Armani played a first time pass. Blind. Without looking. The ball played through the gap between the two pressing players and into the path of the midfielder who was arriving from deep, the pass requiring not just technique but the specific spatial awareness that allowed a player to know where his teammate was without seeing him.
The pass was extraordinary. The pass did not produce a goal or an assist or a chance. The pass produced a moment of control in a match that Barcelona were controlling, a two second reversal of the power dynamic, the visiting player briefly imposing his quality on the home team's system.
The Barcelona supporters, who appreciated football the way connoisseurs appreciated wine, applauded. Not for a goal. For a pass. The specific Catalan appreciation of technique expressed through the brief, respectful applause that the Camp Nou offered to visiting players who produced moments of genuine quality.
Armani heard the applause. Filed it. The Camp Nou applauding a pass. The approval of a stadium that had watched the best footballers in history and that was telling him, through its applause, that what he had done belonged in the same conversation.
The second leg at Villa Park was the following week. One nil down. Needing to score. Needing to win. The equation the same as every European knockout return leg, the deficit requiring bravery, the home crowd requiring a performance.
Sixty thousand. Tuesday night. The anthem.
Villa attacked from the first minute. The manager's instruction aggressive, the caution of the Camp Nou replaced by intent, the home crowd's energy channeled into the pressing and the passing and the relentless forward movement that the occasion demanded.
Barcelona defended. The Catalan club comfortable sitting deep, protecting their lead, trusting their defensive structure to absorb the pressure and their attacking quality to punish Villa on the counter.
The first half was scoreless. Villa creating half chances. Barcelona defending them. The frustration building in the stadium the way weather built before a storm, the pressure increasing, the tension rising, the crowd's noise shifting from encouragement to demand.
Halftime. Nil nil on the night. One nil on aggregate.
The manager adjusted. Armani moved centrally. The same positional shift that had worked against Newcastle at Brentford and against Coventry at Barnsley and against a dozen opponents since, the disruption of the defensive structure through the wide player's movement inside.
In the fifty sixth minute, the adjustment produced a goal. Not Armani's goal. The midfielder's goal. The space that Armani's central movement created was exploited by the midfielder, who drove into it and finished with a shot that found the bottom corner.
One nil Villa. One one on aggregate.
The Camp Nou's goal counting as an away goal for Barcelona. Villa needed another.
The stadium roared. The noise carrying the specific demand of a crowd that understood the mathematics and that was willing its team forward with the collective force of sixty thousand voices.
In the sixty ninth minute, Villa scored again.
Bailey. The Jamaican winger. A goal that started with Armani's pressing, the ball won high on the right side, played inside, recycled through the midfield, arriving at Bailey's feet on the edge of the box. Bailey's left foot. The curl. The net.
Two one on aggregate. Villa ahead.
The final twenty minutes were Barcelona's. The Spanish club's quality asserting itself, the pressing intensifying, the possession dominating. Villa defended. The San Siro template. The bodies on the line. The headers cleared. The tackles made.
In the eighty seventh minute, Barcelona equalized on the night. A goal that was, like the Camp Nou goal, built through patient passing, the sequence finding its conclusion with a tap in at the far post.
Two one Villa on the night. Two two on aggregate. Away goals tied. The tie heading to extra time.
Extra time. Thirty minutes. The longest Armani had played in a competitive match since the Wembley final with Barnsley.
He was tired. The fatigue visible in his stride, the first three yards that were usually explosive now merely fast, the body reaching the limits that the season's accumulation had imposed. But the mind was clear. The urgency that Kofi's death had installed was present, the specific quality that loss had provided, the understanding that every match might be the last, the refusal to hold anything back.
In the hundred and seventh minute, he scored.
A long ball from the centre back. The same shape as every long ball that had produced a goal in his career, the arc over the defence, the ball dropping into the space behind the back line. He ran. The sprint. The thing that was his. The body producing the speed that the mind demanded, the legs finding the reserves that the legs had been hiding.
He reached the ball. Controlled it. The goalkeeper advancing. The same situation. The same decision. The same finish.
Left foot. Low. Across the goalkeeper. Into the far corner.
Three two on aggregate. Villa ahead. In the Champions League quarter final. In extra time. At Villa Park.
Sixty thousand people lost their minds.
Armani pressed his hand to his chest. Looked at the sky. The finger. For Kofi. Always for Kofi.
The final thirteen minutes were defended. Every second contested. Barcelona pushing. Villa holding. The specific agony of a team protecting a lead in extra time of a Champions League quarter final against one of the greatest clubs in the history of the sport.
The whistle blew.
Villa through. To the semi finals. Of the Champions League.
The celebration was not the relief of the San Siro. The celebration was joy. Pure, uncomplicated, ferocious joy. The squad on the pitch. The supporters on their feet. The noise sustained for ten minutes after the final whistle, the Holte End singing, the rest of the stadium joining, the sixty thousand producing a sound that carried across Birmingham and into the April night.
Armani lay on the Villa Park pitch. The same way he had lain on the San Siro pitch with Bailey. The same sky. Different stars. Different city. Different stage of the journey.
Bailey found him. Lay down beside him.
"Semi finals," Bailey said.
"Semi finals."
"Champions League semi finals. Aston Villa."
"Aston Villa."
They lay on the grass and looked at the sky and the season was not finished and the story was not finished and the boy from Montego Bay was lying on a pitch that was two stages from the Champions League final and the scouts from Manchester United had been in the building and the release clause was activating in two months and everything was building toward something that he could feel but could not yet name.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to score fifteen goals this season."
"You're on fourteen."
"I know. Fifteen is coming."
"I know it is." Bailey paused. "And then what?"
"And then the next thing."
"The next thing."
They lay on the pitch and the April night was cold and the grass was wet and the celebrations continued around them and the next thing was ahead, unnamed but present, the destination that had been fixed since the poster went on the wall, the red that was waiting, the future that was almost close enough to touch.
Almost. Not yet. Almost.
The season continued. The story continued. The boy from Montego Bay, lying on the Villa Park pitch after beating Barcelona, the Champions League semi final ahead, the fifteenth goal ahead, the next thing ahead.
Still running. Toward all of it.