Although Christian Eriksen's surgery was successful, the blow to the team's competitive level was devastating. With both him and Iniesta absent, Barcelona's proud midfield control instantly dropped to zero.
The atmosphere in the locker room was as oppressive as an unsealed coffin. The players were changing into their gear for training, but no one was joking; even the usually most lively Piqué was silent. Everyone's gaze would intentionally or unintentionally sweep over that spot in the corner—where André Gomes was sitting.
This Portuguese midfielder, acquired by Barça for 35 million euros (rising to 55 million with add-ons), was currently hanging his head, mechanically tying his shoelaces. He could feel the doubt, worry, and even helplessness in his teammates' eyes. Since arriving at the Camp Nou, he had lived under immense pressure. Every mistake was met with a chorus of boos; every back-pass was criticized by the media. He became increasingly afraid to take possession, increasingly fond of hiding behind his teammates. He was like a fine piece of porcelain, glossy on the outside but shattering at the slightest touch.
'Hey, André,' Luis Suárez said as he passed by, patting him on the shoulder. 'Be sharp in training today. We need you.'
Gomes forced a faint smile, a humble, ingratiating one: 'I will, Luis.'
But he knew in his heart that no one trusted him. In everyone's eyes, sending him to the Wanda Metropolitano to face that group of 'bandits' from Atlético Madrid was practically sending a lamb to the slaughter.
Just then, the team leader Pepe Costa walked in and went straight to Gomes. 'André, don't change your shoes. The Chairman wants to see you.'
The locker room instantly fell silent. Gomes's hand trembled. *The Chairman wants to see me? At this critical juncture? Is it to inform me I'm being sold in the winter window? Or...* He took a deep breath, as if walking to the execution ground, and stood up to follow the leader out... The office blinds were drawn, making the light somewhat dim. The air carried a faint scent of cigar smoke. Bartomeu sat behind the desk, not looking at documents as usual, but fiddling with a coin in his hand.
'Sit, André,' Bartomeu said, pointing to the leather chair opposite.
Gomes sat down stiffly, unsure where to put his hands, eventually awkwardly clasping them between his knees. His eyes wandered, not daring to meet Bartomeu's gaze.
'Do you know why I asked to see you?' Bartomeu's voice betrayed no emotion.
'Is it... about the winter transfer window?' Gomes's voice was very soft. 'I know I haven't played well. If you want to sell me, I... I understand.'
*Slap!* Bartomeu slammed the coin in his hand onto the desk with a sharp crack that made Gomes flinch.
'Look up!' Bartomeu suddenly raised his voice. 'Look at me!'
Gomes instinctively looked up, meeting Bartomeu's sharp, knife-like eyes.
'Look at yourself now,' Bartomeu mocked mercilessly.'Shoulders hunched, eyes darting, voice like a mosquito's. You're one hundred and eighty-eight centimeters tall, eighty-five kilograms, but in front of me, you're like a frightened hamster.'
Gomes's face flushed instantly, shame making him wish he could vanish into the ground.
'That's why you get booed at the Camp Nou,' Bartomeu said, standing up, walking around the desk to stand before Gomes, looking down at him. 'The fans don't boo you because you misplace a pass or run slowly. They boo you because you're soft.'
'At Valencia, you were the midfield core of the Bats. You dared to drive the ball forward fifty meters, you dared to take long shots outside the box. But at Barça, you've become a coward who only passes back to Busquets.'
'I... I'm just afraid of making mistakes,' Gomes defended himself. 'The pace here is too fast. Messi and Iniesta are there, I'm afraid...'
'Afraid of what? Afraid of stealing their spotlight? Or afraid of taking responsibility?' Bartomeu cut him off, picking up a data report from the desk and tossing it into Gomes's lap. 'Look for yourself.'
Gomes picked up the report. It was a comparison of his statistics over the last two seasons. His final season at Valencia: average forward pass percentage 45%, average duel success rate 68%, average dribbles per game 2.1. This season at Barça: average forward pass percentage 12%, average duel success rate 35%, average dribbles per game 0.3.
The numbers didn't lie. He wasn't playing football at Barça; he was playing'safety'.
'André, I didn't call you here today to humiliate you,' Bartomeu's tone softened a little. He crouched down, bringing his eyes level with Gomes's. 'Eriksen had heart surgery, Iniesta is injured. Now my midfield is empty. You are the only player with the physicality to compete with those guys from Atlético Madrid.'
'You know better than I do what Simeone's team plays like. Gabi, Koke, Saúl—they're thugs on the pitch. If you go out there still looking like this, they'll devour you alive in ten minutes, not even leaving the bones.'
Gomes's Adam's apple bobbed, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
'But,' Bartomeu's tone shifted. He reached out and grabbed Gomes's shoulder, squeezing it firmly. 'This is also your only chance. If you can survive in that colosseum, if you can shove them aside like a man, all those boos will turn into applause.'
'Listen, André. I don't need you to become Xavi, and I don't need you to become Iniesta.' Bartomeu stared into his eyes, enunciating each word clearly: 'This weekend, I want you to become Paulinho.'
'Paulinho?' Gomes was stunned.
'Yes. Forget the complicated tactics, forget Tiki-Taka. Get the ball, shield it, and then charge forward like a wild boar.' A crazed glint flashed in Bartomeu's eyes. 'If anyone dares to kick you, kick them back. If anyone dares to bump you, use that one hundred and eighty-eight centimeter frame of yours to knock them flying!'
'I don't ask you to make good passes. I only ask for one thing: don't fall down.' 'As long as you're standing, that's your greatest contribution to the team.'
Gomes looked at the Chairman. In this man's eyes, he didn't see the usual disappointment, but rather a near-gambler's fanatical trust. This trust was like a fire, igniting something long suppressed deep within him. Something wild from his Sporting CP youth academy days, before it was neutered by the 'pressure of a giant club.'
'I... I can try,' Gomes said through gritted teeth.
'Not try,' Bartomeu patted his cheek. 'You must do it. Because if you can't, you really can get lost in the winter window. I don't keep useless people.'
'Go. Go to the training ground. Show everyone you're not that softie who only passes back.'
...[Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Training Field 1]
The rain began to fall. The cold autumn rain made the pitch wet, slippery, and muddy. This kind of weather usually annoyed Barça's technical players, as it affected passing accuracy. But for today's training theme, it was practically a gift from God.
Valverde stood on the sidelines in a thick raincoat, holding a tactics board. His expression was grave. The tactical instructions the Chairman had just given him were practically a'sacrilege' against Barça's tradition. But looking at the injury list, he knew he had no choice.
'Gather!' The whistle blew. The players assembled.
'Today, we're not practicing possession, not practicing close-quarters combination play,' Valverde announced loudly. 'Today we only practice one thing: duels and pressing.'
The players exchanged glances. Messi frowned slightly. Piqué and Busquets looked at each other, seeing shock in each other's eyes. Practicing pressing at Barça? It was as absurd as practicing Western boxing at a Shaolin temple.
'Groups!' Valverde ignored the players' reactions and read out the list directly.
Group A (simulating weekend starters): ter Stegen / Semedo, Iñigo, Umtiti, Alba / Gomes, Paulinho, Busquets, Rakitić / Messi, Suárez.
Group B (simulating Atlético Madrid): Cillessen / Digne, Piqué, Mascherano, Aleix Vidal / Denis Suárez, Aleñá, Roberto, Deulofeu / Paco.
This was the 'Giant Midfield' formation personally selected by Bartomeu. Four midfielders lined up, average height 185cm+.
'Listen up,' Valverde said, pointing at Group A's midfield. 'Group A has only one task: no lateral passes outside the penalty area. Get the ball, immediately look for the forwards, or drive forward yourself. Group B's task is to imitate Atlético Madrid, press like crazy! Use your bodies, don't worry about being physical!'
Initially, Team A was playing very awkwardly. Busquets habitually tried to control the tempo, but under Team B's frantic pressing, he struggled to find passing options. Rakitić attempted long passes, but the slippery ball was always overhit.
The one suffering the most was Gomes. Standing in the left midfielder position, he seemed completely out of place. In the 10th minute, he received a pass from Alba. Faced with Mascherano's pressing from Team B, Gomes instinctively tried to turn and shield the ball for a back pass.
"Don't pass back!" Valverde roared from the sidelines. "André! Forward! Forward!"
Gomes hesitated, and Mascherano had already slid in. Although he pulled his foot, the tackle was still fierce. Gomes was knocked to the ground, covered in mud and water. A few low chuckles echoed around him. It was the mockery from Team B's substitute players.
Sitting in the mud, Gomes felt humiliated. He looked up towards the sidelines. Chairman Bartomeu was standing on the second-floor balcony, holding binoculars, watching him expressionlessly. That gaze seemed to say: See, you really are useless.
"Get up!" A large hand appeared in front of him. It was Paulinho. The Brazilian was covered in mud, looking like a worker just out of a mine. "Forget about those damn back passes." Paulinho pulled him up, leaned close to his ear, and roared, "Watch how I play. Throw your brain away, use your body!"
The match continued. 20th minute. Paulinho received the ball at the center circle. Faced with Aleñá's close marking, he didn't even look for teammates. He simply knocked the ball forward, used his strong chest to push Aleñá aside, and rumbled forward with the ball for thirty meters. Simple, brutal, effective.
This scene seemed to have sparked something in Gomes. 25th minute, the opportunity came to his feet again. This time, facing Aleix Vidal's tight marking, Gomes didn't turn. "Don't fall down." The Chairman's words echoed in his mind.
Gritting his teeth, Gomes used his long legs to poke the ball out first, then slammed his shoulder hard into Aleix Vidal. *Thud!* A dull sound of muscle collision. Aleix Vidal was a tough guy, but this impact actually made him lose his balance, staggering back two steps. Gomes didn't fall! He used this opening to surge forward with the ball!
"That's it!" an assistant coach shouted excitedly from the sidelines.
Once Gomes got moving, he was terrifying. His strides were enormous, and once he built up speed, he was like a heavy-duty truck. He bulldozed past Roberto on the wing, then sent in a cross. Although the cross wasn't great and was cleared by Piqué, the momentum was there.
As the training session deepened, the challenges grew rougher. To simulate Atlético Madrid's intensity, Team B's Mascherano was really going for it. In the 40th minute, during an aerial duel, Mascherano's elbow caught Paulinho on the back of the head. Paulinho landed and immediately got angry, shoving Little Brother Masche. "You want a fight, Javier?!" "This is training! Don't cry like a girl!" Mascherano didn't back down.
Just as it was about to turn into a brawl, Messi quickly stepped in to separate them. But at that moment, a figure stepped in front of Paulinho. It was Gomes. This usually timid Portuguese player actually pushed Mascherano away, glaring and shouting, "Shut up! He's bleeding!"
The entire field fell silent. Even Paulinho was stunned, looking at the tall figure shielding him. Mascherano was also taken aback for a moment, then grinned, patting Gomes on the chest. "Now that's more like it, Portuguese. Finally showing some spirit."
This little conflict instead became a catalyst. A strange chemistry began to brew among the midfield four. It felt like an "alliance of thugs." They realized that without Iniesta and Eriksen, they had to stick together, had to be tougher and meaner than their opponents to protect the defense behind them and Messi in front.
Training ended. Everyone looked like they had crawled out of a mud pit. But the atmosphere in the locker room had changed. It was no longer the lifeless gloom of the morning; there was now a restless buzz fueled by adrenaline.
Paulinho, wiping mud from his hair, walked over and plopped down next to Gomes. "Hey, André," Paulinho grinned, showing his white teeth. "Thanks for earlier."
"It was nothing," Gomes said, still a bit embarrassed, looking down. "I just thought that move was too much."
"That's Little Brother Masche's style. But..." Paulinho lowered his voice. "This weekend in Madrid, those guys are even dirtier than him. When the time comes, you and I need to stand together."
"We're the only two 'tanks' in this formation." Paulinho pointed at himself, then at Gomes. "Busquets is too skinny, Rakitić has to cover positions. Only we two can hold up the midfield."
"If Saúl or Gabi dares to touch Messi, I'll knock them flat." Paulinho waved his fist. "What about you?"
Gomes looked up at Paulinho, then glanced at Messi not far away, icing his knee. He remembered Bartomeu's words. "As long as you're standing, you're contributing."
"Count me in," Gomes took a deep breath, a look of determination appearing in his eyes for the first time. "I can knock people down too."
Sitting not far away, Messi watched all this quietly. He didn't say anything, just picked up his mate tea and took a sip, a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth. As captain, his biggest worry was that this hastily assembled midfield lacked cohesion. But now, it seemed this group of "workhorses" was forging a unique brotherhood...
[The Chairman's Office]
Valverde knocked and entered, holding the training report.
"How did it go, Ernesto?" Bartomeu was eating lunch, a simple salad.
"Better than I expected," Valverde reported honestly. "Although it was ugly, with a high rate of passing errors, the physicality came through. Especially Gomes. He seems like a different person."
"Not a different person, just pushed to the edge," Bartomeu wiped his mouth. "Even a rabbit bites when cornered, let alone a 188cm-tall powerhouse."
"Defensively, this lineup is fine. Aerial control is strong," Valverde pointed out the key issue. "But offense is a big problem. Messi is too isolated. If Atlético Madrid parks the bus, it'll be hard for these four workhorses to pass the ball into dangerous areas."
"Then don't pass it in," Bartomeu stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the still gloomy sky outside. "Tell Messi he has unlimited shooting license for this match. Also, tell Paulinho and Gomes that if there's an opening, they are to take long shots. A messy fight. What we need is a messy fight."
"And one more thing," Bartomeu turned around. "Call Suárez in. I need to talk to him about playing injured. For this match, we need him to be a'shit-stirrer' up front. Even if he doesn't score, he needs to make life hell for Godín and Giménez."
...
[Departure Day]
Barcelona El Prat Airport. The team bus slowly stopped. The players got off, carrying their bags, surrounded by flashing camera lights and the long lenses of reporters.
The media was still frantically hyping Barça's crisis: 'Depleted Squad Heads Out! Barça Faces First Defeat at Wanda Metropolitano!' 'A Giant Without a Brain? Valverde's Suicidal Formation Change!' 'Gomes Starting? Catalonia is Weeping!'
André Gomes wore large noise-canceling headphones, walking with his head down in the middle of the group. He saw those newspaper headlines, but he didn't feel the usual panic. His mind was filled only with Paulinho's words from the training ground: 'You and I need to stand together,' and the Chairman's cold command: 'Don't fall down.'
Messi walked at the front, expression serious. Behind him were Busquets, Piqué, and the fiercely scowling Paulinho. This team had lost its usual elegance and composure, replaced instead by a solemn, almost tragic, murderous look (killing intent).
Bartomeu stood at the boarding gate, shaking hands with each player. When it was Gomes's turn, Bartomeu didn't speak, just patted his chest heavily. Gomes paused, nodded, then strode into the cabin.
The plane soared into the sky, piercing through thick clouds, heading for Madrid. There, Simeone and his iron-blooded army had already sharpened their blades. But what they didn't know was that this time, they weren't facing a flock of lambs to the slaughter, but a pack of beasts prepared to fight tooth and nail with them in the mud.
A brutal, close-quarters battle for survival and dignity was about to begin.