Chapter 203: The Ugliest Goal

The opening goal arrived in the 11th minute, crafted with effortless precision.

It came on Barcelona’s third real push forward. Xavi slipped the ball wide to Pedro, who used sheer acceleration and sharp footwork to breeze past Uchida along the right flank into the penalty area. Metzelder stepped out to challenge him, but Pedro held his composure. Instead of shooting, he slid a crisp pass across to David Villa.

Villa pulled his right leg back as if to smash it first time, only to let the ball glide cleanly between his boots. The dummy completely fooled Höwedes, who had already committed himself to a sliding block on the turf. Höwedes was taken entirely out of the play, and the ball rolled into open space.

Messi drifted in behind everyone, untouched, and casually tapped the ball into the empty net without even needing to break his stride.

Fweet—!

1-0, Barcelona.

The Camp Nou erupted in relief and celebration, ninety thousand voices instantly washing away the tension from the opening minutes.

Neuer slapped both gloves into the turf, furious with the defensive breakdown. Höwedes pushed himself up from the grass, shaking his head.

Mateo watched Messi get mobbed near the corner flag. For a brief second, an uncomfortable feeling crept into his chest at how effortless the goal looked. Barcelona functioned like a finely tuned engine where every run, feint, and pass set their star up for the simplest possible finish.

Mateo pushed that thought down immediately.

Farfán jogged past on his way back to the center circle and gave Mateo a firm pat on the shoulder.

“Keep your head up,” Farfán told him, catching his breath. “That’s just their first punch. We still have eighty minutes on the clock.”

Mateo nodded, anchoring himself to the reminder. Eighty minutes was plenty of time. Going behind to Barcelona early was hardly the end of the world. Schalke’s defensive shape was still holding, Xavi was being pressured on every possession, and the goal had come from a single moment of genius rather than a systematic collapse. They had dug themselves out of deeper holes before.

From the touchline, Magath signaled for an immediate tactical shift, instructing Mateo to pull wider toward the sideline.

It was a calculated gamble, similar to the adjustment that had broken Inter Milan open. Mateo drifted far out to the touchline, deliberately dragging Xavi away from Barcelona’s crowded central midfield zone. Huntelaar dropped slightly deeper through the middle to fill the gap Mateo had vacated.

Suddenly, the thirty-one-year-old Xavi was forced to cover ground in wide open spaces against an eighteen-year-old with fresh legs. It was an assignment Xavi simply could not sustain for long, and in those small pockets of fatigue, Schalke found their opening.

The counter started on the right wing. Mateo bought himself half a yard of space with a quick drop of the shoulder, cut inside, and noticed the entire Barcelona backline shifting across to seal him off. That tilt left a massive gap in the central corridor.

Mateo slid a sharp pass across the turf directly to Jones.

With the Partner card active, Jones reacted with unusual composure. A midfielder known strictly for hard tackles and defensive work found himself twenty-five yards out in acres of space. Instead of blasting a reckless shot from distance, Jones clipped a delicate, arched ball straight into the six-yard box over the scrambling defenders.

Mateo had already taken off into the penalty area the moment he released the pass.

The cross dipped slightly behind his run. Mateo had no time to set his feet or adjust his balance, so he simply threw his entire body forward in a desperate diving header.

The ball struck the very crown of his skull at an awkward, accidental angle.

Víctor Valdés had already anticipated a driven downward header and shifted his weight toward his near post. Instead, the mishit ball looped softly over the keeper’s outstretched gloves and dropped cleanly under the crossbar into the far corner.

SWISH!

The goalkeeper’s right hand clawed at air.

Fweet—!

1-1.

A stunned quiet fell over the Camp Nou. Nobody in the ground expected Jones to deliver a delicate chip, let alone watch Mateo loop a clumsy diving header over Valdés. It was probably the ugliest finish Mateo had produced all year, but against Barcelona in a semi-final, nobody cared how it crossed the line.

Up in the away tier, the travelling Schalke supporters were screaming their lungs out.

Mateo pushed himself up from the grass, spitting out bits of turf. He skipped any big celebration, simply pointing at Jones, who still looked half-shocked that the pass had come off his boot, and pulled the big midfielder into a quick embrace. Over on the touchline, Magath was pumping both fists, his usual stern look completely gone.

Jogging back to the center circle, Mateo felt a quiet rush of satisfaction. Everyone had spent the week saying Schalke didn’t belong on the same pitch as Barcelona, yet they had just dragged the score back to level terms through pure grit. If Barcelona wanted to play pretty football, fine. Schalke would take whatever worked.

Pep Guardiola called Sergio Busquets over to the technical area for a brief word.

Mateo watched them from a distance. It wasn’t hard to guess what was being said. Leaving Mateo to Xavi and Iniesta clearly wasn’t cutting it anymore, and Busquets would likely step up to shadow him. Fine by Mateo. If Barcelona wanted to throw an extra body his way, that just meant another Schalke shirt was standing in acres of open space. The rest of the night would be about finding that free man.

The referee blew his whistle, and Barcelona kicked off again.