Rise of a Football God-Chapter 458: UEFA Champions League Final; PSG vs Barcelona [2]
The lights dimmed.
A hush swept the Allianz Arena; not silence, but the sharp intake of breath before a scream. Over 75,000 voices posed on the edge of eruption.
The LED banners around the stadium glowed in regal hues; UEFA blue, PSG red, Barca garnet. Then, that iconic orchestral swell rang out:
THE CHAMPIONS…
And the place detonated.
Then, from the tunnel, they emerged.
Paris Saint-Germain came out first. A phalanx of stars cloaked in sleek midnight-blue kits with bold crimson trims. Ousmane Dembele led the line; jaw clenched, aura coiled like a panther.
Compared to his FC Barcelona days, the Frenchman was now a changed man- footballer; an improved footballer, the sharpest tool in the PSG attack.
Behind him, Marquinhos stood tall, the team's silent spine. As Dembele led the line, walking out, he met a wall of contrasting noise; jeers from the Barca faithful, and cheers from the Parisians.
Then, Vitinha, Donnarumma, Hakimi; each face stone-carved with intent. They didn't look nervous. They looked dangerous.
And then, FC Barcelona.
Led by the captain's armband and the ever-steady Marc-Andre Ter Stegen, the team walked with the calm of kings. Sam emerged like a monument to discipline, face unreadable.
Pedri, Gavi, and Lamine Yamal flanked him, young and fierce, forged in La Masia's fire. Raphinha walked with swagger. Behind them came Jules Kounde, Inigo Martinez, and Alejadro Balde; all hungry lions, teeth bared.
And then, Hansi Flick. He was just behind them, in his suit, his stare burning with a thousand memories of finals past.
The Champions League anthem reached its crescendo.
Flags unfurled. Children mascots stepped forward, and cameras zoomed in on eyes wide with destiny.
Above them, the stadium pulsed with flashes; white-hot bursts capturing the exact moment greatness walked the grass. Confetti canons fired. The final ball sat at midfield like a crown on an altar.
In the stands, it was war.
"Visca el Barca!" Barcelona's end roared in synchronized fury.
PSG's ultras countered with pounding drums and smoke plumes of red.
When the anthem faded, all that remained was the sound of breathing; players, fans, coaches.
Then the whistle blew.
FWEEE!
And the final began.
The whistle sliced through the air, and the final was instantly ablaze.
Barcelona kicked off, and from the first touch, it was clear; this was not a night for hesitation.
The ball zipped across the lush Allianz Arena turf like it was magnetized to their boots. Pedri, Gavi, and Frankie De Jong, Barca's triple threat engines dictated the rhythm with dizzying triangle passes, drawing PSG's press like moths to flame.
Sam dropped deep, linking play to devastating effect, while Lamine Yamal ghosted into the half-space, already testing Nuno Mendes with sly runs.
During the first few minutes of confrontation, there was a clear winner. FC Barcelona.
But PSG? They didn't wait. They hunted.
This season, PSG was a well-oiled machine under Luis Enrique. They didn't arrive at the final of the UEFA Champions league without reason, his PSG team was being dubbed by some as the best PSG team in the club's history.
With the likes of Kvicha Kvaratskhelia, Ousmane Dembele, and Desire Doue in attack, all electric dribblers and playmakers, they had one of the most dynamic attacking trios in European football. And with guys like Bradley Barcola on their bench, they had a robust bench.
Their midfield was just as perfect, the trio of Vitinha, Fabian Ruiz, and the young Joao Neves all complimenting each other's play to perfection.
As for their defense?
Most people who watched PSG dubbed their defense as their weakness, but that was only when put in contrast against their fearsome midfield and offense.
When pitted against other world-class defenses in Europe, the defensive quadruple of Nuno Mendes, Pacho, Marquinhos, and Achraf Hakimi could stand their ground against any other defense.
And tonight, against Barca's fearsome attack, they had their work cut out for them but they were ready for the challenge.
By the 3rd minute, Kvaratskhelia exploded down the left wing, a blur of pace and precision. He skinned Kounde with a feint so sharp it left grass in the air before unleashing a low cross into the box, cut out just in time by Cubarsi's sliding challenge.
The PSG corner led to chaos, Donnarumma even pushed up from the back, but Ter Stegen plucked the danger out of the sky like it was routine.
The tension on the pitch escalated.
Every touch sparked noise, every duel had venom. Lamine Yamal, the young prodigy on the right clattered into Nuno Mendes in a 50-50 that left both men gritting teeth and exchanging words.
The ref let it play. This was a final, no cheap whistles.
And then, in the 7th minute, Barca unleashed their first warning shot.
Pedri picked the lock from midfield with a no-look through ball. Sam, reading it a second ahead of everyone immediately peeled away from Marquinhos and struck first-time from the edge of the box.
For a second, the Allianz Arena froze in shock.
Bam!
The ball flew with speed. It fizzed low, skimming the grass.
Donnarumma? The PSG goalkeeper quickly went low on a full-stretch dive, and barely got his fingertips to it. Corner.
"F*ck!" Sam cursed.
From the corner, chaos. Inigo Martinez won the header, smashing it into the crossbar. The rebound fell to Gavi, who volleyed only for it to be blocked by Pacho's face. PSG cleared, but it was a statement; Barca had arrived.
In the 10th minute, PSG responded.
This time, it was Dembele, ever the wildcard. The electric forward darted in from the right, danced past Balde with that slinky gait before curling one toward the far post. Ter Stegen was beaten.
And yet, it missed by inches. ƒreewebɳovel.com
The stadium gasped.
Ten minutes gone, and the match was already a powder keg. Like expected by neutral fans, it was a banger, an end to end game.
Two philosophies. Two giants. One night.
And neither blinking.
This was surely a game that would leave its imprint in the history of the UEFA champions league, no matter the result.
The game continued.
