neves with a Cruyff turn, before slipping Yamal through. The young Spaniard cut inside and curled for the far corner, but tall and imposing, Donnarumma made a stunning fingertip save!
The rebound fell to Raphinha, who rifled it over the bar. The chance was gone and the Parc des Princes roared with relief and mockery.
Halftime came moments later.
FWEEEE!
The whistle pierced the chaos.
[HALF-TIME: PSG 2 - Barcelona 0]
Players trudged down the tunnel, sweat-soaked and battered.
PSG’s men slapped each other’s backs, the Parc serenading them. Barcelona’s faces were grim; Pedri wiped his forehead, Yamal shook his head, muttering, while Araújo clenched his jaw.
Sam walked last, his gaze fixed ahead, burning but unreadable. He didn’t speak though the cameras were literally shoved on his face, he didn’t need to.
The Parc des Princes had unleashed hell.
Barcelona had survived, but they were sinking.