The board read: [+3 minutes.]
The stadium was a cauldron of nerves. Every fan in the King Fahd Stadium was on their feet, eyes glued to one man… Samuel Moses.
Bruised, exhausted, double man-marked into near-irrelevance for ninety minutes. And yet here he was again, lungs burning, eyes burning with a defiant flame. The ball was glued to his right boot near midfield, three red and white shirts swarming around him.
The clock ticked 90+1.
And then it started…
Barrios lunged first, reckless with fatigue.
But Sam? Despite the slight lightheadedness that he felt due to running non-stop for over 90 minutes, his eyes were full of cold and brutal clarity.
His brain churned on overdrive, analyzing everything around him as his Perfect mastery Spatial Awareness worked his magic.
Even before Barrios lunged, Sam already saw it. It was almost like he was threading in a dimension a few seconds ahead of the others.
The state of flow…
The mental state of total immersion in an activity, characterized by such deep focus and a loss of self-consciousness and time that enjoyment is derived solely from the task itself… Sam was already in that state.
Pablo Barrios lunged, and Sam flicked the ball over his tackle with a rainbow touch, spinning past like smoke.
BZZZ!
Barrios saw stars as he collapsed on the pitch, before quickly standing back up to pursue, but Sam was already past him.
The crowd gasped, a chorus of disbelief.
Cardoso came next, angling to cut him off. Sam slowed down, shifted his weight, then unleashed an elastico so sharp it cracked like a whip. Cardoso's knees buckled. He stumbled to the turf, eyes wide.
With a hum, Sam was gone.
Lenglet thundered forward next, body heavy, the ex-Barcelona defender eager to smother the new King of his ex-club.
But Sam, having anticipated the clash chopped the ball behind his heel and rolled away with a roulette. Lenglet swung at air, spinning hopelessly as the Nigerian surged past him with fluid breezy movement.
The Bernabéu had once bowed to Messi, now Riyadh bowed to Moses.
Two defenders remained, Hancko and Le Normand, both furiously dragging themselves backward as he advanced, forming the last barricade in front of Oblak.
Sam slowed, head up, reading them like open books. He feinted right. Both shifted, then he exploded left.
BZZZ!
Hancko lunged desperately, stretching his boot for the ball. Sam responded by pulling the ball back with a silky croqueta, gliding between the pair in one liquid motion like a slippery eel.
It was diabolic, it was crazy, it was poetry in motion.
FC Barcelona fans in the stands rose up to their feet, hands on their head. And just like that, Sam was through.
The Atleti end screamed, voices breaking, hands in their hair. They knew…
Oblak charged out, chest broad, arms outstretched, eyes dilated with focus.
Sam didn't rush.
He shaped as though to curl it right, and Oblak dove with lighting fast instincts. But at the last instant, Sam rolled his foot across the ball and chipped, feather-light, sending it soaring over the sprawled keeper.
Time slowed...
The ball spun in the desert air, floating, descending… kissing the underside of the crossbar, then…
Clang!
It crossed the line. The net bulged.
BOOM!
The stadium detonated.
Barcelona fans erupted in unison, blue and garnet flares painting the Riyadh night as the noise rose through the roof in untamable decibels.
Raphinha sprinted down the touchline, hands tearing at his hair like a mad man. Yamal collapsed to his knees, laughing and crying. Pedri leapt onto Araújo's back, roaring like a warrior.
On the bench, Hansi Flick punched the air, usually calm but now wild-eyed. The coaching staff piled over him in chaos.
The whole stadium was swept in the chaos of that stunning goal.
"SAMUELLLLLLL…!" The commentator screamed shrilly.
"SAMUEL, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"
"Zinedine Sam what? This guy is the FOOTBALL GOD!"
"What a goal, what a run, and what a finish, chef's kiss!"
"Diabolical from the Catalan King!"
Amid all the chaos tearing through the stadium because of his goal, Sam?
He didn't seem to be a part of it. He simply spread his arms wide, chest heaving, sweat dripping, face calm as though this moment had always been written.
You know moments were athletes just steal the stage? Moments like Muhammad Ali vs Joe Frazier, moments like Usain Bolt 2016 making history, and now… Sam just created one of those moments of his own.
The crowd roared louder. "SAM-MY!" "SAM-MY!"
Lenglet fell to his knees, staring blankly at the grass. Le Normand punched the ground in frustration, the weight of impending defeat pressing on them, crushing all their efforts. Barrios covered his face, unable to watch.
Jan Oblak? He lay on his back, hands on his head, whispering a curse to the heavens.
On the touchline, Diego Simeone froze mid-sprint, hands outstretched as though to stop time itself. When reality sank in, he kicked the advertising board savagely, suit drenched in sweat.
The game restarted, and time ticked forward.
[90+3:20]
And then…
FWEEEE!
The final whistle blew. The scoreboard burned…
[FULL-TIME: Barcelona 1-0 Atletico Madrid]
Only after the whistle did Sam drop to his knees, arms lifted skyward in gratitude as his teammates swarmed him, a tidal wave of joy.
Yamal jumped on his back, Raphinha grabbed his face and screamed in pure delight, Lewandowski hugged him tight.
The King Fahd Stadium trembled under the chants from the FC Barcelona faithfuls. "¡Campeones! ¡Campeones!"
High above, the Supercopa de España trophy glittered under the floodlights, waiting for its champions.
The headlines had written themselves in real-time as within minutes, social media exploded.
*"WONDERGOAL! Samuel Moses wins Supercopa in stoppage time!"
*"Is this the new Messi-Ronaldo? No. This is Moses."
*"From Abraka to Riyadh: the God delivers."
Analysts compared it instantly to Messi's Getafe run, Maradona's World Cup miracle, except this was different. This was Samuel Moses, twenty one, carving his own legend.
On a night when Atlético Madrid had built a fortress, one man shattered it with divinity.
Samuel Moses, the Football God, had spoken.