And as the time wound down, the Allianz sat like a gift under the pale afternoon sky.
Ribbons of red and blue paper fluttered from lamp posts and on the sides where scaffolding had been dressed with giant banners, and temporary stalls lined the outer plaza.
The air smelled of fried food and coffee.
People moved in small knots, stopping to take photos, to argue quietly about formations, to rehearse the chants they meant to raise later.
A child clutched a plush toy wearing a tiny jersey and would not let go.
And amid all that, a long motorcade threaded toward the stadium.
The Barcelona bus eased into the drop-off point, doors folding open with a soft hydraulic sigh.
Staff stepped out first, crisp jackets and radios clipped to belts.
They were checking lists on tablets and nodding to security.
And then the stars of the night began climbing down.
Hansi Flick was the first after the staff, pausing to survey the crowd as he got down, and then walked towards the open entrance.
