Tacticians at War

"Vamos, vamos mi Sevilla, vamos, vamos campeón,Let's go, let's go my Sevilla, let's go, let's go champion,

Sale el Sol por la mañana, por la mañana sale el Sol,The sun rises in the morning, in the morning the sun comes up,

Sale el Sol por la mañana, y por la noche salgo yo...The sun rises in the morning, and at night I go out...

Día y noche, hay que seguir alentando!Day and night, we must keep on cheering!"

Mateo, who stood quietly in the tunnel, could hear the roaring sounds of the Sevilla fans echoing through the structure. The entire 42,000-seater stadium was already packed to the brim, a sea of red and white erupting in chants and songs. But it wasn't just Sevilla fans in the stadium — no, buried beneath the thunderous anthem of the home supporters, Mateo could make out something fainter. Beneath the layered voices, he could hear them — the Cules. Their chants, though not as loud, carried just as much passion and love. They sang back, refusing to be drowned out, showing their own strength, their own belief, and unwavering support for the team they loved.

Hearing it all — the clash of anthems, the tension in the air — Mateo could feel his heart pounding harder and harder with every second.

"Ouch."

The soft sound snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked down and saw the little girl whose hand he had been holding now wearing a pained expression.

Realization hit him instantly. In his own nervousness and excitement, he had accidentally squeezed her hand a little too tightly. His reaction was immediate — he bent down quickly, concern written all over his face.

"Sorry! Sorry! Is your hand okay?" he asked gently, reaching for her small hand, checking it carefully, worry in his eyes. "I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry."

The little girl looked at him and nodded slowly, though she was still rubbing her hand, checking it as if trying to make sure it wasn't hurt badly. Mateo stayed there, crouched in front of her, still apologizing.

"I feel really bad," he said softly. Then he smiled a little, trying to lighten her mood. "Hey… would you forgive me if I score a goal just for you?"

The girl looked up at him, her eyes wide, and after a second, she gave a shy nod.

Mateo grinned, his laughter light and warm. "Don't worry," he said, still smiling as he hugged her gently. "My goal will be for you. I promise. I'm really sorry, okay?"

He gave her a playful shake by the shoulders as she smiled, her head bobbing a little with the movement. The moment was small but warm — a soft exchange in the middle of a roaring storm.

Then, while still kneeling by the girl, Mateo heard a loud voice boom from nearby.

"Defensive counterattackers — I've told you, even though that's how we usually play, I don't want that today! I want you to attack. Attack! Put massive pressure on their defense! Force them to make mistakes and capitalize on that!"

Mateo looked up toward the direction of the voice. Across from them, on the other side of the tunnel, stood the Sevilla players. And in front of them, pacing and shouting, was their coach — Julen Lopetegui — giving his final instructions before the match.

"Pass forward well! I need you all over their final third! Show them you're here to take the game!"

"Nesyri!" he shouted again, this time calling out directly. "I need you to be more active than usual. Keep pressing their weak defense. Make your presence felt in there!"

Lopetegui's voice cut clearly through the air. His words were loud, commanding, and confident — and the Barcelona players nearby heard every word he said.

Koeman, who stood calmly to the side, listened quietly. But he understood more than just the words. He knew what Lopetegui was really trying to do. Yes, he was giving orders, but he was also trying to send a message — to shake confidence, to apply pressure, and make the Barca players nervous.

But Koeman also knew something else. He knew that Sevilla usually played in a 4-3-3 or a 4-2-3-1 formation this season. However, when he received their official lineup for this match, he had noticed something different. They had switched it up. Now, they were playing a 4-4-2.

This formation, while classic and usually balanced in both offense and defense, didn't seem to be used for balance today. From what Koeman saw on the list, apart from the two forwards, there were two midfielders who hadn't seen much playtime this season. But from Koeman's knowledge, they were attacking-type players — not defensive ones.

So all this shouting, all this bravado — it wasn't just for show. There was some truth behind it.

They were really going for the attack.

What Koeman had suspected turned out to be true. For Lopetegui, there was no fear — not even a hint of it — when he looked at this current Barcelona squad. In his eyes, a Barcelona team without Messi was like a tiger stripped of its fangs and claws — dangerous in name only, but not in the same deadly way it used to be. Lopetegui didn't see a threat. He didn't feel the slightest bit of hesitation or anxiety. He wholeheartedly believed his side had the upper hand, and he fully expected his players to step out onto that pitch, dominate the game, and come away with all three points.

The stakes were high. Sevilla were currently five points behind Barcelona in the table, but crucially, they had two games in hand. A win tonight would mean everything. If they took this match, not only would they jump ahead of Real Madrid, but they would close the gap to just two points behind Barça and four behind Atlético. The title race would be alive — and Lopetegui wanted more than just a top-four finish.

Yes, he had bigger dreams. He was thinking beyond just Champions League qualification. He wanted to challenge for the league title itself.

He stood tall on the sidelines, barking out his instructions with loud conviction. His voice rang clear, not just to direct his own team, but to rattle the Barcelona players, to plant seeds of doubt. And as he shouted, he scanned the opposite tunnel, his eyes searching for signs — anything that might show his plan was getting under their skin.

Then he saw him.

There, just slightly apart from the others, was a young man— no, a boy he should say — crouched down in front of a little girl. The moment caught Lopetegui's eye. He paused, just for a beat, watching the interaction. But what really struck him wasn't the gesture. It was the eyes. The boy had lifted his head slightly — and he was looking right at him.

Clear, clean, unwavering blue eyes.

Lopetegui wasn't expecting that. There was no fear there. No nerves. Just calm, steady confidence. And for a moment, that look stumped him.

This kid, he thought.

This kid clearly hadn't been fazed at all by the noise, the pressure, or the pointed words being thrown around. Lopetegui knew who he was, of course. As Sevilla's coach, he was well aware of the danger. The hat-trick reversal in the last game week had been all anyone could talk about. He had watched the replay himself — studied it. He knew what kind of threat this boy could pose if given space. That was why, raising his voice again, he made sure to address it head-on.

"And if you see their number 36 on the pitch, don't be afraid!" he shouted. "It's just speed! Moreno, Fernando — I trust you two to handle him. Let's welcome him to the Pizjuán properly. Let's show him that our home is not the kind of place he can just run around freely!"

He finished with a smile, his voice ringing with confidence.

But Koeman, who had been standing nearby, heard every word. His jaw clenched as the words sank in. And now it was his turn to shout.

Two could play this game.

"Our lineup has barely changed today, so we should all know what to do, ehn?" Koeman called out loudly, addressing his players with firm authority.

"Defense — just focus on Nesyri. Don't let him receive the ball easily anywhere near the penalty area. Shut him out completely, and they're out of the game. Simple as that."

He turned his focus to the midfield.

"De Jong — you must control the midfield today. You've got Busquets right behind you, so work together. Support him, stabilize things, and that should give Pedri more freedom to push forward and create. He needs that space, and it's on you to make sure he gets it."

Koeman's tone grew sharper now as he moved on to the front line.

"As for you, attack — remember to stay fluid. Keep shifting. Swap positions constantly. Dembele, I want you to go central sometimes. Griezmann, drift wide. Mateo, use both flanks — go left, go right. Mix it up and confuse their backline. Keep them on their toes. Create space. Score goals. Lots of goals, ehn?" he barked, his energy rising with every word.

Then his eyes settled directly on Mateo.

"And you, Mateo," he said, voice louder now, "don't be soft out there. Just like in training — use your speed. Outrun them. Carry them on a run. Break their line!"

"Yes, boss!" Mateo called back instantly, his voice strong and clear.

Koeman grinned at that, nodding with satisfaction. "Good," he shouted back with a smile on his face. He liked seeing his players fired up before a match. That kind of energy meant something.

On the other side, Lopetegui, who had been watching the interaction unfold, showed a visible frown. He was just about to continue barking more instructions to his players when a sharp voice cut through the air.

The fourth official, who had been silently standing nearby, observing the back-and-forth between both managers, suddenly raised his voice. After listening to a command from his headset and checking his watch, he took a step forward and shouted:

"Teams out! We are moving now!"

The command was clear, loud, and final. The time had come.

"Let's go," Mateo said, turning to the little girl beside him. This time, he held her hand more gently, more carefully, his earlier mistake still fresh in his mind. The girl smiled up at him, and he smiled softly back.

As they walked down the tunnel and began stepping onto the pitch, a thought quietly entered Mateo's mind — a private, silent one.

What am I going to get this time? he wondered. I hope it's something for my stamina would it even come. He found himself hoping, even silently expecting, that whatever gift or boost came next would help him endure more.

Then, just as his boots touched the grass of the Estadio Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán, he wasn't disappointed.

Because at that very moment, the familiar voice in his head echoed once again:

[Congratulations to the host for successful signing in to the Estadio Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán stadium and getting Iván Zamorano Aerial Dominance and Precise Heading]

A/N

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