Chapter 52: El Clásico. [4]
[Scoreboard: Real Madrid 3-2 Barcelona]
The scoreboard blinked under a ceiling of noise.
Seventy minutes had gone at the Bernabéu, and the air tasted of iron and adrenaline even as white flags rolled like waves. In the thin strip of blaugrana hidden high up in the stands, the away fans never stopped singing.
No one in the building believed this would finish quietly.
Real Madrid were leading again, and they were determined to dig deep and grind out the win. They came out gnashing. That did not mean they tried to defend though, rather, they continued playing their game.
Arda Güler dropped into the right half‑space, calling for the ball, pirouetting away from Pedri and threading a dagger toward Vinícius.
Koundé matched the run, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, forcing the Brazilian wide. And yet, somehow, Vinícius still managed to wriggle free before lashing the ball across goal.
José García reacted on ultra-instinct and kicked out a boot, the ball spitting away like a spark off steel.
The roar swelled in the stadium as Valverde surged onto the second ball as without hesitation, he swung at it...
POW!
But... blocked!
Gavi’s ribcage took the full force.
He wheezed. "Bastardo!" He cursed, but then he sprang back up, grinning, his forehead pressed to Valverde’s in a manic duel only they understood. Yellow shirts from the bench gestured to calm, yet nobody listened.
On the touchline, Xabi Alonso chopped the air. "Otra! Again!"
Hansi Flick answered with a whirling finger at his players. "Out! Out!" Barça’s high line crept three steps higher.
And then in the 75th minute, Yamal lit a fuse in the stadium.
Relief arrived in a flash of youth for Barcelona.
Lamine Yamal received the ball under pressure, two men snapping at his ankles. And yet, standing his ground, he used a heel feint to tempt Mendy, a scoop to slither past Güler, then he hit the accelerator...
BZZZ!
He tore up the right in a blur, grass spitting from his studs. On the other side, Raphinha darted across the face of Trent Alexander‑Arnold, dragging the full‑back with him. Space opened...
...Yamal chopped inside and curled to the far post.
Thibaut Courtois backpedaled, fingertips grazing the ball. The ball kissed the crossbar and bounced down into the net.
"..."
"GOALLLLLL!!!" The commentator screamed in a shrill voice.
"LAMINE YAMALLLLL!!!"
"The boy has done it! The wonderkid from La Masia has silenced the Santiago Bernabeu!"
"76th minute, GOAL, 3-3!"
The away sector detonated, blue and garnet smoke ribbons curling into the Madrid air like Chinese Dragons. Lamine Yamal pounded his chest as Sam yanked him into a bear hug, laughing like a street kid back in Abraka.
The Bernabéu’s decibel meter didn’t drop, rather, it changed, transforming into a cacophony of whistles, rage, and a demand for reply.
Now, Madrid sought the answer. They found it fast.
Just 3 minutes after Yamal’s goal, in the 79th minute, Güler coaxed Balde forward with a teasing dribble, and then slipped Trent down the right.
One look up, and the creative fullback whipped a ball across that arced and dipped behind Barça’s line with lethal precision.
"What... a... CROSS!" The commentator raved.
Jude Bellingham arrived like a ghost, untracked from deep. His timing was perfect. He didn’t thump it, rather, he caressed a header into the far side netting, using García’s momentum against him.
4-3 Madrid!
Bellingham stood in front of the fans at the Santiago Bernabeu, arms wide, and with a serene look on his face as the stadium exploded. Mbappé leapt onto his back, and Vinícius slapped the crest as the Bernabéu throbbed like a struck drum.
Hansi Flick clapped. "Heads up! C’mon! We still have plenty of time!" Even he didn’t believe what he said; the game was getting at his nerves.
But Sam nodded nonetheless.
The game went to the knife‑edge of detail.
De Jong, now running on fumes stepped across Valverde to halt a transition. The referee allowed the rugged advantage before later hauling it back on the next stoppage to warn both.
Pedri’s boots seemed magnetized to the ball, his pirouettes and ball retention ability buying his teammates a little time to catch their breaths.
Gavi pressed until the grass looked worn where he’d sprinted. He was a menace.
On Madrid’s side, Huijsen grew by the minute as one clean toe on a Sam cutback saved his side from a deadly buildup, while one brave forehead challenge saved them again from Raphinha’s dash.
Alongside Rüdiger, they kept Barca’s desperate last offensive push at bay. Rudiger’s shoves made it clear that there’d be no free passes late in the game.
In the 84th minute, Mbappé found a seam and exploded, but Araújo timed a last‑ditch tackle to perfection, the kind that carries a season’s worth of composure inside a single slide.
Mbappé popped back up and smirked at the Uruguayan. Respect earned, duel scheduled for another day. They both shook hands and separated.
And then, in the 86th minute Yamal went at it again.
He burned Mendy on the outside this time, arriving to the byline and rolling a reverse ball between Courtois’ legs, igniting chaos in the six‑yard box.
Sam lunged, but at the last moment Rüdiger’s boot appeared from nowhere to nick it off his toe. It was the kind of defending that wins wars and leaves scars.
Sam slapped his hands together once. No theatrics, no lashing out in frustration, just pure focus.
Hansi Flick signaled, finally making changes as he brought on Lewandowski for De Jong, tilting his system into a hyper-offensive 2‑4‑4 in possession.
Barca was now going all in late in the game.
Sam slid to the right half‑space, Gavi dropped deeper, while Pedri was left alone in the pivot position. It took audacity to take such a bold decision, but to Hansi Flick, this was the only currency left.
Xabi Alonso responded by bringing on Camavinga for Güler, replacing silk for steel. Madrid’s shape shortened, but their threat on the break sharpened.
In the 88th minute, Madrid nearly ended it as Valverde forced Pedri into a rare heavy touch and pounced, feeding Vinícius in stride. The Brazilian squared for Mbappé who was twelve yards out... it was the perfect crown‑making moment.
And yet... again, José García made himself a wall, swallowing the angles.
BAM!
The shot hammered against his chest, and the ball died at his feet. He fell on it like a keeper in a childhood dream.
The Bernabéu wailed.
García punched the air twice and screamed nothing at all. They were losing, but he was proud of his own performance. Across the halfway line, Sam didn’t look back; this was because he already wanted the restart.
And then, after 90 minutes, additional time followed. The referee added 5 minutes of additional time.
Barça circulated the ball, patient under the Bernabeu whistles... Koundé into Pedri, Pedri into Gavi under pressure.
Eventually, the ball found its way to Yamal who killed it’s momentum with the sole of his boot. He paused with such calm like he was the Timeless Assassin, before taking three touches in rapid succession.
His first touch was a step inside to unbalance Mendy, and then, with a sudden change of direction, he burst outside, slaloming past Mendy and Camavinga, before cutting inside again and past Rüdiger’s lunge.
He had no right to do that this late in the game when lungs burned and legs were heavy, and yet here he was, finding space where there was none, and at last, he blew the door open by sheer audacity.
His cross wasn’t a cross. Rather, it was an invitation hung at the back post, asking for a poet rather than a hammer.
Sam answered.
He backpedaled, eyes never leaving the ball. He felt Huijsen’s nudge, he felt gravity itself but Sam denied all of it... then his body hinged, spine bowing, legs scissoring skyward.
The stadium held its breath.
An overhead kick is part geometry, part courage, and part childhood fantasy. Right now, Sam had all three and he merged them into one, PERFECTO!
He made contact... sweet, square, violent and true.
BAM!
The ball roared. It knifed past Courtois’ right hand, curled inside the post, and snapped the net like a sail.
GOAL! 4–4, Hat trick!