Rise of a Football God

89 minutes, 3-4…

FC Barcelona was leading.

Lamine Yamal scored a crazy goal in the 89th minute of this epic game, a goal that pierced the heart of millions of PSG fans worldwide, sending them into a crazy whirlwind of self-reflection and sorrow.

But it was not over yet.

It was already 90 minutes of this game. But it was not over, simply because the referee gave 5 minutes of additional time to this epic game.

And Luis Enrique's reaction?

He pushed his team forward, urging them to abandon defense in favor of all-out offense. It was now a desperate gamble, either score or score. Nothing in between. That was the only way for PSG to survive.

And so, all hell broke loose.

BOOM!

PSG threw everything. Nuno Mendes and Achraf Hakimi, the fullbacks went up field, turning into makeshift wingers as they bombarded the FC Barcelona defense with an endless tide of rampaging attacks.

Dribbles, direct shots, outside the box shots, PSG did everything. Not just that, they also tried crossing tactics as even the center backs pushed forward.

Marquinhos pushed forward, become a makeshift striker as crosses rained into the FC Barcelona box.

And yet, somehow, FC Barcelona remained alive, holding on desperately.

In the 90th plus 2 minute, Vitinha had one final chance. Kvaratshkhelia cut in after another silky dribble, faking a shot before pushing the ball to the free midfielder who already built a reputation for his outside the box shots.

POW!

Vitinha hit his shot with power and accuracy and yet, it was blocked.

During the final minutes of the game, already reading his opposition coach's intentions like a book and knowing how dangerous it would become, Hansi Flick made defensive changes, something he rarely did.

He introduced Ronald Araujo to the game, morphing his team's backline into a 5-man defensive unit that now weathered the PSG onslaught.

Ronald Araujo was the one who blocked the shot.

The Allianz Arena exploded in cheers, the FC Barcelona faithful celebrating the block like it was a goal.

Heroic.

Iconic.

And then, to the agony of PSG and Real Madrid fans around the world, the final whistle finally sounded.

FWEEE!

The Allianz Arena literally shook.

Tears, screams, collapsing bodies.

Sam dropped to his knees right where he was, too emotional to move as he broke down in tears. Gavi punched the air, charging into the pitch and towards him. Pedri raised his arms to the heavens in celebration; Lamine Yamal wept.

Barca were kings of Europe.

In the greatest final of the modern era.

"What a game!" The commentators raved.

"A night entrenched in footballing folklore already!"

"A night of fire! A night of passion! A night of pure footballing brilliance from 2 of the best UEFA Champions League finalists in years!"

"My God, what a game!"

"PSG played the game of their life, they led, and yet the Catalan giants refused to give an edge. The Catalan King led his team to victory!"

"And Lamine Yamal, what a boy!"

"What a goal! He's been creating legend after legend since his debut at the young age of 15 for the senior team, and tonight, he's cemented that legend".

"This is a night when legends are born!"

"Pedri, Raphinha, Sam, Lamine Yamal, Inigo Martinez, Cubarsi, Balde, Kounde, all names that would be sang by Barcelona fans for years to come!"

"What a night to witness a new King rise to the top of Europe!"

"FC Barcelona are Kings of Europe!"

…

Post-match, Allianz Arena, Munich…

FC Barcelona Locker Room; 11:09pm.

Bam!

The door slammed shut behind them.

For a few precious seconds, the room was silent. No speeches. No cameras. No staged celebrations. Just the sound of grown men breathing like they'd run from war, and maybe they had.

Then it began.

Gavi, the heartbeat, screamed. He jumped on a bench and howled like a beast. "Vamos, carajo!"

Outside, the celebrations continued for a long time at the Allianz Arena. Not just in Munich, across the world, from Europe to Africa, to Asia, to America, millions of FC Barcelona fans had a blast as they celebrated all night.

And now, the celebrations progressed to the FC Barcelona dressing room.

What else did you expect?

Barcelona were Kings of Europe again.

Somewhere in Miami, Lionel Messi and his pals, Sergio Busquets, Jordi Alba, and Luis Suarez were definitely having a blast too as they celebrated the first FC Barcelona champions league win in over a decade.

In the FC Barcelona dressing room?

Shirts were flung. Bottles sprayed. Ter Stegen doused Araujo in water, hugging him tightly once more for that decisive block against Vintinha.

Lewandowski already joined his teammates in the dressing room, buzzing around Sam like a fly as he celebrated his successor, the new striker of Football Club Barcelona, the best striker in the world.

Ter Stegen pulled off his captain's armband and stared at it like it had weight. He wasn't crying. He never cried, but his chest was rising fast.

Hansi Flick? Still dressed in black, arms folded, leaned on the wall. He looked at every player. Every warrior. Yes, he had won the UEFA Champions League before now.

Yes, he won a legendary sextuple with FC Bayern Munchen.

And yet, nothing could beat this moment.

Nothing could beat lifting another UEFA Champions League trophy. Nothing could beat this legendary moment, the perfect end to a perfect club season.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cracked.

"You didn't just win a final".

"You made history".

The room erupted.

Lamine Yamal, soaked and shaking, sat with a towel over his shoulders. His face glowed with disbelief. Raphinha wrapped an arm around him, whispering in his ear repeated. "You did it, nino. You did it".

Having done it with Sam already, Lewandowski walked over, crouched in front of the kid and handed him the match ball which Sam rightfully won.

"From one legend to the next," he said as he handed the ball to Yamal.

Yamal just stared at it. Then smiled. Wide, unfiltered, pure.

Pedri and De Jong clashed their foreheads together, grinning like lunatics. Ferran was already posting on Instagram, half-dressed, yelling at everyone to smile. Even Kounde, who never sang was belting out Barca chants in his thick French accent.

The Champions League trophy sat on the central table now, untouched. Not yet lifted. Just waiting. Gleaming. Holy.

Then Hansi Flick nodded. Ter Stegen turned, and together, they approached it.

Hansi Flick lifted the trophy.

The room detonated.

Blue and red.

Tears and sweat.

Victory and vindication.

FC Barcelona weren't rebuilding anymore. They were reborn.