Chapter 48: The world holds its breath
There are games, and then there is El Clásico.
In Spain, the days leading up to October 26th felt like an endless drumroll.
The entire nation, no, the entire world buzzed, bracing for ninety minutes that would echo far beyond football.
Barcelona and Real Madrid... the game of giants, the fixture were sagas are made. Both were level on points at the top of La Liga, both were unbeaten, both were storming through Europe like hurricanes.
But on October 26th, something had to give.
At the Santiago Bernabéu, the administration was already at work as workers hoisted massive banners across the stands.
["REYES DE EUROPA" — Kings of Europe.]
The concrete giant called the Santiago Bernabeu, reborn in its latest renovation shimmered under floodlights. It was not just a stadium. It was a monument, a lion’s den, a coliseum of elite gladiators.
The press? They buzzed like bees. They were hard at work, aggressively fanning the flames of the latest El Clasico.
They churned out comparisons to the great Clásicos of old... to Messi’s four-finger celebration, Ronaldo’s silencing shush, even Ronaldinho’s standing ovation at the Bernabeu.
Now, Samuel Moses’s name entered those conversations.
The Nigerian phenomenon, just 21, had carried Barcelona to an unbeaten start, scored goals at will, and already lifted a Champions League trophy.
What he did in England 2 seasons prior with Fulham, he now did in La Liga. And now, it was time for the fixture of fixtures in the new season.
The media painted him as Messi’s heir, Madrid’s tormentor-in-waiting. And Real Madrid took that personally.
Interviews, press conferences, and microphones lit sparks into fire across Spain as fires were shot.
Sam, in front of the media was calm but sharp. "This is the game you dream about as a child. Bernabéu, Clásico, ninety minutes to define yourself. But for me, it’s simple," he grinned. "We go there to win."
Kylian Mbappé, Madrid’s superstar forward also said his piece to the media when confronted. "Yes, Barcelona are in form, but they haven’t faced us yet. El Clásico isn’t just football, its survival. They’ll see the difference."
Vinícius had a grin on his face. "Like I told you guys earlier, he’s a one-season wonder. Let’s see if he still shines when Madrid press his lungs out".
On the other side, Raphinha defended his teammate despite the fact that he was also Brazilian. "If Sam’s a one-season wonder, then I don’t know what they call their strikers. He’s the best in the world right now, and that’s just plain facts."
And in the middle, Hansi Flick and Xabi Alonso danced the tactical mind games. Flick insisted Barça’s pressing would suffocate Madrid, while Alonso countered that Madrid thrived in chaos.
The legends of both clubs also weighed in, fueling the fire further.
Lionel Messi joined the conversation all the way from Miami. "El Clásico is about courage. Sam has that. But Madrid at the Bernabéu, that is another kind of test. Last season, he passed, I believe he can pass the test again".
Cristiano Ronaldo also chipped in from Riyadh. "People compare this boy to Messi. Let’s see if he can do what matters, let’s see if he can score at the Bernabéu when it counts."
The world couldn’t get enough. Talk shows, social media, podcasts, the match consumed everything.
In Spain, the cities of Barcelona and Madrid divided.
In Barcelona, murals of Sam appeared on walls, his arms outstretched like a messiah. In Madrid, Valverde’s rocket at Stamford Bridge was replayed endlessly, proof that Los Blancos had their own heroes.
Bars overflowed with men who could not stop arguing endlessly about the outcome of the game. Children wore jerseys of their idols. Families split by allegiance bickered and laughed, but all agreed on one thing... this Clásico would be special.
...
Inside Barca’s camp...
At Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the tension was electric. Training sessions crackled with intensity. Flick drilled his men relentlessly, pushing them through pressing triggers, defensive positioning, and finishing drills.
Every player was tuned to a razor’s edge. Hansi Flick was meticulous.
Sam, though, was calm through it all. He jogged through the rondos, laughing with Yamal and Gavi, but his eyes burned with focus.
That night, in his apartment, Kayla handed him the pendant she had gifted earlier, the coordinates of Abraka.
"Whatever happens, remember where you came from". She smiled and hugged him.
Sam kissed her forehead. "Thank you," he smiled. "Tomorrow, the world remembers where I’m going".
...
Inside Madrid’s camp...
At Valdebebas, Xabi Alonso paced like a general before battle. His instructions were precise; control transitions, exploit space behind Balde, isolate Vinícius against Koundé.
Bellingham, ice-cold, trained with the fury and focus of a soldier going to war. Mbappé sharpened his runs, every sprint a declaration of intent. Valverde, hero of London, screamed encouragement at teammates.
"Barcelona press high?" Mbappé told reporters. "Good, it means more space for us to run at".
...
Time moved fast, and then matchday arrived.
It was D-day.
October 26th, 2026...
Madrid woke up early, streets clogged with scarves, chants echoing through Gran Vía. Barcelona fans made the pilgrimage too, pockets of blaugrana squeezing into a sea of white. Riot police lined the streets, helicopters circled the skies.
The Bernabéu glistened like a spaceship, banners unfurled, chants echoing long before kickoff. The stage of stages was set.
As the lineups were announced, a deafening roar greeted the team sheets.
Real Madrid started in their 4-3-3 formation. Courtois started in goal, while ahead of him was Arnold, Rudiger, Huijsen, and Mendy. In midfield was Valverde, Guler, and Bellingham, while the attacking trio were Rodrygo, Mbappe, and Vinicius.
FC Barcelona stared in their regular 4-2-3-1 formation.
Garcia started in goal, Kounde, Araujo, Cubarsi, and Balde forming the defense, Pedri and De Jong in central midfield, Gavi in attacking midfield, while Raphinha, Sam, and Yamal formed the attack force.
The camera panned across the players in the tunnel.
It captured Sam adjusting his armband, eyes locked forward. Mbappé cracked a smile, tapping Vinícius on the shoulder, whispering something into his ear. Even in the tunnel, a slight tension tinged between them.
The referee looked at both captains. "Respect. Fight. Let’s go". He led the way out. A minute or two later, all the customary procedures were done, and then...
FWEEE!
The whistle blew.
El Clásico was alive.
Madrid roared forward instantly, Vinícius charging at Koundé, forcing Jose Garcia into an early save as the Bernabéu thundered in reply.
The atmosphere in the stadium was electric.