In the deep autumn of the Mediterranean, the sky took on a depressing leaden gray. The once warm sea breeze now carried a damp, cold chill, swirling the fallen leaves by the Sant Joan Despí training base, dancing in spirals across the meticulously trimmed turf.
Half a month had passed since that historic 'empty stadium match'. During these two weeks, thanks to the global public opinion dividend from the'silent protest', Barça's brand value had not fallen but risen instead. Although La Liga President Tebas continued to make snide remarks in the media, he never again brought up threats of 'point deductions' or 'expulsion from La Liga'—because the sponsors had already made their stance clear with cold, hard cash.
However, for Bartomeu, this easing of the external environment did not let his guard down. As a former trader who had licked blood off the knife's edge on Wall Street, he deeply understood the 'Black Swan Law': risk often lies not where you see it, but erupts where you think it is safest.
Bartomeu stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold, his brow furrowed as he looked down at the training pitch below. There, the final high-intensity tactical training session before the match against Athletic Bilbao was underway.
"Chairman, the finance department just sent over the preliminary third-quarter report," CEO Òscar Grau pushed the door open, his face beaming with irrepressible joy. "This is nothing short of a miracle. Although we lost 4 million euros in ticket revenue due to the empty stadium, Paulinho's jersey sales have gone absolutely crazy. Especially in the Asian region, his jersey sales have already surpassed Suárez's, second only to Messi's. Combined with Rakuten's early sponsorship payment, our cash flow is now extremely healthy."
"This is monetizing traffic, Óscar," Bartomeu turned around, not showing much excitement, merely glancing at the report. "We need to make money, but we also need to know how to spend it. The current Barça is like a high-speed sports car, shiny on the outside, but the engine is already overheating."
"Overheating? What do you mean..."
"Look at our playing time statistics," Bartomeu pointed to another document on the table. "Messi, Busquets, Rakitić, and Alba—these players have all logged over 800 minutes. Meanwhile, the substitutes—Gomes, Denis Suárez, and Paco—combined have less than 200 minutes."
"Isn't that normal? The starters naturally play more," Grau said, puzzled.
"It's normal under ordinary circumstances. But in a World Cup year, it's fatal," Bartomeu's voice was low. "Fatigue accumulates, and then at a certain moment, it snaps like a broken violin string."
Before Grau could respond, a sharp, urgent whistle suddenly pierced the air from the training pitch below. It wasn't the whistle for a tactical pause. It was a whistle tinged with panic, even slightly cracking.
Bartomeu's heart skipped a beat. He quickly pressed against the glass window, picked up the high-powered binoculars from the table, and looked down.
In the center of the pitch, the players who had been engaged in a scrimmage suddenly stopped, frantically waving for the team doctor. A crowd quickly formed a circle. Through the gaps between people, Bartomeu saw the man lying on the ground. He was not tall, with pale skin and thinning hair. He was clutching the back of his thigh in agony, his face etched with despair.
Andrés Iniesta. The captain of Barcelona, the soul of the midfield, the last Master of Art.
"Damn it," Bartomeu cursed under his breath, slamming his coffee cup heavily onto the table, splashing brown liquid. "Murphy's Law strikes again."
...The air was thick with the pungent smell of disinfectant and analgesic spray, the atmosphere stiflingly oppressive. Head coach Ernesto Valverde sat in a chair, his face ashen, repeatedly kneading a freshly printed MRI report in his hands.
"How bad is it?" Bartomeu pushed the door open, dispensing with pleasantries and getting straight to the point.
Chief team doctor Richard Pruna pointed to the lightbox displaying the X-ray, his tone grave: "Strain of the left soleus muscle. While it's not a complete tear, this type of muscle injury is the most troublesome, prone to recurrence. For safety, he needs absolute rest. He'll be out for at least four weeks."
"Four weeks..." Valverde closed his eyes in pain, pressing his fingers hard against his temples. "That means he'll miss the crucial matches against Athletic Bilbao and Sevilla."
But that wasn't the only bad news. Dr. Pruna hesitated, then produced another report. "And then there's Suárez. The cyst problem in his right knee has worsened. Surgery was originally recommended, but to avoid missing next year's World Cup, he opted for conservative treatment. Now the fluid buildup is severe. He can still play, but his explosive power will be reduced by 30%."
A deathly silence fell over the meeting room. Little Iniesta injured, Suárez half-crippled. This Blaugrana warship that had just taken off suddenly suffered a failure in its propulsion system.
"We still have Coutinho... oh wait, we didn't buy him," Sporting Director Robert Fernández said instinctively, then awkwardly shut his mouth.
"We have Eriksen," Bartomeu spoke up, his voice as calm as a shot of adrenaline. "Eriksen was prepared for precisely this moment."
"But Chairman," Valverde looked up, his eyes filled with tactical concerns, "Christian is excellent, but he's a completely different type of player from Andrés. Andrés is an 'escape artist'; he can wriggle out of tackles from three or four players like an eel. Christian is a 'distributor'; he's better at one-touch passes. Facing Athletic Bilbao's high-intensity 'meat grinder' midfield, if no one can hold onto the ball, we'll lose control."
"Then we'll change how we live," Bartomeu walked over to the tactical board, picked up a marker, and erased Iniesta's original position.
"Ernesto, why should we try to 'control' the match at San Mamés?" Bartomeu looked into Valverde's eyes. "Athletic Bilbao's home ground is hell. The pitch there is slippery, the fans are fanatical, and thugs like Raúl García will do everything to break our legs. If we try to do embroidery there, they'll tear us apart."
"Since Little Iniesta is injured, let's abandon 'elegance' altogether," Bartomeu wrote a name heavily on the tactical board: Paulinho.
"Change the formation from 4-3-3 to 4-4-2. Midfield: Busquets, Rakitić, Paulinho, and Eriksen. Busquets holds back, Paulinho nails himself into the opponent's flanks like a spike, and Eriksen is responsible for long balls to Mané."
"Since we've lost our embroidery needle, we'll use a sledgehammer," Bartomeu paused. "For the next month, I don't care about beautiful play. Even if it's 1-0, even if it's an own goal, as long as we win, it's okay to be a bit ugly."
Valverde remained silent for a long time, his gaze shifting between Iniesta's injury report and the tactical board. Finally, the pragmatic basque coach nodded. "As you say, Chairman. If we're going to be tough, we'll be tough to the end."
...If Camp Nou is a theater, then Athletic Bilbao's home ground, San Mamés, is a gladiatorial arena of ancient Rome. This stadium is hailed as the 'Cathedral of Football,' but in the eyes of visiting teams, it is hell. This is the territory of the basque lions, home to the most fanatical and xenophobic fans in all of Spain. Whenever Barça visits here, they are often greeted with a sky full of boos and curses in basque.
The rain kept falling. The autumn rain in the basque Country is always this dreary and cold, the pitch as slippery as if oiled. These pitch conditions are a natural nemesis for Barça, accustomed to ground-based possession play.
Barça fielded that 'ugly' 4-4-2. Goalkeeper: ter Stegen. Defenders: Roberto, Piqué, Umtiti, Alba. Midfielders: Paulinho, Busquets, Rakitić, Eriksen. Forwards: Messi, Mané.
For the first twenty minutes of the match, the scene resembled a wrestling match in a quagmire. Athletic Bilbao's midfield core, Raúl García—this famous 'villain' of La Liga—began hacking down Eriksen with lumbering fouls from the first minute. In the 8th minute, just as Eriksen received the ball, Raúl García charged into him hard from behind. Eriksen went down in pain, but the referee only gave a verbal warning.
"This is the standard at San Mamés," the commentator sighed. "If Barça can't adapt to this intensity, they'll have a tough night."
In the 15th minute, crisis struck. Athletic Bilbao's veteran striker Aritz Aduriz received a cross from Williams and out-jumped Piqué for a header! The ball headed straight for the corner. "TER STEGEN!!!" The German goalkeeping god made an incredible low dive, palming the ball over the crossbar with one hand.
Bartomeu sat in the Chairman's box, tightening his overcoat. He wasn't watching ter Stegen's miraculous save; he was staring fixedly at Barça's defensive line. He saw Gerard Piqué's disarray. On that play, the 36-year-old Aritz Aduriz had completely out-jumped the 30-year-old Piqué. Piqué was getting old. His turning speed had slowed, his physical dueling ability was declining. He was still top-class, but no longer the invincible 'Pique-sees-through-everything'.
Piqué's partner, Samuel Umtiti, was physically strong, but he was a left-footed center-back. On the bench sat the new signing, Iñigo Martínez—also a left-footed center-back.
Bartomeu's brow furrowed. 'Too many left-footers,' he muttered to himself. Modern football defenses emphasize balance between left and right. A left-footed player for the left center-back position and a right-footed player for the right ensures smooth ball distribution. Once Piqué ages, Barça couldn't even find a reliable right-footed center-back to succeed him. Mascherano was already old and preparing to leave. If Piqué got injured, would they have to pair two left-footers at center-back? That would be tactical suicide.
'We need a right-footed commander,' Bartomeu mentally noted this requirement. His mind flashed to Manchester City's target, Laporte. No, Laporte was also left-footed. Buying him would create a positional overlap with Iñigo and Umtiti. Laporte was not an option. Then who should they buy? Bartomeu's gaze pierced through the rain curtain, as if seeing distant Amsterdam, and that 18-year-old golden boy captain of Ajax.
The situation on the pitch remained tense. Without Iniesta's lubricating presence, Barça's midfield operated clumsily. Rakitić and Busquets were flustered by the opponent's high press. Messi had to frequently drop back to the center circle to receive the ball, but this played right into the opponent's hands.
In the 35th minute, a turning point arrived. Not through intricate teamwork, but through a brute-force charge.
Athletic Bilbao's midfielder, Iturraspe, tried to carry the ball forward. Paulinho charged at him like an out-of-control tank. Without any deceleration, the Brazilian simply used his shoulder to hold off Iturraspe, leveraging terrifying core strength to wrestle the ball away! Iturraspe was sent sliding two meters across the wet, slippery turf.
'Counter!' After winning the ball, Paulinho didn't even glance at his nearby teammates. He just charged forward with the ball at his feet. Athletic Bilbao's defender Laporte tried to step up and challenge. Paulinho took huge strides, pushed the ball ahead, and forcefully overtook him!
Though his technique was rough and his posture ungraceful, this charge, brimming with raw masculine energy, directly tore open Athletic Bilbao's defensive line. Paulinho surged to the edge of the penalty area and laid the ball off to Mané on the left wing. Mané delivered a cross in front of goal. Messi arrived right on cue and pushed a shot! 'Clang!' The ball struck the post and bounced out!
The entire stadium gasped. Though it didn't go in, it certainly gave Athletic Bilbao a scare. Paulinho stood in the rain, roaring at his teammates, waving his arms. He was like a butcher amidst this team of gentle scholars, awakening the team's fighting spirit in the most primitive way.
The second half began, and the rain grew heavier. The score remained 0-0. Barça was struggling. Eriksen's through passes several times got stuck in puddles. Mané had speed, but on the muddy pitch, he couldn't reach full stride.
In the 60th minute, Athletic Bilbao created another dangerous chance. Williams used his pace to burn past Alba and delivered a low cross from the byline. Once again, it was Piqué. While attempting to clear, his foot slipped, and he missed the ball. Raúl García at the far post had a close-range shot!
'Iñigo!!' Iñigo Martínez, who had come off the bench to replace the injured Roberto, made a crucial block. As a former Real Sociedad (Athletic Bilbao's arch-rival) player, Iñigo had endured boos from tens of thousands of fans since coming on. But he threw his chest in front of this certain goal. The ball slammed into him with a thud. He grunted but immediately got up and hoofed the ball clear.
Bartomeu nodded in the executive box. This was why he bought Iñigo. Toughness, sheer toughness. But he also saw the hidden danger again: Piqué's slip earlier wasn't just due to the pitch; it was a sign of declining core strength. The plan to find 'Piqué's successor' was urgent.
The match entered its final, brutal stage. Athletic Bilbao retreated entirely, seemingly content with a 0-0 draw. But Barça couldn't accept a draw. Real Madrid had already won their match this round; the points gap was narrowing.
77th minute. Messi received the ball in the center. Three defenders surrounded him like an iron barrel. Messi didn't force a dribble; he saw the figure who had been running non-stop.
Paulinho. This Brazilian had been running from the first minute to now, still like a tireless perpetual motion machine. He started his run from midfield, making a forward run without the ball, like a dagger thrusting into the space between the center-backs and full-back.
Messi understood intuitively and delivered a penetrating through ball with his left foot. The ball went through Laporte's legs and rolled to Paulinho's feet.
Facing the onrushing goalkeeper Kepa. Paulinho didn't choose to slot it into the corner. He chose the most violent method. He wound up his right leg, foot locked. 'BOOM!'
The ball, like a cannonball, carrying mud and water, whistled past Kepa's ear and smashed squarely into the center of the goal! The force was so great it even caused the net to bulge backward.
1-0! Barça had scored!
After scoring, Paulinho didn't dance. He charged towards the corner flag, sliding on his knees in the muddy grass, letting mud splatter all over him. He pointed at the crest on his jersey and roared at the basque fans who had booed him all match. In that moment, he didn't look like a Barça player; he looked like a gladiator.
Messi ran over and jumped onto Paulinho's back. 'Well done, Pauli! That's what we need!' Messi shouted.
For the final ten minutes, San Mamés Stadium was in a frenzy. Trailing Athletic Bilbao launched a frantic onslaught. This was a battle for basque pride; they absolutely refused to accept a home defeat to Barça.
85th minute, Aritz Aduriz's header went just over. 88th minute, Williams' fierce shot from a tight angle skimmed past the post.
92nd minute, the final minute of stoppage time. Athletic Bilbao won a free-kick in the attacking half. Even goalkeeper Kepa charged into Barça's penalty area. The ball was delivered, chaos ensued. Piqué's headed clearance didn't go far, Raúl García met it on the edge of the box with a thunderous shot! The ball weaved through the crowded area, heading for the top corner!
In that instant, Bartomeu's heart leapt into his throat.
Ter Stegen! He seemed to have a god's-eye view. With his line of sight blocked, he made a diving save on instinct. Fingertips! His fingertips brushed the ball. The ball took a slight deflection and, with a 'clang!', smashed against the inside of the post!
The ball wasn't dead! It rebounded into the six-yard box. Aritz Aduriz prepared for the tap-in! Just then, a dark figure flew in to block the shot. It was Mané! This forward had actually tracked back to the six-yard box! He used his body to block Aritz Aduriz's follow-up, then hoofed the ball into the stands.
'Peep! Peep! Peeeeep—!' The referee finally blew the final whistle.
1-0. An ugly, difficult, even somewhat ragged victory. But it was 3 points. Precious, golden 3 points.
Barça players slumped onto the muddy grass, gasping for breath. Everyone's jersey was the color of mud. No elegant combinations, no Tiki-Taka. Tonight, they crawled out of hell with their flesh and blood.
Bartomeu stood up and let out a long sigh. Though they won, he felt no relief. This match exposed too many problems: without Iniesta, the midfield was out of control; Piqué was aging, struggling in aerial duels; a surplus of left-footed center-backs made distribution awkward.
Sporting Director Robert Fernández approached and handed him a glass of water: 'Chairman, a win is a win. These 3 points are crucial. However, our defense...'
'You noticed it too?' Bartomeu interrupted him, his gaze deep and fixed on the celebrating players below.
'Piqué is tired. We need someone to succeed him.' Robert pointed towards Athletic Bilbao's side, at Laporte. 'What about that Frenchman? He played well today.'
'No.' Bartomeu shook his head, his rejection crisp and decisive. 'Laporte is left-footed. We already have Iñigo and Umtiti. Buying another left-footed center-back would paralyze our right-sided build-up.'
Bartomeu turned and looked out the window at Bilbao's gloomy, rainy night. Another name surfaced in his mind. A younger, stronger, right-footed teenage commander. That 18-year-old golden boy wearing the captain's armband at Ajax.
'Robert, forget about Laporte.' Bartomeu's voice carried an air of indisputable resolve. 'Help me prepare for a trip to Amsterdam. We're going shopping there.'
'We need to buy two players in the winter window.' 'Besides that midfielder named De Jong, I also want that center-back named Matthijs de Ligt.'
'I want to transplant Ajax's backbone, intact, to the Camp Nou.'