Chapter 45 : Final(3)

As the whistle blew to signal the start of the second half, Barcelona came out with a surge of intensity. Luis Suárez was the one who won the ball back in midfield, immediately pressing high. The momentum from the break was evident as the Barcelona players charged forward with determination.

In the blink of an eye, Iniesta received the ball in the center and made a delicate pass forward to Messi, who had already started his run between Espanyol's defensive lines. With a deft touch, Messi controlled the ball and then slid it to Suárez, who was charging into the penalty box at full speed.

With a defender on his tail, Suárez didn't hesitate. He drilled a low, driven shot past Kiko Casilla at the near post—too quick, too clinical for the keeper to respond.

Ian Darke:

"What a start to the second half! Barcelona, straight from the whistle, and it's Luis Suárez who finishes the move. Just 30 seconds into the second half, and Espanyol find themselves 3-1 down."

Àxel Torres:

"Espanyol have barely had a chance to settle, and Barcelona are relentless! A perfect pass from Messi, and Suárez, as always, makes no mistake. Espanyol now have a mountain to climb."

In the stands, the Barcelona fans erupted, their voices shaking the stadium, while the Espanyol supporters fell silent, the sting of that early goal cutting deep. It was a reminder of the clinical quality Barcelona possessed.

The match had just entered its second chapter, but already it felt like a completely different game. Espanyol would need to respond, and fast, if they were to stay in contention for the Copa del Rey trophy.

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The game had settled into a frenetic rhythm, with both teams fighting tooth and nail, knowing that the Copa del Rey was on the line. The atmosphere in Mestalla was electric—each tackle was met with a roar, and every missed chance with a collective gasp. The stakes had never been higher.

Espanyol, with their backs against the wall, started to build with purpose. In the 76th minute, the ball was passed from José Cañas to Víctor Sánchez, who spotted Nico Cruyff in space.

With a quick flick of his foot, Nico took possession of the ball on the edge of the Barcelona penalty area. He shifted his weight and looked up, instantly assessing the situation. Piqué, Mascherano, and Alba were closing in on him, but Nico danced with the ball like a magician, his movements flowing seamlessly as he evaded their attempts to tackle.

He feinted left to throw Piqué off balance, then spun right to glide past Mascherano, who was left trailing in his wake. But it wasn't over. As Alba lunged in to block him, Nico pulled off a silky nutmeg, sending the ball through Ter Stegen's legs.

The ball rolled slowly toward the net, and the crowd held its breath. The sound of the ball kissing the back of the net was like a crack of thunder. Espanyol had equalized, and Mestalla erupted in pure ecstasy. The roar from the Espanyol supporters was deafening, an unrelenting wave of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.

Ian Darke:

"Unbelievable! Nico Cruyff has done it again! What a run, what a finish! He takes on Piqué, Mascherano, and Alba, and nutmegs Ter Stegen to level the game for Espanyol! This 14-year-old continues to defy belief."

Àxel Torres:

"That's pure magic! The way he danced through those defenders—like they weren't even there. And the composure to nutmeg the keeper in such a crucial moment… incredible! This is the future of football, folks."

Despite the electric atmosphere, Nico showed no sign of celebration. As the crowd erupted around him, he calmly picked up the ball from the back of the net, nodded toward his teammates, and swiftly jogged back to his position. He wasn't about the spectacle; it was all about the game—just as it had always been.

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The intensity had reached fever pitch. Espanyol were throwing everything at Barcelona, each player pushing beyond their limits, their bodies drenched in sweat, their hearts racing. It was a game of wills—Espanyol fighting for an impossible dream, Barcelona desperate to hold on to their lead, defending with everything they had. The sound of cleats on the pitch, the cries of the players, the gasps from the crowd—everything became one, all echoing through the grand stadium.

As the 90th minute passed, it was clear—this was no ordinary match. This was the final. A place in history was on the line. The referee signaled for 8 minutes of added time, and the atmosphere became electric. Espanyol knew that the next few minutes would determine their fate.

The clock was ticking down in the 93rd minute, and Espanyol were relentless. A ball played from the midfield found Nico Cruyff, who was back to his usual brilliance in the final third. He skipped past Sergi Roberto and Mascherano, threading the needle with his impeccable vision as he slipped the ball through to Sergio García. García, having made a fantastic run into the box, found himself one-on-one with Ter Stegen.

It seemed like this was it. García took a touch to steady himself, his eyes locked on the goal. The crowd was holding its breath, the entire stadium waiting for the net to ripple.

But at the last moment, Gerard Piqué closed in with a last-ditch effort, sliding in to make a crucial block just as García prepared to pull the trigger. The ball deflected to Felipe Caicedo, who was lurking just behind the defenders. Caicedo didn't hesitate, taking a snap shot from the edge of the box.

The ball curled beautifully toward the bottom corner, seemingly destined to break Barcelona hearts. But Ter Stegen showed his class once more, diving low to his right, getting a fingertip to the ball just enough to push it wide of the post. The crowd gasped in disbelief as Caicedo clutched his head in frustration. Espanyol had missed their chance.

As the ball rolled out for a corner, the Barcelona defense exhaled, their bodies exhausted but relieved. The whistle would blow soon, but Espanyol knew they had given everything. The game was still in the balance, and with only a few minutes left, the dream was slipping away.

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The Copa del Rey Final had reached its zenith—an atmosphere thick with tension, the weight of the occasion pressing down on the players, the fans, the very air itself. The match had become more than just football; it was a battle for honor, for pride, for history.

The final seconds ticked away. Espanyol were pushing forward with every ounce of energy left in their bodies. Barcelona, resolute in defense, fought tooth and nail to hold on to their lead, desperate to cling to that slim margin of victory.

The ball was played forward in a sharp, decisive pass from José Cañas, as Nico Cruyff found himself in the thick of it once again. The game was a blur of tackles, passes, and fleeting moments of brilliance, but now, as Nico picked up the ball in midfield, the world seemed to slow. The noise of the crowd faded into a distant hum, leaving only the sound of his breath and the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He moved with purpose, dribbling through Rakitic first, then gliding effortlessly past Busquets. Two of Barcelona's finest midfielders were left behind like they were standing still. It was as though he were dancing through them, a calm amidst the storm, his eyes locked firmly on the goal ahead. 37 meters—that was the distance between him and history.

As the crowd rose in unison, a collective gasp of anticipation rippling through the stadium, Nico's gaze flickered briefly at the net, then back to the ball. This was it. The final chance. The weight of it all pressed down on his shoulders, but he didn't flinch.

With the precision of a maestro, he took a deep breath and struck.

The ball rocketed through the air, spinning and curling with almost unnatural grace, heading for the far top corner. Ter Stegen leaped, his hands reaching for the ball, but it was too far. The goalkeeper's fingertips brushed the ball—a touch, a whisper—but not enough to prevent its destined path.

The ball kissed the post.

A heartbeat of silence.

And then, it crossed the line.

Goal. 3-3.

As the ball kissed the back of the net and the Copa del Rey Final was leveled at 3-3, the atmosphere inside the Mestalla stadium shifted. The roar of the crowd reached a fever pitch, a blend of pure disbelief and ecstatic joy. The tension that had built over 97 minutes of brutal football came crashing down in that single moment.

Without a second's hesitation, Nico Cruyff, the young prince of Espanyol, turned and sprinted towards the corner flag. His heart was pounding, but his mind was clear. He ripped his jersey off, his chest heaving as he held it aloft, running toward the Espanyol fans. His focus was on them—on the sea of blue and white who had supported him, even in moments of doubt.

Behind him, the Espanyol bench exploded in a blur of motion. The players, coaches, staff—everyone—rose to their feet, as if they had been waiting for this moment their whole lives. The first to break from the bench was Sergio García, his veteran legs carrying him across the pitch like a man half his age. Right behind him, José Cañas, Víctor Sánchez, and others poured forward, fueled by adrenaline and a shared purpose.

The players reached Nico just as he reached the stands, and in a tidal wave of blue and white, they mobbed him. Nico, still holding his shirt high, was engulfed in a sea of teammates, lifting him off the ground in celebration. It was a moment of pure joy—a collective eruption that sent shockwaves through the stands.

The Espanyol supporters were beside themselves, chanting Nico's name, waving flags, and clapping in rhythm. The players surrounded him, hands on his shoulders, his head, his chest. Nico, grinning, let himself be carried by the emotion of the moment.

Ian Darke (on commentary):

"Espanyol's hero tonight is none other than Nico Cruyff. What a goal, what a moment! The young man just brought them level in the final seconds of this Copa del Rey final! Look at the emotion pouring out of the team. They know this is a chance to make history. The bench is on the pitch, and the fans are absolutely electrified!"

Àxel Torres (on commentary):

"That's football at its purest, Ian. This is what finals are made of. A last-minute goal that can change everything. Nico has brought Espanyol back into this game, and it's clear—he's not just the future, he's the present."

As the celebration continued, Nico's face was a mixture of pride and calm. He hadn't celebrated because of the rivalry with Barcelona, but he had allowed the fans, his teammates, to bask in the glory of that moment.

The whistle was still moments away, but that goal—his goal—had already given Espanyol a taste of something far greater than just a draw. It was a testament to the heart, to the belief that they could compete at the highest level. This was Nico Cruyff's world, and everyone else was just living in it.

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As the referee's whistle cut through the charged air, signaling the end of regulation time, the Mestalla stadium was in chaos. A dramatic equalizer from Nico Cruyff in the dying seconds of the game had brought the score to 3-3, and now, with the final seconds of normal time passed, both teams would have to go to extra time to decide who would lift the Copa del Rey.

The Espanyol players, drained but not defeated, slowly made their way to the center circle. They collapsed onto the grass, their legs heavy, their bodies sore, but their hearts still burning with hope. The sound of Barcelona fans muttering in disbelief filled the air, but for Espanyol, this was the moment to show their true character.

Coach Sergio González stood tall, taking slow, deliberate steps toward his players as they gathered in a huddle, their faces etched with determination. The echoes of the crowd faded as the Espanyol coach began speaking, his voice calm but firm—just what his players needed.

Sergio González (with conviction):

"Listen to me, everyone. We've already done the hard part. We've come back from the brink. But this... this is where we prove what we're made of. We can't let them take it from us. They've been dominant all night, but we've shown them what we're capable of."

His eyes locked with Nico Cruyff, who was sitting with his hands on his knees, breath still heavy from the run to score his goal. Despite the exhaustion in his eyes, the 14-year-old's focus was unwavering.

Sergio González (continuing):

"Nico, that was brilliant. But we need more. We need the same intensity, the same belief, for another 30 minutes. If you have to run through the whole Barcelona defense again—do it. No one's stopping you tonight. Espanyol is here to take what's ours."

The players exchanged nods, eyes full of fire. They knew the stakes were high, but they also knew they had a chance—Barcelona were hurting. The game was no longer just a fight for silverware; it had become a battle for pride, for the city, for Espanyol's place in history.

José Cañas rose, flexing his legs to shake off the weariness. He looked at his teammates, smiling through the exhaustion.

José Cañas (grinning):

"Let's show them what it means to be a part of this club. We're not done yet."

The group's energy shifted. The doubts had melted away. They weren't just the underdogs—they were the equalizers, the ones who had clawed their way back from the depths of a defeat that seemed inevitable. Now, they had a chance to end it on their own terms.

As Sergio González finished his brief talk, the players stood, stretching their limbs and getting their final instructions. Their eyes were locked onto the game ahead—extra time, a final push for glory. The roar of the crowd, the tension in the air, it was all they could feel.

The whistle to start extra time blew. They were ready.

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