"The rain has suddenly picked up! This is incredibly rare weather for Madrid..."
"The situation has taken a disastrous turn for Barcelona. Not only have they conceded a second goal, but this weather is a worst-case scenario for them!"
The broadcast booth was situated in a covered box above the stands. However, the commentators could clearly see just how violently the rain was pouring down.
The Barcelona players looked up at the sky. Cold, piercing rain lashed against their faces, perfectly matching the biting despair growing in their chests. Xavi stomped his boot against the pitch. In just a dozen seconds, the grass was already splashing water under his cleats.
The Calderón possessed an excellent drainage system, but a sudden torrential downpour like this was impossible to clear immediately. Everyone knew just how heavily Barcelona's tactical system relied on crisp, short ground passes. Under these conditions, the water clinging to the turf would drastically slow down the ball and distort passing lanes.
The risk of unforced errors had just skyrocketed. For Barcelona, this had officially become a nightmare.
Shane Carter fully understood the despair washing over the Barcelona players. But understanding didn't mean he was going to show mercy. He wasn't some patron saint of fair play. Striking while the enemy was vulnerable was his only priority right now.
Jogging back to his own half, Shane shouted instructions to his teammates.
"Boys, put the ball in the air!"
The Atlético squad instantly grasped his meaning. They already held a massive advantage. Timing, terrain, and momentum were all firmly on their side.
…
Play resumed. Exactly as expected, Barcelona's passing speed was severely handicapped. To avoid costly mistakes, they were forced to play it safe, circulating the ball deep in their own half.
But could that win them the game? Even the most die-hard Barcelona supporters knew that passing around the backline wouldn't score goals. It certainly wasn't going to make Atlético Madrid anxious.
The team desperate for goals wasn't Atlético. It was Barcelona, trailing by two. Therefore, despite the torrential rain, Barcelona had no choice but to push forward.
However, the moment they tried to advance, the waterlogged pitch made ball control incredibly erratic. This directly led to an increase in Atlético's counter-attacking opportunities. If the slippery surface hadn't caused a few clumsy touches from Atlético's own attackers, Barcelona would have easily conceded a third by now.
Still, if the game continued in this pattern, everyone knew exactly what was going to happen. Barcelona fans were already bracing themselves for the inevitable. When the third goal finally arrived, even they weren't entirely surprised.
…
The thirty-seventh minute arrived. The rain finally began to ease. Barcelona's players attempted to accelerate their passing tempo, but the result was a swift interception in the attacking third.
Diego Godín recovered the ball. Under normal circumstances, he would have looked to play the ball to Shane's feet, allowing the midfielder to orchestrate the transition. But now, Shane was pointing a finger squarely at the sky.
The message was obvious. Forget the ground, put it on my head.
The rain was impartial, affecting both teams equally, making Atlético just as hesitant to play short passes. But unlike Barcelona, playing long, aerial balls carried zero psychological burden for Simeone's men. In fact, it was their absolute strength.
The ball soared toward the center circle. Shane launched himself into the air, easily out-jumping Busquets to flick a header out to the flank. Griezmann brought it down smoothly and charged forward, while Shane landed and immediately joined the rush.
Griezmann's run down the wing was completely unopposed. Barcelona had committed far too many bodies forward in their desperate search for a goal, leaving their backline dangerously exposed. Having lost the aerial duel, Busquets was now sprinting back with gritted teeth, desperately trying to catch up to Shane.
Ahead of Shane, only Piqué, Mascherano, and Jordi Alba remained in defense. Diego Costa was already pinning Piqué back, forcing the defensive line deeper. Shane continued his surging run.
In that split second, ignoring the trailing Busquets, it was a pure three-on-three scenario. Griezmann was carrying the ball down the wing. If any of the three central defenders stepped out wide to stop him, they would be inviting disaster.
Basic defensive logic dictated that the most critical area had to be prioritized. The center of the pitch. Piqué kept his eyes glued to Costa. Mascherano and Alba naturally focused their attention on the charging Shane Carter.
As for Griezmann on the flank? His options were limited. He could either cut inside to shoot or cross it into the middle. Was he going to shoot directly from the touchline? If he somehow scored from there, Barcelona would gladly forge him a medal. The probability was simply too low to worry about.
Griezmann had no intention of cutting inside. He drove unhindered down the flank until he reached the edge of the final third. He looked up, scanning the penalty area. This immediately sent a wave of panic through the remaining Barcelona defenders.
"Watch for the header!" Valdés roared.
They didn't need the reminder. Conceding two identical goals had practically given the Barcelona squad PTSD when it came to Shane's aerial ability. This time, they were braced and ready inside the box, preparing for an all-out physical war.
Griezmann and Shane locked eyes for a fraction of a second. A silent understanding passed between them. Griezmann swung his foot and played the pass.
Just as everyone braced for another lofted cross, the ball stayed pinned to the wet grass. It was a crisp cutback, rolling straight toward the top of the penalty arc.
Arriving at a full sprint, Shane adjusted his stride. He didn't bother taking a touch to control it. He simply opened up his body, drew back his right leg, and let fly.
The ball exploded off his instep, instantly generating a violent, whipping spin as it left his foot.
The Barcelona defenders, who had clustered near the penalty spot preparing for an aerial war, went pale. They had been so traumatized by Shane's two headed goals that they completely forgot one terrifying fact.
Over the past few dozen matches, from this exact spot at the edge of the box, Shane Carter had unleashed countless world-class curling strikes.
The ball tore through the damp air, spinning viciously. It painted a breathtaking arc across the sky. Mascherano and Alba could only tilt their heads back, helplessly watching the ball soar, bend, and plummet toward the top corner.
Valdés threw himself across the goalmouth. His fingertips actually grazed the leather. But it was only enough to flick the rainwater off the surface of the ball.
With a sharp rustle, the ball ripped into the netting. Thud. Valdés crashed into the waterlogged turf, sending a splash of water into the air.
Nobody noticed exactly when, but the rain had finally stopped. A faint halo of pale light was beginning to break through the clouds.
Lying in the mud, Víctor Valdés had never felt a deeper, more crushing sense of absolute despair.
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