The roar of Stamford Bridge was a physical force, a wave of sound that washed over Mateo as he stood on the touchline, looking out at the sea of blue and white.
The half-time walk was a ritual he had come to appreciate, a moment of calm before the storm, a chance to absorb the atmosphere of the stadium and to mentally prepare for the battle ahead. But this was different.
This was not a routine Bundesliga fixture; this was a Champions League quarter-final, a stage he had dreamed of since he was a boy kicking a ball in the dusty streets of his orphanage.
The hostility was palpable. The Chelsea fans, who had been so vocal in their support during the warm-up, now turned their attention to the opposition, their chants a mixture of defiance and disdain.
They had identified Mateo as the danger man, the boy wonder who had been making headlines across Europe, and they were determined to make his first visit to Stamford Bridge an unpleasant one.
