Dominating Football with Perfect Ball Control

Chapter 395: 395. Hidden Dangers on the Road to the treble

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The moment Lance’s Crescent Blade swept across the penalty area in the most beautiful arc seen all season, bypassing Ter Stegen’s fingertips and slamming into the dead corner where the crossbar met the post before bouncing into the net, something unexpected happened in the stands.

Barcelona fans felt a strange sense of relief.

The booing stopped. The frustration fell away. They simply smiled, genuinely marveling at the brilliance of the free kick.

”Bravo!”

The most desperate thing in the world wasn’t Messi’s record against Lance, or the prospect of a Champions League exit on top of a League collapse. It was the full picture: overtaken in La Liga, about to lose the title; eliminated in the semi-finals after being beaten twice by Atlético Madrid; and still facing the Atlético Madrid led by Lance again in the Copa del Rey final.

Five matches against Atlético Madrid in a single season, the same result every time, and yet each one somehow felt like a fresh wound.

Lance’s jersey had long since formed an indelible psychological shadow over this club.

At this moment, many of Messi’s most devoted fans were already quietly contemplating a transfer. Premier League, Bundesliga, Serie A — anywhere. If you can’t beat them, you can at least avoid them.

The Catalan television commentator had lost every trace of the arrogance he’d carried into the match.

”Up to this point in the first half, Barcelona have played well. Messi has been excellent. The MSN partnership has functioned.”

”But it is Barcelona 0–1 Atlético Madrid, with Atlético leading 4–1 on aggregate.”

The do-or-die mentality the Barcelona players had summoned before kickoff was completely severed by Lance’s Crescent Blade. In the second half, Barcelona gave up on trying to win. They abandoned any tactical plan and channeled everything into physical confrontation.

”Look at that!!! Rakiti?’s tackle!”

”Godín is down in pain!!”

66th minute. Atlético Madrid were passing it around the backfield, managing the clock. Barcelona midfielder Rakiti?, pushed past breaking point, sprinted in and slid through Godín’s ankle.

Godín grabbed his foot and rolled in agony.

”Puta!!”

”Damn it!!”

Lance could take a foul aimed at him calmly and turn it to his advantage. But watching an opponent go after one of his teammates was a different matter entirely.

After the foul, Rakiti? showed no remorse, impatiently trying to haul Godín upright while he was still writhing on the ground.

”He’s faking it! Diving, referee! He’s diving!”

So that’s how it was going to be.

Lance stepped forward and shoved Rakiti? away. His expression was cold, his eyes burning. Rakiti? felt the heat of it and couldn’t hold his gaze.

”Dive your mother! You fouled him and now you’re pulling him up?”

Lance was just rational enough not to swing. Young center-back Giménez wasn’t. Godín was his mentor, his best defensive partner, and his senior in the Uruguay squad. He shoved Rakiti? hard, nose to nose.

Rakiti?, a graduate of the La Masia school of dramatic arts, went with the momentum and dropped to the ground, clutching his face.

Both men were now on the grass. One in genuine pain, the other performing.

”Brother, how are you?” Lance crouched down quickly.

”I... Fuck!!”

Beads of sweat broke across Godín’s forehead. He couldn’t speak, but he waved his hand, not wanting his teammates to worry.

The team doctor rushed onto the field, checked the ankle briefly, then looked up and shook his head at the bench.

They sprayed Godín with sports injury spray, lifted him onto a stretcher, and carried him off with grim expressions.

”Damn it!!”

Simeone hurled his water bottle to the ground.

Losing a key player at this moment. He wanted to strangle Rakiti?.

Even if the injury wasn’t catastrophic, Godín would be out for at least a month. The Champions League Final would be done by then.

It stands to reason that injuries across a long season are unavoidable. Almost no club finishes a campaign with a fully fit squad. The difference is that bigger clubs have the depth to absorb it. Atlético Madrid had built a world-class starting eleven, but the drop-off to the bench was significant.

And Godín wasn’t just any player. He was Uruguay’s first-choice center-back, the commander of Atlético’s defense, the anchor everything was built around.

Losing him changed the equation entirely.

”Is it serious?”

”I’m fine, Coach.”

Lying on the stretcher, Godín reassured Simeone. Then he covered his face, and his shoulders shook.

Beep.

On the field, referee Clattenburg raised a yellow card for Rakiti?, then showed one to Giménez for the shove. Both players were already on a booking. Both were sent off.

Barcelona and Atlético Madrid each lost a man simultaneously.

The moment the second yellow was shown, Rakiti? stopped his performance, climbed to his feet, and immediately got in Clattenburg’s face. Busquets, Suárez, Piqué and others swarmed the referee from all sides.

”This is La Masia Acting in its purest form.”

”Shut up, you lot are hardly clean yourselves.”

Real Madrid and Barcelona fans were somehow still finding time to argue with each other.

Clattenburg held firm and started moving through the crowd.

”Keep this up and I’ll book every one of you!!”

The Barcelona players finally dispersed. They couldn’t win eleven against eleven. Now it was ten against ten, with one fewer link in their attacking chain. The task had only gotten harder.

For Atlético, it wasn’t simple either. Godín was gone. Giménez was suspended. The coaching staff brought on a substitute center-back, took off Torres, and introduced a defensive midfielder. Saúl and his teammates formed a four-man midfield shield, with seven players focused entirely on defense and only Lance and Griezmann left to carry the attack.

The rest of the match played out as a controlled, grinding farce.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The final whistle.

Barcelona’s players collapsed to the ground. Suárez covered his face, tears streaming.

He had come to Barcelona to win championships. Two seasons in, he had fallen at the same hurdle both times. He was starting to question everything.

Was the MSN really the best attacking trident in the world? Why couldn’t they beat this man?

Neymar, Busquets, Iniesta, Mascherano — all flat on the grass.

Only Messi stood, hands on hips, head down, staring at nothing.

On the other side of the field, the Atlético players weren’t celebrating either.

Thanks to Lance’s Crescent Blade, Atlético Madrid had beaten Barcelona by a single goal on the night, advancing to the Champions League Final 4–1 on aggregate.

But the man who had scored it immediately ran to the touchline.

”How is Godín?”

”Is he okay?”

”What’s the ankle like?”

Simeone shook his head.

The squad fell quiet.

”I’m sorry. That was on me.”

Giménez stood apart from the group, shoulders dropped, eyes already red. That shove had been impulsive, and he knew it. A red card meant an automatic ban for the final. He had fought through an entire campaign to reach this moment and had put himself out of it with one moment of anger.

And if both he and Godín were unavailable for the final against Real Madrid, what then? He had dragged the team down.

The more he turned it over, the heavier it got.

”It’s not that bad. Honestly, it’s not.”

Lance moved over and put a hand on the twenty-year-old’s shoulder.

”Forget about that for now. We’ve made the final! José, you played your part out there. You were brilliant at the back.”

”Yeah?”

That was enough to finish him. Giménez crumbled and started crying properly.

Simeone looked at his players — this group of kids — and pulled them all in.

”Today is a victory. Whatever happens next, we’ve made the final. We’re in the damn Champions League Final again!!”

”Enjoy tonight. Then we go and win those championships.”

La Liga. Champions League. Copa del Rey.

Setting aside the crisis at the back, this year, Atlético Madrid had a chance to reach the absolute pinnacle of European club football.

The treble.