Mateo walked out onto the perfect green carpet of the pitch, the smell of freshly cut grass and damp earth filling his nostrils. It was a scent that spoke of meticulous care, of a battlefield prepared for a grand, decisive conflict.
He looked up at the Yellow Wall, and for a moment, the world tilted. It was not a stand; it was a sea of yellow, a living, breathing monument to passion.
The flags, the banners, the faces they were all focused on this moment, on this game, a single, unified entity demanding a performance worthy of their devotion.
He took his position, standing next to the center circle as both teams lined up. The grass felt firm and yielding beneath his boots, a perfect foundation for the movements he was about to execute. He closed his eyes for a brief second, centering himself.
