Rise of a Football God-Chapter 464: Catalan legends
Next day, late afternoon.
Spotify Camp Nou, Barcelona…
[Benvinguts, Campions!]
The sun hung low over Catalonia, casting long golden rays across a sea of humanity. Over 90,000 fans filled the Spotify Camp Nou; not for a match, but for a homecoming. An historic one.
Flags waved like wildfire. Red and blue everywhere. Scarves, banners, tears. From the old socios to the children on their fathers' shoulders, the cules had gathered in full voice.
The stadium trembled. Not from footsteps, but from emotion.
Drums. Chants. Flares lit the sky. A deafening roar thundered the moment the giant LED screen lit up:
[Campeones d'Europa – 2026]
And then, the team bus rolled in; wrapped in glory, covered in confetti, gold-lettered across the side:
[Visca Barca. Campions.]
The players emerged one by one onto the makeshift stage build at midfield. freewēbnoveℓ.com
Marc Andre Ter Stegen, the team captain held the trophy aloft once more, and the noise that followed in the stadium was earth-shattering. Gavi, arms wide, led the chant.
"Una Champions mes! Una Champions mes!"
Pedri and Lamine Yamal raced to the mic and started singing Catalan victory songs, dragging a blushing Sam to the front.
The fans erupted into chants of his name:
"Sam!" "Sam!" "Sam!"
Not just Sam today though. After all, when the game was tightest, the youngest player in the squad scored the winning goal.
Today, Yamal chants were also bellowed across the Spotify Camp Nou.
"Ya-mal!" "Ya-mal!" "Ya-mal!"
He looked stunned; recently turned eighteen. He still clutched that same match ball like a lifeline, the belief that he'll one day win one of his own fueling his joy at this moment. He raised the mic to his mouth and whispered.
"Aquesta es per a vosaltres. Per a tota Barcelona".
"This is for you. For all of Barcelona".
The stadium melted.
Then, the lights dimmed. A montage played on the screens; every goal, every save, every dribble, every scream. The journey from the league phase to the final in Munich. And finally, the trophy lift.
Fireworks detonated above the Spotify Camp Nou sky.
The city roared for miles.
It wasn't just a welcome. It was a coronation.
Barcelona was home. And the kings had returned.
…
Later that night.
1:03am.
In an empty pitch at the Spotify Camp Nou…
The crowd was gone, the lights dimmed. Confetti still clung to the grass like whispers of the war just won.
Hansi Flick stood alone near the center circle, hands in his coat pockets. No cameras. No journalists. Just the echo of ghosts; of Cruyff, of Guardiola, of Luis Enrique himself, his rival yester night, of the illustrious history of this club silently cheering him on.
He looked up at the stands, now still, once deafening.
"You'd be proud," he murmured. "We did it right".
His eyes darted to the sky. He wasn't crying, but the weight in his chest wasn't just pride, it was release. The scrutiny, the doubt, the endless headlines that called him a relic, his tactics a risk. All of it washed away in that 4-3 war in Munich.
Behind him, the Champions League trophy sat alone on a pedestal. Hansi Flick walked to it; rested his fingers on the cool silver.
"You came back," he said softly. "Home".
Maybe he was referring to the fact that it took more than a decade for the club to win the trophy again, or maybe he was referring to his own drought since his 2018 win with FC Bayern Munchen.
Then he turned and walked away, his silhouette fading into the tunnel like a shadow from a dream.
…
Meanwhile, Lewandowski's home.
1:47am.
Suburbs of Barcelona.
The villa was quiet. Dim lights. The city's celebration a low hum in the distance.
Robert Lewandowski sat alone on his balcony, a glass of wind in hand, the medal around his neck. He wasn't partying. He never needed the noise.
The match replayed in silence on the TV inside; muted commentary, slow-motion shots of his successor's first goal, that assist, and then Yamal's winner.
He watched it all with stillness. Not pride exactly. Something deeper… fulfillment. The fulfillment of having given his best despite the fact that he didn't get to kick a ball in the final.
Sam's teacher? He dared not claim that title for himself.
The boy was a prodigy, too talented for him to claim to be his teacher.
But his mentor? Someone who guided him to become a better footballer? A better striker? Lewandowski could shamelessly insert himself into that enviable role in the young striker's life and career.
He still vividly remembered the day that the young Nigerian was announced to have been signed by his club, as an attacking midfielder.
He still remembered his presentation like it was yesterday.
He remembered his first training session, how effortlessly playing with a football was for him. How gracefully he carried himself in training with the ball, how tirelessly he pursued the ball when out of possession.
Then, he thought. 'This boy has something'.
He saw potential. And yet, even he, as experienced as he was never guessed how good Sam would grow up to become within just his debut season for the club.
He never guessed that he would get to taste the UEFA champions league trophy again in the twilight years of his footballing career.
He never guessed how versatile the young Nigerian would grow up to become, to become the most lethal striker in the planet.
He sighed, sipping from a cup of warm tea.
He felt like his work in FC Barcelona was over, done. This was the perfect time to say goodbye to the Catalan club.
In the corner of the room, his daughter slept curled up on the couch, wearing a tiny Barca jersey with "Papa" printed on the back.
Lewandowksi smiled, leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
"One last dance," he whispered to the stars. "And what a finish".
He already made his decision.
The camera would pull away here.
From the man.
From the city.
From the season.
Because some victories don't need parades. Some just need quiet…
…And a view of the sky.
He grinned. "And yet, this one necessitates a parade".
