Chapter 26 : Real Sociedad(1)
As the Espanyol players emerged from the tunnel and onto the lush green pitch of the Reale Arena, the stadium buzzed with anticipation. The Real Sociedad faithful waved their blue and white scarves, singing in unison, while the traveling Espanyol supporters made their voices heard. The floodlights illuminated the field, casting a spotlight on the battle about to unfold.
Peter Drury:
"A wonderful atmosphere here in San Sebastián as Real Sociedad host Espanyol in what promises to be a thrilling La Liga encounter. Espanyol come into this match in fine form, but they face a Real Sociedad side that is always tough to beat at home. And, of course, all eyes will once again be on that young man—Nico Cruyff. At just 14 years old, he continues to defy logic and make history in Spanish football."
Guillem Balagué:
"It's extraordinary, Peter. Every week, he seems to do something even more remarkable. But this will be a real test for him and for Espanyol as a whole. Real Sociedad won't make it easy."
The camera zoomed in on the players as the starting lineups appeared on the screen.
Peter Drury:
"Let's take a look at the lineups, starting with the hosts. In goal, we have Gerónimo Rulli. The back four consists of Carlos Martínez, Íñigo Martínez, Mikel González, and Yuri Berchiche. In midfield, Rubén Pardo and Markel Bergara provide the defensive stability, while further forward, Sergio Canales, Xabi Prieto, and Carlos Vela will look to unlock the Espanyol defense. Leading the line is the ever-dangerous Imanol Agirretxe."
Guillem Balagué:
"It's a balanced lineup. Xabi Prieto and Canales will be the creative force, while Vela's pace on the right is always a threat. Agirretxe is a clinical striker, and Espanyol's backline will have to be at their very best to stop him."
The focus then shifted to the visiting side as Espanyol players took their positions.
Peter Drury:
"And now for Espanyol. Kiko Casilla starts in goal. The defensive line features Javi López, Álvaro González, Héctor Moreno, and Juan Fuentes. In midfield, the duo of Víctor Sánchez and José Cañas will be responsible for controlling the tempo. Lucas Vázquez and Nico Cruyff provide width and creativity, while Salva Sevilla plays in the hole behind the two strikers—Felipe Caicedo and captain Sergio García."
Guillem Balagué:
"It's an attacking setup from Sergio González. They'll look to be solid defensively but dangerous in transition. And with Nico in that advanced role, expect him to be the key orchestrator, linking midfield to attack."
As the referee completed his final checks, the tension in the stadium grew. The captains exchanged handshakes, the players took their positions, and the whistle was seconds away from sounding. The battle was about to begin.
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The referee's whistle echoed through the Reale Arena, and from the very first second, Real Sociedad pounced. They pressed high, suffocating Espanyol's passing lanes, forcing hurried clearances and rushed decisions. The home crowd roared in approval as their team dictated the tempo with crisp, precise passing.
Peter Drury:
"And from the very first whistle, Real Sociedad have set the tone! Relentless, aggressive, and absolutely swarming Espanyol. The visitors can barely get out of their own half!"
By the 4th minute, the first big chance arrived. Carlos Vela danced past two defenders and unleashed a curling effort from just inside the box. It had Kiko Casilla beaten, but it crashed off the inside of the post, rolling agonizingly across the goal line before being hacked away by Héctor Moreno.
Guillem Balagué:
"Oh my word! How has that stayed out? Vela was inches away from giving Sociedad the perfect start!"
Moments later, a corner caused chaos in the box. Xabi Prieto met the delivery with a towering header, but the ball slammed off the crossbar. Imanol Agirretxe reacted first to the rebound, stabbing it towards goal—only for Álvaro González to clear it off the line with an acrobatic lunge.
Peter Drury:
"This is absolutely incredible! Real Sociedad are battering Espanyol, yet the ball refuses to cross the line!"
By the 20th minute, Sociedad had recorded seven shots, three of them rattling the woodwork. The Espanyol defense looked fragile, stretched to its limits, with only last-ditch tackles and desperate saves keeping them alive.
In the 27th minute, another chance—this time from a long-range rocket by Rubén Pardo. He struck it sweetly from 25 meters, the ball swerving viciously in the air. Casilla dived full stretch, fingertips barely grazing it, as the ball smacked the crossbar and bounced back into play.
Guillem Balagué:
"I've never seen luck quite like this! That's three times Sociedad have hit the frame of the goal! They must be wondering what more they have to do!"
Espanyol were clinging on, surviving wave after wave of pressure. Real Sociedad were dominant, but fate was playing its cruelest tricks.
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For all of Real Sociedad's dominance, football is a cruel game, and against the run of play, it was Espanyol who drew first blood with a moment of pure brilliance.
It began deep in their own half, with Héctor Moreno coolly winning possession and feeding Víctor Sánchez in midfield. Under intense pressure, Sánchez shifted his body and played a sharp one-two with José Cañas to break Sociedad's first line of press.
Peter Drury:
"And finally, Espanyol can breathe! A moment of calm in a storm of blue and white!"
As Lucas Vázquez received the ball on the right wing, he turned sharply and spotted Nico Cruyff drifting into space between the lines. One simple pass, and the 14-year-old was in possession—his head up, already plotting.
Guillem Balagué:
"And here comes the boy wonder! The Prince of La Masia in full stride!"
Nico turned effortlessly, skipping past one marker with a La Croqueta before gliding past another with an elegant Cruyff Turn. In an instant, the Sociedad defense was scrambling. With Felipe Caicedo making a diagonal run, Nico threaded a perfect outside-the-foot pass into the striker's path.
Caicedo took one touch to steady himself before calmly slotting the ball past Gerónimo Rulli, who had no chance.
Peter Drury:
"Would you believe it?! From the brink of collapse to the brink of brilliance! Espanyol lead, and the architect is that boy again—Nico Cruyff, weaving his magic like a master painter on the grandest canvas!"
The Espanyol bench erupted. Sociedad's players stood in disbelief. They had battered Espanyol for nearly half an hour, yet it was the visitors who struck first.
Guillem Balagué:
"You just have to admire this counterattack. One pass, one movement, and suddenly everything Sociedad had built is undone. And that pass from Nico? Absolute filth!"
The scoreboard flashed: Real Sociedad 0-1 Espanyol. Against all odds, Espanyol had found a way.
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Real Sociedad had been relentless, and as the first half neared its end, they carved out what should have been their equalizer.
It started with Rubén Pardo threading a perfect pass through Espanyol's defense, splitting Álvaro González and Héctor Moreno. Imanol Agirretxe latched onto it, one-on-one with Kiko Casilla. The home crowd rose in anticipation, believing this was their moment.
Peter Drury:
"Agirretxe… this has to be it!"
Agirretxe struck low and hard, but Casilla stretched out a desperate leg, deflecting the shot just wide of the post. A gasp echoed around the stadium—from certainty to disbelief in a split second.
Guillem Balagué:
"What a stop! Kiko Casilla with an outrageous save to keep Espanyol in front!"
From the resulting corner, José Cañas cleared the ball to Lucas Vázquez, who flicked it first-time into Nico Cruyff's path. Sociedad had committed too many men forward, and suddenly, a lightning-fast Espanyol counterattack was underway.
Nico surged forward with electrifying speed, leaving his marker behind. Only one defender remained—Íñigo Martínez, Sociedad's defensive rock. If Nico could beat him, only Gerónimo Rulli stood between him and another goal.
Peter Drury:
"And here comes Espanyol, racing like the wind! Nico Cruyff, one-on-one with Martínez—this is dangerous!"
Nico dropped his shoulder, feinting left before shifting right in an instant, attempting a Step Over into an Elastico. But before he could complete the move, Martínez lunged in from behind, wiping Nico out just outside the box.
The whistle shrieked.
The Espanyol bench erupted in fury, the players surrounding the referee as Nico clutched his ankle on the ground. The Sociedad fans fell silent, knowing what was coming.
Guillem Balagué:
"Oh no, Íñigo Martínez… he's in serious trouble here!"
The referee wasted no time. Straight red.
Martínez put his hands on his head in frustration, knowing he had no argument. Sociedad was down to ten men.
As Nico got back to his feet, dusting himself off, the Espanyol players gathered around the ball. They had a free kick in a dangerous position, and there was only one man they trusted to take it.
Peter Drury:
"So now, the boy wonder stands over the ball. We have seen what he can do from here. A free kick before halftime… what a moment this could be."
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As Nico Cruyff carefully placed the ball on the grass, the tension inside the Reale Arena was palpable. He took four measured steps backward, his emerald-green eyes locked on the goal, analyzing every possible angle.
In the stands, a father leaned toward his son, his voice low but urgent.
"Watch closely, son. This boy… he's different. Four steps back, always the same routine. If Rulli isn't careful, we're about to witness something special."
Nearby, an elderly woman clutched her granddaughter's arm, eyes squinting toward the pitch.
"That's the Cruyff boy, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yes, Abuela," the girl replied, her voice carrying a mix of frustration and admiration. "He's only 14, but he plays like he's been doing this for decades."
A group of young men, all in Real Sociedad scarves, sat at the edge of their seats, one of them exhaling sharply.
"If this goes in, I'm walking home," one muttered, shaking his head.
On the pitch, Gerónimo Rulli frantically adjusted his wall, shouting instructions. He had studied Nico's technique, had watched the replays of his previous free kicks—but knowing it and stopping it were two entirely different things.
The referee's whistle echoed through the stadium.
The air grew still. All eyes were on Nico.
Nico took off. One step. Two. Then, in a motion so fluid it seemed choreographed, he struck the ball.
The shot was unreal. The ball didn't just curve—it danced.
It veered left. Then right. Then left again, defying logic, physics, and hope. Gerónimo Rulli leaped, his fingertips stretching toward salvation.
They found nothing.
The net bulged.
A collective groan erupted from the Real Sociedad faithful, hands flying to heads, scarves yanked in frustration.
Ian Darke:
"Oh, my word! That is supernatural! That is unfair! That is Nico Cruyff!"
Áxel Torres:
"It's the Invisible Hand, Ian! We've seen it before, but it still doesn't make sense! The ball changes direction mid-flight—how do you even prepare for that?"
A man buried his face in his scarf.
"Again. AGAIN?! This is ridiculous!"
The teenage girl gasped before turning to her grandmother.
"Abuela… I think I'm in love."
Down in the dugout, David Moyes stood frozen, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. No tactics could account for this.
But Nico wasn't done.
He turned immediately toward the Espanyol supporters, running with purpose. As he reached them, he stopped, lowered his head, and bowed deeply—like a prince acknowledging his kingdom.
The away end erupted in deafening cheers, chants of "NICO! NICO! NICO!" shaking the stadium.
2-0 Espanyol. Real Sociedad down to ten men.
And the Prince had delivered once again.
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The referee's whistle echoed across the Reale Arena, signaling the end of the first half. Real Sociedad trudged off the pitch, heads down, disbelief etched on their faces. They had dominated possession, peppered Espanyol's goal with shots, and yet, they were down 2-0—reeling from a ruthless counterattack and the sorcery of Nico Cruyff's Invisible Hand free kick.
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with frustration. Boots thudded against the floor, water bottles were flung aside, and sighs of exasperation filled the space. David Moyes stood in the center, his face stern, hands on his hips, as he scanned his players.
Moyes:
"How in the world are we losing this?"
Carlos Vela, sitting on the bench, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, shaking his head.
"We've had them on the ropes. We should be up by two, not them."
Xabi Prieto, the captain, wiped sweat from his brow and exhaled sharply.
"That free kick… I've never seen anything like it. How do you defend that?"
Moyes ran a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained.
"Forget the free kick! We put ourselves in this mess! We let them break on us, we let that kid run at us, and now we're a man down!"
On the other side of the room, Gerónimo Rulli sat silently, still replaying the goal in his mind. He had anticipated the curl, adjusted for the dip—but the ball had defied everything.
A veteran defender muttered under his breath.
"If we had eleven men, we'd turn this around."
Moyes snapped his fingers.
"We still can. Two goals is nothing if we score early in the second half. We need intensity. Press them. Force mistakes. Make them uncomfortable. That kid—Cruyff—he's dangerous, but he's still young. Get physical with him. Don't let him run the show."
He turned to Vela and Canales.
"You two, I want you closer to Agirretxe. We have to be direct now. No more wasting chances."
The team nodded, determination hardening their expressions. They weren't out of this yet.
As they stood up, rolling their shoulders and cracking their necks, the stadium announcer's voice echoed from the tunnel, signaling the start of the second half.
Real Sociedad had 45 minutes to fight their way back.
But on the other side of the hallway, in the Espanyol locker room, Nico Cruyff was sitting calmly—ready to strike again.
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