The Turn27/12/2017 December 23, 2017. The world waited with bated breath. There was a strange silence in the air. The calm before the storm. The deep breath before the plunge. The reason? A clash of two titans. A matter of near life and death, intertwining politics and freedom. And in the middle of it all, the great game. El Clasico. Real Madrid against Barcelona, two behemoths of European football. In the centre of the commotion of the city stood the Santiago Bernabéu stadium. Its glistening white walls emanating the pride of Real Madrid F.C., the club of the century. The very air laden with its history, of both the glory and accomplishments of the club, as well as the city surrounding it. This great coliseum, this fortress of old, was about to witness its greatest gladiatorial battle of the season. 80,000 spectators, cheering on their knights in shining white armour. Coming off the highs of a season that would go down in the history books of the club and would be talked about for years to come, Real Madrid looked to turn around the disappointing start of the new season and reduce the 11 point deficit to Barcelona. A golden, glittering trophy of the FIFA Club World Cup stood on the pitch, which had also accommodated its 33rd La Liga trophy, and a legendary defence of the Champions League trophy in recent weeks. The stadium seemed to glow with an aura, blinding the visitors. The Blaugrana, on the other hand, despite a 3-2 victory over their arch-rivals in March, lost the La Liga trophy, and suffered losses of 2-0 and 3-1 to Real Madrid in the Supercopa España in August. With Neymar departing for Paris, Barcelona were seemingly at a new low. They were broken, bruised, and battered, and yet, under the tutelage of Ernesto Valverde, had been unbeaten thus far. Madrid’s lucky talisman, Zinedine Zidane, hoped to end this run and get the Galacticos back in the title race. The frantic scramble for the ball began a split second after kickoff, with the Blancos employing an intense press to regain possession. Once again, things seemingly looked dire for the Blaugrana. Once again, it seemed like all hope was lost, with Madrid’s golden boy, Ronaldo, scoring 2 minutes into the game (which was ruled offside), exposing the Barcelona defence. It was in that moment when Piqué, popularly known amongst the fans as El Presidente, stepped out from the shadows, and took command of the defence. Up went a great wall, an iron curtain of sorts, impregnable, absorbing whatever the Blancos threw at him. One after the other, Madrid pulled out their best guns – Ronaldo, Benzema, Ramos, Modric, Kroos, Marcelo – all of them nullified. In the background, ter Stegen hovered in front of the goal, like an octopus, taking care of any potential breaches. The storm had been weathered, for now. Barcelona’s ship was still afloat. The second half paved the way for more calm, composed football. And yet, hidden in this calmness was a certain ruthlessness, as the eyes of the Barça players twinkled in the sunlight, the ball seemingly glued to their feet. Gradually, the light, the aura of the Bernabéu began to fade, as Madrid lost the intensity in their game. It was in that moment the Blaugrana drew blood. Till now, they had been biding their time patiently, like a lion stalking its prey, barring lightning quick attacks like a cheetah by Paulinho. It began with a turn. The turn. Drawing upon the sacred legacy of Johan Cruyff, the attack was initiated by none other than the maestro, Sergio Busquets. Former Spain coach Vicente del Bosque once said, “Watch the game, you don’t see Busquets. Watch Busquets, you see the whole game.” It was not difficult to see why. A quick manoeuvre, and he had shaken off his marker, Toni Kroos, leaving a huge hole in the midfield. With the most sublime gesture, he pushed the ball forward, through two Madrid players, leaving Rakitic to breeze across the pitch, almost nonchalantly. It was here that the gravitas of Lionel Messi played a key role. Despite being a mere observer on the right, he attracted two defenders to himself. So great is his impact on games that the Blancos were petrified of what might happen if the ball were to fall in his possession. In the meantime, a combination of Barça’s fabled young hero Sergi Roberto, and Luis Suárez, El Pistolero, fired the first shot, finding the chink in Madrid’s white armour. And then, a few minutes later, magic. La Pulga Atomica struck again. The ball left Messi’s feet, escaping the box of Madrid players surrounding him, finding it’s way into the path of Suárez. A quick game of ping pong between the goalkeeper, goalpost, and the attackers, and the end result was a red card for Carvajal and a penalty awarded to Barcelona. Across the world, millions of eyes followed Messi’s movements, as he stepped up to the penalty spot. After all, he had missed penalties before. Time slowed down to a crawl, as he took his time to assess the situation. Hands on knees, bent over. The sun cast his long shadow over the pitch. And it was over before anyone knew what happened. The ball – struck with the force of the frustration of the past year, of Barca’s humiliating 4-0 loss to PSG, of the 3-0 loss against Juventus, of dragging Argentina to the World Cup, of losing 5-1 on aggregate in the Supercopa, and of the departure of a friend, a brother in arms – smashed into the net. And then, he ran. He ran to the corner flag, and stood a mere few feet from where he stood 8 months ago, his shirt aloft in the air, raised to the gods, leaving a reminder. His stamp on this grand old ruin. This time, he stood alone. His arms wide open, embracing the heavens. He was the Messiah. The Messiah of Barcelona, come to haunt the Bernabéu once more. In that moment, he was the King, at the top of the world, breaking the record for most goals for a single club in European football. Bernabéu, the den of Real Madrid. Messi, the lion of that den. The clock ticked away, leaving the Blancos in frustration, the ball continually evading their feet, delaying the arrival of their cavalry. By the time they entered the field, the war had pretty much been lost for them. A few minutes (and a lost shoe) later, the third strike, partially saved by Navas, barely rolled over the line, leaving the whites scrambling to keep the ball out of the net. In what could be summed up as a visual representation of the game slipping away from their hands, the assist was provided by Messi, despite Marcelo’s desperate clawing at him, only resulting in Messi losing his boot. Yet he continued, and put the final nail in the coffin. They said it was the end of an era. After almost a decade of dominance, Barcelona seemed finished. The backbone of the team was old, and no replacements had been found. The club had been crippled, battered to pieces by numerous others. And Neymar, the man who was supposed to usher the Blaugrana into a new era of dominance, had departed. The light was extinguished. But hope still burned. At the altar of Johan Cruyff, and the principles upon which the club was founded, a new fight sparked within their hearts. Their desire to win, their passion to give it all till their last breath. Because Futbol Club Barcelona doesn’t just represent football. Its motto, més que un club, represents the spirit, the devotion, the faith, and the values of an entire region. This translates down to the very roots of the club.
To its football. It was the turn.
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