Chapter 117: Blood, Sweat, and 1st leg Glory
It was halftime at the Spotify Camp Nou, and FC Barcelona was leading.
The stadium at halftime was as silence as a mouse.
The silence wasn’t a representation of the inactivity of the home fans though, rather, it was a direct representation of the palpable tension in the stadium.
The traveling Atleti fans could feel it, the Atleti players could feel it, and of course the FC Barcelona players could also feel it.
The tension in the stadium was at a fever pitch.
It was like a balloon that kept on absolving more air, and now, it was finally at its absolute threshold. Any increase would result in a supernova, and that explosion was what the Catalunya fans filling the stadium worked towards.
The players trudged towards the tunnel under the oppressive atmosphere of the stadium.
Inside the FC Barcelona dressing room, the players sat in silence, sweat dripping down their faces. Their boots tapped nervously against the floor. Nobody spoke... until the door clicked open.
Hansi Flick walked in slowly, his expression unreadable.
He didn’t pace, neither did he shout. He simply stood in front of them, hands clasped behind his back, his presence enough to command the room.
"Look at me". His voice was low, calm, yet somehow, every player’s head lifted to look at him.
"I want you to understand something. This shirt you wear..." he touched the crest on his chest. "It’s not just a mere cloth, it is history. It is a chain that stretches back through time".
He let the words hang, then he continued, his tone deepening.
"Xavi, Iniesta, Puyol, Busquests, Messi, do you think they walked onto this pitch afraid of Atletico Madrid?"
He paused, his eyes scanning the room, landing on Sam, Pedri, Gavi, then Lewandowski who was yet to enter the pitch.
"No," he said. "They weren’t afraid of Atletico. They played with pride, with courage, and with the weight of millions behind them".
"And tonight, that weight, that history, it’s yours".
The silence in the room grew heavier, but it wasn’t oppressive, it was electric.
"Atletico Madrid," Hansi Flick’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. "They’re a wall of men who fight with grit and teeth".
"But you?" He gestured at his squad. "You are Barcelona, you are Catalunya, you are the Catalan giants. You are not built to scratch and claw. Nah, you are built to conquer". He grinned. "You are built to outplay, to outthink, and to outlast".
He took a step forward, his voice growing sharper.
"In the second half, Atletico will want to defend their lead with their life".
"But... this stadium has seen miracles. It has seen comebacks that defied reason. It has seen the best in the world bow their heads before the Blaugrana".
"And tonight... you carry that torch".
"Tonight, you write your own page in that story".
Now, Hansi Flick’s gaze fell directly on Sam.
"Samuel," he called.
The young Nigerian lifted his head, his eyes steady.
Hansi Flick smiled at his star’s reaction. "Remember, tonight, you are not here to chase ghosts, rather, you are here to become the ghost, Atleti’s ghost".
"Tonight, make them remember you as the Ghost of Atletico".
"When people talk about El Clasico, when they talk about Champions League nights, they already speak your name. Tonight, make sure they speak it in whispers of awe when they talk about Copa del Rey too".
"You are the standard now... prove it".
Sam’s jaw tightened as his coach’s words ignited a fire that flickered in his chest.
Seeing this, Hansi Flick nodded and turned to the others.
"Pedri, Gavi, De Jong... this midfield was built on artists. I want you to paint the second half in your colors".
"Raphinha, Yamal, be bold, be fearless. Our football is not fear, it is expression, an expression of freedom. And freedom always breaks walls".
He drew a long breath, then lowered his tone almost to a whisper.
"I don’t need you to fight Atletico Madrid’s game, I need you to make them regret ever stepping into ours".
The players stirred, some nodding, others muttering under their breath. Seeing this, Hansi Flick knew he had done it; the fire was lit.
By now, the stadium was already buzzing again as the walls hummed faintly with the vibration of 90,000 voices as the second half approached.
From outside, the roar of the Spotify Camp Nou filtered through the tunnel, broken only by whistles, cheers, and chants as Barca fans once again made their presence known at home.
Hansi Flick straightened as he stared at his players. "When you head back onto that grass, remember the sound of these people... Ninety thousand hearts, all beating for you".
"They will push you, they will carry you".
"And all you have to do... is be Barcelona".
And then, for the first time since his halftime speech started, his voice rose, firm but still composed as he added.
"Now we go out there and remind Atletico who they are!"
There was a pause, then softly, almost reverently, he finished. "Barcelona does not bow... Barcelona conquers!"
The players were ignited, and then the silence exploded into noise as they leapt up with fists clenched while shouting.
Amidst the commotion, Sam stood tall, his eyes blazing as the weight of Hansi Flick’s words burned a hole into him.
He clenched his jaw, his bandaged thigh throbbing as adrenaline surged through him. "We’re not going out like this!"
From that moment on, they were no longer just playing a semifinal. Now, they were carrying the ghosts of legends, the pride of millions, and the weight of history.
And as they walked back into the tunnel, there was no hesitation in their steps.
Only destiny, and then...
FWEEE!
The second half began.
And just like expected, Atlético dug even deeper.
They literally switched into what seemed like a ridiculous back 8, with only Sorloth and Álvarez chasing shadows upfront, and everyone else behind the ball. Every time Barça entered the final third, a red and white wall slammed shut.
But Sam refused to bend.
In the 52nd minute, he dropped deep, demanding the ball, and when he got it he pivoted past Barrios with a burst of pace.
Lenglet lunged, but he missed as Sam carried the ball into space and slipped a disguised through ball into Raphinha’s path, and then... a thunderous shot!
POW!
Raphinha was on fire but Jan Oblak’s glove denied him. The Spotify Camp Nou didn’t care though, it roared.
The tide was turning.
In midfield, Pedri and De Jong sprayed passes like architects sketching angles. Balde overlapped tirelessly, dragging Llorente wide.
As for Lamine Yamal, the electric winger dazzled on the right. At one point, he dragged Hancko to the touchline before spinning past him with a rainbow flick that sent the stadium into frenzy.
And then... the momentum bore fruit in the 61st minute of the game.
Pedri threaded a needle pass between Atleti’s defenders as Yamal burst through, cutting into the box with pace. He squared a low and wicked ball across the face of goal, and Raphinha slid in at the far post, smashing it home.
GOAL! 1–1!
BOOM!
The Spotify Camp Nou exploded.
Scarves twirled, bodies leapt, and the air itself trembled. Raphinha sprinted to the corner, fingers pressed to his ears as if to say. ’Let them talk, I deliver’.
But Atleti weren’t finished, they fought doggedly.
In the 71st minute, Almada whipped a free-kick that curled like a serpent toward the top corner. Time seemed to freeze as Joan García stretched with everything he had, making a fingertip save!
The rebound fell to Sorloth, who fired with venom, but the shot was blocked by Ronald Araujo’s diving body.
The Camp Nou gasped, and Diego Simeone howled on the touchline even as Hansi Flick clenched his fists.
The war raged on, the pressure was palpable.
Sam’s kit was soaked, every muscle screaming. He had been hacked, dragged and shoved all game, yet he kept coming.
His eyes burned with fury. ’If they want war, I’ll give them one!’
’WIN!’ ’WIN!’ ’WIN!’
That old voice was already banging again in his head.
And then, in the 84th minute of the game, Sam picked the ball up thirty yards from goal. Robin Le Normand closed in, but Sam feinted left, then spun right before Cruyff-turning into space, leaving the Spanish defender chasing ghosts.
Lenglet lunged, but... nutmeg!
Sam was electric.
The crowd gasped then screamed as he surged into the box.
Acknowledging the danger, Jan Oblak made his decision fast as he charged out, but Sam didn’t shoot. From the periphery of his eyes, he saw a red and blue silhouette move, and then... at the last heartbeat, he slid the ball sideways.
"...!"
Jan Oblak lunged but failed to make contact with the ball.
Pedri arrived, calm as ice as he took one touch to control, before drilling a precise low strike into the corner.
GOAL! 2–1!
BOOM!
The Spotify Camp Nou became a volcano.
The noise shook Barcelona to its very roots. Sam clenched his fist, face twisted in triumph, teammates mobbing Pedri while the fans chanted his name.
"SA-MU-EL!" "SA-MU-EL!" "SA-MU-EL!"
After that, Atlético threw everything forward in desperation. Diego Simeone sent on Griezmann and Gallagher as crosses rained, bodies collided, and nerves were shredded in a trench warfare.
In the 90+3rd minute, a corner swung in, triggering chaos in the FC Barcelona box, then... header!
But Joan García reacted with lightning instincts, as he pounced and punched clear. Araujo booted the rebound away, and the whistle finally blew.
FWEEEE!
[FULLTIME: Barcelona 2 – 1 Atlético Madrid]
What a game.
The Spotify Camp Nou erupted as players collapsed, sweat dripping, their bodies bruised but unbroken. Hansi Flick raised both fists to the heavens, while Diego Simeone stormed down the tunnel, furious.
Sam looked around the stadium, wide-eyed as his chest heaved up and down. He didn’t get a goal, but tonight was about more.
His grit, his relentless drive, and his refusal to bow had pulled Barça through the fire.
Another semifinal survived, and another step toward glory.