Chapter 37 : 5-5

Espanyol were still reeling from Neymar's goal when disaster struck. The game had settled into a tense rhythm, with Barcelona controlling possession and Espanyol looking for a way back. But then, in a moment of horror for the visitors, their own goalkeeper handed Barcelona another goal on a silver platter.

The sequence started innocently enough. Espanyol had regained possession, and Kiko Casilla received a simple backpass from Álvaro González. There was no immediate danger—just a routine clearance expected from the experienced shot-stopper.

But under the floodlights of the Camp Nou, pressure does strange things.

Casilla took a heavy touch. Too heavy. The ball rolled a fraction too far from his foot, and in that split second, Luis Suárez was already charging. The Uruguayan smelled blood.

Casilla panicked, trying to clear it desperately, but it was too late. Suárez stuck out a boot, deflecting the rushed clearance straight into the path of Lionel Messi, who stood completely unmarked at the edge of the box.

Messi didn't hesitate. He controlled the ball in an instant and, with a deft left-footed chip over the scrambling Casilla, guided it into the back of the net.

GOOOAAALLL! MESSI MAKES IT FIVE FOR BARCELONA!

Casilla fell to his knees, burying his face in his gloves, knowing the weight of his mistake. He had gifted Barcelona a goal, and with it, the breathing room they craved.

Ian Darke: "Oh dear, oh dear! That is an absolute nightmare for Kiko Casilla! You simply cannot make errors like that against Barcelona. Messi was never going to miss from there, and now Espanyol have a mountain to climb!"

Àxel Torres: "A huge mistake at the worst possible time! It's heartbreaking for Espanyol because they've fought so hard, but Barcelona are ruthless—they take every chance they get. And Messi, with that little chip, just pure class!"

As the Barcelona players wheeled away in celebration, Espanyol's defenders looked towards their goalkeeper, frustration and disappointment written all over their faces. Casilla raised a hand apologetically, but the damage was done.

On the touchline, Sergio González shook his head. Espanyol had worked so hard to stay in the match, but against a team like Barcelona, there was no room for errors.

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The weight of Barcelona's fifth goal hung over Espanyol like a storm cloud. The Camp Nou roared with celebration, the home fans sensing the game was slipping further from their rivals' grasp. But on the pitch, one player refused to accept defeat.

Nico Cruyff.

As Barcelona's players jogged back into position, Nico stood still in the center circle, his emerald-green eyes locked on the ball at his feet. His chest rose and fell steadily, but there was a fire in his gaze—an unshakable determination.

Something had changed.

Espanyol restarted play cautiously, moving the ball around their backline with short, deliberate passes. Diego Colotto to Álvaro González, then back to Kiko Casilla. They needed control, they needed composure. Casilla rolled it out to Juan Fuentes, who spotted Nico dropping deep and played a firm pass into his feet.

Nico controlled it effortlessly, his first touch absorbing the weight of the ball. He turned sharply, evading Sergio Busquets, who lunged but caught only air. Now, space opened before him.

Thirty-two meters from goal.

The stadium seemed to shrink. The noise faded. Only the ball, the goal, and the keeper existed in that moment.

Nico took a touch forward and let fly.

BOOM!

The shot was a cannon blast, rocketing through the air with vicious dip and swerve. Marc-André ter Stegen saw it late, his feet planted, his body tense. He dived—stretched—just barely getting his fingertips to it!

The ball ricocheted off his gloves and out for a corner.

Ian Darke: "Oh my word, Nico Cruyff nearly pulled off something spectacular! That ball was moving like a missile, and ter Stegen had to be at full stretch to keep it out!"

Àxel Torres: "What a strike! And that was from thirty-two meters out! The confidence to take a shot from there, and the technique to make it dip like that—it's breathtaking!"

Espanyol hurried to take the corner. Nico grabbed the ball himself, knowing there was no time to waste. He placed it down, eyes darting across the Barcelona box, searching for movement.

Then, he delivered.

His right foot wrapped around the ball, sending it spinning into the danger zone. The delivery was perfect—whipped with pace, curving away from ter Stegen but dropping right into the heart of the six-yard box.

Héctor Moreno jumped but missed. Gerard Piqué tried to clear but mistimed his leap.

And there was Christian Stuani, ghosting in behind them all.

With a single touch, he guided the ball past ter Stegen and into the net.

GOOOAAALLL! ESPANYOL PULL ONE BACK! IT'S 5-4!

Ian Darke: "Would you believe this?! Espanyol are NOT done yet! Nico's corner was an absolute masterpiece, and Stuani was in the right place at the right time!"

Àxel Torres: "Nico is dragging Espanyol back into this game by sheer force of will! First that rocket of a shot, now this perfect assist from the corner—he is playing like a man possessed!"

As Stuani sprinted towards the corner flag, fists clenched in celebration, Nico didn't join him.

No smile. No celebration.

Instead, he jogged into the net, picked up the ball, and turned back towards the center circle.

His message was clear.

This wasn't over yet.

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The clock ticked past 91:48.

Espanyol were down 5-4. The final whistle loomed like a guillotine, Barcelona moments away from sealing their victory. But the ball, as if drawn by fate, rolled to Nico Cruyff deep inside Espanyol's half.

The entire stadium seemed to inhale.

A heartbeat later, he took off.

His first touch pushed the ball past Ivan Rakitić, who lunged desperately, but Nico glided past him like water slipping through fingers. Sergio Busquets stepped in, trying to cut off his path—Nico feinted left, then ghosted right, leaving the midfield maestro flat-footed.

The Camp Nou buzzed with nervous energy.

Andres Iniesta approached next, his experience reading the play. He reached out, attempting to disrupt the run, but Nico rolled the ball under his foot and pirouetted away, the elegance of the move drawing gasps from the crowd.

Ian Darke: "Oh, my goodness! He's gone past Iniesta like he wasn't even there!"

Àxel Torres: "This is unreal! He's moving like a phantom through Barcelona's lines!"

As he crossed the halfway line, Jordi Alba came flying in from the left. Nico flicked the ball up just as Alba slid in, leaving the defender grasping at nothing but air. Dani Alves was next, charging in, but Nico kept his balance and cut inside, avoiding contact like an artist painting his masterpiece with every step.

Four down.

Nico surged forward, his stride never breaking.

Gerard Piqué and Javier Mascherano stood at the edge of the box—the last line of defense. Piqué lunged in first, but Nico performed a lightning-quick elastico, shifting the ball from right to left in a single motion. Mascherano, in desperation, stretched a leg out, but Nico danced around him, his touch delicate yet devastating.

Eight defenders beaten.

Now, only Marc-André ter Stegen remained.

The stadium held its breath.

Nico slowed for just a fraction of a second, locking eyes with the keeper. Ter Stegen spread his arms wide, anticipating a shot to either corner.

Nico chose neither.

Instead, with the calmness of a man who had lived this moment a thousand times before, he gently rolled the ball through ter Stegen's legs.

The net rippled.

For a moment, time stopped.

Then—CHAOS.

The commentators exploded.

Ian Darke: "I DON'T BELIEVE WHAT I'VE JUST SEEN! NICO CRUYFF HAS JUST PRODUCED A GOAL FOR THE AGES! HE'S GONE THROUGH EIGHT BARCELONA PLAYERS LIKE THEY WEREN'T EVEN THERE!"

Àxel Torres: "THIS IS HISTORY! THIS IS MADNESS! THIS IS FOOTBALL AT ITS PUREST FORM!"

The entire stadium was in stunned silence. Even Barcelona fans, witnessing what felt like an act of divine intervention, could only watch in awe.

And yet, amid the bedlam, Nico didn't move.

No celebration. No outburst of emotion.

He simply stood there.

The net behind him still trembling, his teammates racing towards him, yet Nico remained still—his gaze locked onto the scoreboard.

5-5.

He had done it.

_____________

The referee raised his whistle to his lips.

Peeeeep!

The match was over. Barcelona 5-5 Espanyol.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, like a tide surging all at once, the entire Camp Nou rose to its feet, breaking into thunderous applause. Eighty thousand fans, many of whom had arrived expecting to witness another Barcelona masterclass, were now clapping—not for their team, but for a 14-year-old in an Espanyol shirt.

Nico Cruyff.

A boy who had just dragged Espanyol from the depths of defeat with a performance so staggering, so breathtaking, that even the most loyal Barcelona supporters couldn't help but acknowledge it.

In the stands, a father turned to his son, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You'll tell your kids about this one day. I promise you that."

An elderly man leaned on his cane, whispering to his grandson.

"I watched Johan once. Now I've seen his grandson. The legacy lives on."

Even among the Barcelona players, there was no anger, no disappointment—only respect.

Lionel Messi stood by the halfway line, watching Nico. He wasn't clapping—he was just watching, his expression unreadable. But in his eyes, there was something deeper. Recognition. Understanding. Maybe even admiration.

Nico himself?

Still calm. Still composed. He stood just outside the penalty box, his shirt soaked in sweat, his breath heavy, but his eyes sharp. He looked around at the crowd, at the people clapping for him—not as an Espanyol player, not as a Barcelona rival—but as a footballer.

A small smirk ghosted his lips.

Then, he turned and walked towards the tunnel.

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The CBS Sports studio was buzzing with energy as the analysts sat around the table, rewatching clips from what had been an unforgettable Catalan Derby. The screen showed the moment Nico dribbled past eight Barcelona players before slotting the ball past Ter Stegen in the 92nd minute, leaving the entire stadium in stunned silence.

Host Kate Abdo shook her head, still in disbelief."That was a match for the history books. We expected drama, but not like this. Barcelona wins the game, but all the headlines will be about one man—Nico Cruyff."

Thierry Henry leaned forward, shaking his head with a smirk."You know, when I was at Barcelona, we had players who could do incredible things on the ball. But this kid? Fourteen years old and doing that? Come on!"

Micah Richards burst into laughter, still in shock."I don't even know what to say. He dribbled past eight—EIGHT—Barcelona players! That's illegal!"

Jamie Carragher pointed at the screen."And look at this—he doesn't even celebrate. Just stands there, ice-cold, like he does this every week!"

The screen switched to a replay of Barcelona's brilliant tiki-taka goal in the 52nd minute, a sequence of over 20 passes before they cut through Espanyol's defense like a knife through butter.

Henry nodded approvingly."Barcelona showed why they're the best team in the world. The way they move the ball, how they overload spaces—it's pure footballing beauty."

Carragher interjected."But Espanyol? They didn't back down. Look at Nico in the 59th minute—Barcelona makes one mistake, and in two passes, he's already in front of goal. His decision-making is world-class!"

The screen then shifted to Nico exchanging jerseys with Messi in the tunnel.

Micah Richards grinned."That's it, man. When Messi gives you his shirt after the match, you've done something special. That's the ultimate sign of respect."

Kate Abdo turned to the panel."So, Thierry, Jamie, Micah—where does Nico go from here?"

Henry didn't hesitate."He's already a generational talent. If he keeps developing like this, we're looking at a future Ballon d'Or winner. Mark my words."

Carragher nodded."Barcelona will regret letting him go on loan. He's got that Cruyff DNA in him, but he's writing his own story."

Micah Richards laughed."Forget the future—he's already one of the best 14-year-olds to ever play the game. And after tonight, the whole world knows it."

The screen cut to the Camp Nou crowd still standing and clapping, long after the final whistle.

A star had been born.

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