December 2, 2017, Barcelona, Camp Nou.
The pale afternoon sun was weak, torn to shreds by the cold, damp Mediterranean Sea monsoon. A chill poured down the massive stands, seemingly frosting every blade of grass on the pitch with an invisible layer.
La Liga Matchday 14, Barcelona hosted Celta.
This should have been an ordinary League match, but an anxiety visible to the naked eye hung in the air at Camp Nou. This anxiety stemmed not only from facing a tough opponent like Celta, which boasted a 'giant killer' like Aspas, but also from Barça's own seemingly luxurious yet secretly turbulent defense.
Inside the Chairman's box, the atmosphere was oppressive. Josep Bartomeu clutched the starting lineup, his gaze not on the key player, Lionel Messi, but fixed intently on the bench.
A solemn man sat there—Iñigo Martínez.
"Josep, the media asked that question again when they got the squad list," Robert Fernández, the sporting director, rubbed his temples with a headache. "They asked, since Gerard Piqué is in such poor form, why isn't Iñigo starting? But there's also a faction saying, 'Thank goodness that'slippery basque person' isn't playing.'"
"Slippery basque person." Josep Bartomeu snorted, a mocking curve playing on his lips. "Catalonia has such a good memory; they only remember the bad, not the good."
Rewind to a month and a half ago, October 15, Wanda Metropolitano. In that fierce battle against Atlético Madrid, due to political turmoil, Josep Bartomeu forced Gerard Piqué to rest to protect him from aggressive Atlético Madrid fans. That day, Iñigo Martínez, who had just joined, started in place of Gerard Piqué.
That was Iñigo's nightmare. Facing Griezmann's charge, he slipped during a crucial defensive play, allowing Griezmann to easily pass him, leading to Saúl's long-range goal. Although Barça eventually equalized in that match, Mundo Deportivo gave Iñigo the lowest score of 4 points, with a scathing headline: "€32 Million for Ice Skates."
Since then, Iñigo had been on the bench. Although he had moments of brilliance with precise long passes in a few minor matches at the beginning of the season, the cruelty of a big club is that one mistake in a major game can overshadow ten brilliant moments in minor ones.
"They don't understand." Josep Bartomeu took a sip of coffee, his eyes resolute. "That mistake was because he was adapting to new studs, and also because he wanted to perform too much. But the essence in him hasn't been lost. I've seen the look in his eyes on the training ground; it's the look of a wolf after being humiliated."
"But now..." Robert pointed to the field. "Gerard Piqué's form is simply sleepwalking."
The match began. As Robert had said, although Gerard Piqué was back in the starting lineup, his soul seemed to still be at the Davis Cup negotiation table, or perhaps still engaging with Twitter trolls.
In the 20th minute, Celta scored. Aspas beat the offside trap and crossed, and Maxi Gómez tapped it in. In this conceded goal, Gerard Piqué, fearing being exploited behind him, instinctively lagged behind, ruining Samuel Umtiti's painstakingly crafted offside trap.
0-1. Camp Nou erupted in whistles. "Gerard! Wake up!" Marc-André ter Stegen angrily retrieved the ball from the net and kicked it fiercely towards the center circle.
Gerard Piqué stood with his hands on his hips, somewhat bewildered, and glanced at the scoreboard. He knew he wasn't in form; distracting thoughts buzzed in his head like flies. Accusations of "unpatriotic" and "only caring about money" shackled his legs like invisible chains.
Fortunately, Barça still had Lionel Messi. In the 22nd minute, Lionel Messi equalized. In the 62nd minute, Luis Suárez put them ahead. 2-1.
The situation seemed stable. But just when everyone thought Barça would win without a hitch, the goddess of fate violently plucked the string named "destruction" in the 70th minute.
Celta counterattacked. Aspas dribbled through the center. Gerard Piqué retreated, his steps heavy. At this moment, they could only rely on the
Umtiti started, accelerating. He was incredibly fast, seemingly about to catch up to Aspas. But in the instant of his full sprint, he suddenly seemed to be shot in the back by an invisible person.
"Ah!!!" A tragic roar. Umtiti's body violently shuddered, the muscle fibers in his right thigh completely tearing from the intense strain. He fell heavily onto the grass, not even bothering to brace himself, his hands clamped tightly over his thigh, his features contorted in agony.
Aspas drove straight in, assisting a teammate's goal. Although the goal was ultimately disallowed for offside, Camp Nou had fallen into a deathly silence.
The stretcher came on. Umtiti buried his head in his arms, weeping. As a professional player, he knew what this meant—at least two months out of action.
"Biceps femoris tear." In the box, the team doctor watched the replay and delivered the death sentence.
Valverde's face turned pale as he looked at the bench. Mascherano was sitting there, along with the "slippery Iñigo." Who to put on? Mascherano was experienced but his physical abilities were declining; Iñigo was young and strong but carried the psychological burden of the "Atlético Madrid nightmare."
Valverde hesitated for a second. He remembered something Messi said before the game: "Coach, Iñigo's through balls in training are very accurate." He also remembered Bartomeu's hint: "Letting him fall is so he can get back up."
"Iñigo!" Valverde roared, "Warm up! Get in!"
In the 72nd minute, a substitution. Iñigo Martínez stood on the sidelines. When his name was announced over the loudspeaker, the applause from the stands was sparse, even mixed with a few harsh shouts: "Don't slip again, basque person!"
Iñigo tightened his shoelaces. He heard it. He looked up at the field. There was Piqué, still sleepwalking, and Marc-André ter Stegen, his face full of anxiety. And there was Messi, looking at him.
Messi didn't speak, just nodded at Iñigo and pointed forward. The gesture meant: pass the ball up, I trust you.
Iñigo took a deep breath and ran onto the field. He went straight to the still-dazed Gerard Piqué and shoved his shoulder hard. "Gerard! Stop looking at the stretcher!" Iñigo roared, his voice full of ferocity, "Samuel is off, the left side is my responsibility now! You guard your side well, and stop hesitating like a woman! Understand?"
Gerard Piqué was stunned by the shout. Since Puyol retired, no one had dared to yell at him like that. But this shout cleared his muddled mind somewhat. "Okay... okay."
The match resumed. Celta coach Unzué had clearly done his homework. He waved his hand, signaling his team to attack Iñigo's side fiercely. "Target that substitute! He has psychological trauma!"
75th minute. Aspas used his old trick, once again trying to exploit the space behind Barça's left flank. The ball flew in. This time, Gerard Piqué was still half a beat slow.
"It's over." The fans in the stands felt a pang of anxiety. "Is the Atlético Madrid scene going to repeat itself?"
No. He didn't slip. Iñigo Martínez was like a steel stake driven into the turf. He didn't retreat blindly; instead, he charged towards Aspas. At the moment their bodies made contact, Iñigo displayed the ferocity characteristic of a basque person. He leaned heavily with his shoulder, even incorporating a legitimate charging motion.
"Bang!" Aspas was directly bounced back half a meter. Iñigo won the ball, turned, and calmly brought it under his foot.
At this moment, two Celta players fiercely pressed him, trying to capitalize on his nervousness to force a mistake. If it were the Iñigo from the Wanda Metropolitano match, he might have panicked and cleared the ball. But now, his mind was only on Messi's trusting gaze.
He calmly dragged the ball and turned, evading the press, then looked up. With the inside of his left foot, he curled a beautiful arc.
The ball skimmed the grass, pierced through Celta's two lines of defense, and landed precisely at Messi's feet on the left wing, where he had dropped back to receive it. No need to slow down, no need to adjust. It was as comfortable as placing the ball on Messi's plate.
"Great pass!" the commentator exclaimed. "That distribution was so decisive! He was completely unaffected by his previous mistake!"
In the Chairman's box, Bartomeu clenched his fist. "See?" he said to Robert. "This is why I bought him. He made mistakes, but he wasn't broken. That kind of mental fortitude is worthy of Camp Nou."
If that pass was about regaining confidence, then the scene in the 82nd minute was a complete conquest.
Gerard Piqué once again played with fire in the backfield, attempting a dribble and losing the ball. Celta forward Maxi Gómez found himself one-on-one, heading straight for the penalty area. Gerard Piqué desperately chased back, but he knew he wouldn't catch up.
Just as Marc-André ter Stegen was about to rush out of his goal, a red and blue lightning bolt shot out from an oblique angle. Iñigo Martínez. He started from thirty meters away, sprinting back like a madman.
On the edge of the penalty area, he made an extremely daring sliding tackle. If this tackle missed the ball, it would be a red card and a penalty, and he would be completely condemned. But he didn't hesitate. "Click." His studs precisely poked the ball out for a goal kick, and then his body brought down Maxi Gómez.
The referee was right there, arms outstretched: Good play! No foul!
Iñigo sprang up from the ground, covered in grass clippings. He didn't celebrate, but instead turned and helped up a remorseful Gerard Piqué. "Don't be afraid, Gerard." Iñigo's voice was no longer a roar, but calm and steady. "I'm right beside you. As long as I'm here, they won't get past."
Gerard Piqué looked at this partner, younger and less famous than himself, and suddenly felt his eyes well up. The young man who slipped in Madrid had stood up today, and he had also carried Gerard Piqué up with him.
Ultimately, the match ended in a 2-2 draw. Although points were dropped and Umtiti was seriously injured, when the final whistle blew, Camp Nou gave its applause to the number 32.
In the locker room, Umtiti's confirmed diagnosis cast a heavy atmosphere. Gerard Piqué sat in a corner, silent.
Iñigo Martínez was unwrapping the bandage on his leg. There was a bloody scratch on his calf from a stud, a medal left from that crucial save. Messi walked over.
The whole team was quiet. Messi didn't speak, just handed Iñigo a bottle of water. "That through ball in the 75th minute," Messi looked at him, "I was thinking, if you hadn't slipped in the Atlético Madrid game, maybe we would have won much earlier."
Iñigo's hand trembled slightly, a little embarrassed: "That was my fault..."
"No." Messi interrupted him, a slight smile on his face. "What I mean is, you're still you. That slip was just an accident; today is your true level. In future games, pass me more balls like that. As long as you dare to pass, I can receive it."
These two simple sentences caused a stir in the locker room. This was the core's endorsement. This was "royal prerogative." Luis Suárez also came over and patted Iñigo's head: "Hey, basque person, if you can pass the ball closer to me, I can score too."
Iñigo smiled. He knew that the huge mountain that had weighed on his heart for a month and a half had finally been moved.
After the match, in the parking lot. Mascherano wasn't in a hurry to leave; he was waiting for Bartomeu.
"Chairman," Mascherano said, looking at Bartomeu approaching, a hint of relief in his tone.
"Javier," Bartomeu said, a little worried, "I know Samuel is injured, and you might want to stay..."
"No." Mascherano shook his head, his gaze falling on Iñigo, who was embracing his family not far away. "I'm here to confirm my departure. I was worried that Gerard couldn't handle it alone, and that the young man wouldn't recover after that fall in Madrid."
"But today, I saw what I wanted to see." Mascherano sighed, "That tackle... that decisiveness, that ferocity. He is more suitable for the current Barça than I am. He has height, he can distribute the ball, and—he has the courage to rise from failure."
"Chairman, I'm very confident leaving the defense to him and Gerard. He covers for Gerard on the left better than I do." Mascherano looked at Bartomeu sincerely, "So, let me go. On the first day of the winter transfer window, I'm going to China. For the World Cup."
Bartomeu gave a deep look at this meritorious veteran. "I approve, Javier. Your judgment has never been wrong. Since you've acknowledged him, that's the best evaluation. The farewell ceremony will be prepared to the highest standard."
After seeing Mascherano off, Bartomeu knocked on Gerard Piqué's car window.
"Chairman," Gerard Piqué said, somewhat afraid to look at him.
"You played like shit today, Gerard." Bartomeu got into the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. "But I'm not here to scold you. I'm here to tell you a fact."
"What?"
"Iñigo slipped in Madrid, was called a flop, and I kept him on the bench for a month. But today he stepped up, and even covered for you." Bartomeu exhaled a smoke ring, staring at Gerard Piqué: "You also slipped, you slipped in the quagmire of politics. Now everyone is waiting to see you fail."
"Iñigo can get back up because he only has football in his mind. What about you? Your mind is filled with too many things. Twitter, Davis Cup, referendum..."
"I..." Gerard Piqué wanted to retort.
"Listen, Samuel is down. Iñigo is strong, but he needs a leader to guide him. Are you that leader, or are you a giant baby who needs others to cover for you?"
Gerard Piqué gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. "I am the leader."
"Then prove it to me." Bartomeu put out his cigarette. "Starting today, uninstall Twitter, forget politics. Lock yourself in Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper. El Clásico is in 20 days; I want to see the best Gerard Piqué return. If you do that, I'll take you to Bernabéu for the sweetest revenge."
Gerard Piqué was silent for a moment, then took out his phone and, in front of Bartomeu, deleted his social media apps. "Deal."
...Late at night, Bartomeu's study. On the computer screen, the bitcoin price broke through $11,800.
Bartomeu made an encrypted call. "Chairman?" "Get ready. In two weeks, no matter how high the price, start liquidating." "Received. But this money..." "This money, I have a great use for it." Bartomeu looked at the scout report for the Ajax Twin Stars on the table, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Since Samuel is injured, the whole world thinks we'll panic buy. Let them think we're going to spend a hundred million euros on Griezmann's release clause."
"Is that a smokescreen?" "That's a fog of war. And before the fog clears, we will use this money, earned from thin air, to buy the future of Amsterdam."
Hanging up the phone, Bartomeu looked out at the dark night sky. Deep winter had arrived. The French shield was broken, but the basque iron wall had been forged. And that "gentleman's revenge" at Bernabéu was brewing.