Defeating Barcelona at home meant Atlético Madrid no longer needed to look at anyone else's results. They controlled their own destiny. While Barcelona players anxiously monitored the score from the Calderón, the Atlético players only needed to focus on themselves.
Shane Carter's reminder had instantly steadied their nerves. They knew there was still plenty of time left on the clock. A single goal was all they needed to seal the victory.
Play resumed. Mallorca had practically no attackers on the pitch, so their rare offensive forays fizzled out quickly, easily intercepted by Atlético's midfield. Immediately after losing the ball, Mallorca scrambled back, parking the bus in a suffocating low block.
"Atlético are going to find it incredibly difficult to break this down," Martin noted on the English broadcast.
It was the absolute truth. Scoring against a team that had completely abandoned attacking was a grueling task. There are generally only a few ways to dismantle a parked bus. You can cross from the wings and rely on a target man to win the headers. You can dribble directly into the block to draw fouls and create chaos. Or, you can shoot from distance.
Fortunately for Atlético, whether it was delivering a deadly cross, crashing the box for a header, weaving through defenders to force a foul, or unleashing a long-range strike, Shane Carter excelled at all of them.
Therefore, the moment Shane received the ball, a wave of electric anticipation swept through the Calderón. The crowd roared to life.
"Shane has the ball..."
Up in the commentary box, Gary's voice dropped to a tense, dramatic register. He sounded like a narrator on a wildlife documentary, describing a lion slowly stalking its prey. The sheer presence of the American midfielder commanded total attention. Everyone waited with bated breath. What would he do this time? The completely versatile Shane Carter was entirely unpredictable.
Shane drove the ball into the attacking half. He dropped his left shoulder. The moment Mallorca's defensive midfielder, Martí, shifted his weight, Shane had already blown past him on the right.
"Oh, brilliant! What a beautiful piece of skill! Martí couldn't even react!"
"His touch is absolutely phenomenal! The ball is like an extension of his body. Even at that speed, the ball does exactly what he commands!"
Amidst the commentators' praise, Shane accelerated, slicing through the midfield like lightning. In the blink of an eye, he arrived at the edge of the penalty area.
"Stop him!"
"I'll drop deep for cover!"
"Block the shooting lane!"
The Mallorca players retreated frantically, treating him like an invading army. But just as they scrambled to organize their defensive assignments, Shane had already locked his eyes on the goal.
Between him and the net stood a dense, impenetrable wall of Mallorca defenders. They formed a physical barricade designed to block any ground pass or low shot. A parked bus is notoriously hard to pierce through the middle, but the airspace above it offered a perfect, unobstructed path.
Shane made his decision instantly. Shoot.
Shane suddenly pulled his right leg back. He didn't tense his entire body and swing wildly from the hip like a standard long-range effort. Instead, he locked his ankle, tensed his calf muscles, and whipped his foot forward.
It was the exact technique used for a dipping knuckleball. If he could use this technique from a dead-ball free kick, there was absolutely no reason he couldn't use it in open play. Shane's gaze locked onto the space just above the heads of the Mallorca defenders.
That was the path to the goal. That was the path to the championship.
Bang!
The ball exploded off his boot.
…
"Shane carries it forward! But the Mallorca box is absolutely packed! He really doesn't have many options here!"
"He might need to recycle possession."
"Playing it out wide seems like the smartest choice."
Martin and Gary analyzed the play rapidly in the booth. But in the very next second, they both froze.
"He's shooting?!"
"From that distance..."
Martin didn't even get to finish his sentence before he shot out of his chair, his eyes wide as he stared at the pitch.
As the ball soared into the sky, a collective realization washed over the stadium. The Atlético Madrid fans were already out of their seats. The Mallorca fans gripped their heads in sudden terror.
Swish!
In the next fraction of a second, the ball reached its apex and then dipped violently. It plummeted like a falling meteor, diving over the defensive wall and dipping sharply under the crossbar.
The moment the ball slammed into the back of the net, the red and white sea of fans behind the goal erupted.
"Yeeessss!!!"
The Calderón exploded into pure, unadulterated madness.
The moment the ball left his foot, Shane knew. It was going in.
Many elite players experience this exact sensation. The second a shot is struck, the body instantly registers the quality of the contact. Shane felt it in his bones. His calf had delivered maximum power. The point of contact was flawless. The speed and spin generated upon release were absolutely perfect. Every single metric confirmed it was an unstoppable strike.
In the next heartbeat, Shane looked up and watched the ball crest before viciously dipping. He didn't even bother tracking the goalkeeper's movement. If a shot of that magnitude could somehow be saved, Shane would gladly shake the keeper's hand.
He immediately turned and sprinted toward the South Stand. As he ran, the sound of the erupting stadium roared in his ears like a volcanic explosion. A wide smile broke across the young American's face.
He leapt into the air and dropped into a powerful knee slide. Gliding across the damp grass, he threw his arms wide, absorbing the deafening worship of the entire stadium.
Behind him, the rest of the Atlético squad sprinted over. Their faces were painted with absolute disbelief, quickly replaced by pure, unhinged ecstasy.
In the next second, Koke, Griezmann, Costa, and Gabi followed suit. One by one, the men in the red and white stripes slid across the turf, pumping their fists and screaming toward the stands. The atmosphere in the stadium hit an absolute fever pitch.
…
Over on the touchline, Simeone had already half-raised his arms the moment Shane pulled the trigger.
The instant the ball rippled the net, the fiery Argentine manager leapt into the air. He roared, punching the sky wildly as he sprinted down the sideline in the same direction Shane had run.
Seeing their manager take off, the Atlético substitutes finally snapped out of their shock. They poured out of the dugout, chasing after Simeone. Down by the corner flag, the entire squad collapsed into a massive, joyous pile. Players, substitutes, and coaches celebrated with absolute madness. Their triumphant screams were broadcast by cameras to living rooms around the entire world.
"It's in! It's in!"
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"SHAAAANNNNNE!"
"1-0! 1-0! Atlético Madrid take the first and most critical step toward the championship!"
The commentary box was in total meltdown. The Calderón was literally shaking under the weight of the noise. Everyone knew exactly what this meant. Atlético Madrid had scored first, and the La Liga title was now firmly in their grasp.
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