The air in the Santiago Bernabéu was not just air. It was a physical entity, a living, breathing beast composed of the roars of eighty-thousand white-clad fanatics, the weight of a century of footballing royalty, and the palpable expectation of victory. For a sixteen-year-old boy from the sun-drenched streets of Málaga, it was suffocating.
As the iconic Champions League anthem swelled, its operatic grandeur echoing into the Madrid night, Mateo Alvarez stood on the hallowed turf and felt a tremor run through him that had nothing to do with the cool April air.
This was it. The coliseum of football gods. The home of Di Stéfano, of Puskás, of Zidane, of Ronaldo. He glanced across the halfway line and saw them, the modern pantheon: Cristiano Ronaldo, a sculpture of muscle and ambition; Sergio Ramos, the warrior-poet of defense; Iker Casillas, the saint guarding the pearly gates. They were not just players; they were monuments.
This was not just a match. It was an audit of his soul.
