In November, the air in Barcelona was thick with a strange sense of division.
In the La Liga standings, the team led by Valverde thundered past all opponents like a heavy armored train, leading with suffocating stability. But in the court of public opinion in Catalonia, this train was running on the edge of a cliff.
A trial concerning the club's'soul' was fermenting wildly across the city's streets, television and radio stations, and newspaper columns.
The catalyst was an article.
The morning after Barça's 3-0 away victory over Leganés, a match where their possession rate was a mere 48%, Josep Maria Casanovas, the ace columnist for La Vanguardia, regarded Newspaper a 'guardian of Cruyffism', published a lengthy polemic titled 'The Winter of Camp Nou: We Are Winning, But We Are Already Dead.'
The article was written with a sharp, caustic pen, each word striking a nerve:
"When I saw Paulinho charging through the midfield like a wild boar, kicking the ball into the stands, I could almost hear Johan Cruyff weeping in heaven."
"Chairman Bartomeu is conducting a meticulously planned 'de-Barça-fication' surgery. He is replacing brains with muscle, inspiration with sweat, raping our football aesthetics with that damned 'pragmatism'. Yes, we are winning. The league table looks pretty. But this victory is cheap, it's dirty, it's a soulless walking corpse."
"The current Barça is like a nouveau riche in an Armani suit, pockets full of money but spewing vulgarities the moment it opens its mouth. We are no longer 'more than a club'. We have become an ordinary company that only cares about three points."
"If this is the future Bartomeu promised, I would rather die with elegance than live on in ugliness."
The article was like a depth charge, instantly detonating long-pent-up public sentiment.
Die-hard fans supporting the 'DNA' began launching the #NotMyBarca hashtag campaign on social media. Opposition leader Víctor Font immediately followed up, posting a video on Twitter with the training grounds of La Masia in the background, captioned: 'We will take back the stolen football.'
Camp Nou, the Chairman's office.
Gloomy skies loomed beyond the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the office filled with a haze of smoke. The Public Relations Director held a copy of La Vanguardia, his hand trembling slightly.
"Chairman, public opinion is spiraling out of control," the PR Director's voice was dry. "The influence of Casanovas's article is immense. It's not just the radical fans now; even many moderate club members are wavering. They feel... we really are playing ugly football."
"Ugly?"
Bartomeu sat deep in his large leather chair, a half-smoked cigar in his hand. His face showed no anger, only a chilling calm, even a hint of mocking amusement.
"If Messi's goal into the top corner is ugly, if Paulinho's game-winning run of sixty meters is ugly, then their aesthetic sensibilities are probably still stuck in the era of foot-binding."
"But Chairman, they are attacking the 'philosophy'," the PR Director said anxiously, wiping sweat. "They invoked Cruyff. In Barcelona, Cruyff is God. To refute Cruyff is blasphemy."
"Then we'll smash the idol."
Bartomeu abruptly stubbed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray, sending sparks flying. He stood up, straightened his suit lapel, his gaze sharp Newspaper a knife.
"They want to talk philosophy? Fine. Then I'll go talk to them about the philosophy of the real world."
"Contact Catalunya Ràdio for me. Tell them I will personally appear on tonight's 'Midnight Club' program."
"What?!" The PR Director was stunned. "That's a slaughterhouse! The host, Francesc, is notoriously sharp-tongued, and tonight's guests are sure to be all anti-Bartomeu. You'd be walking to your death there!"
"No," Bartomeu walked to the mirror, looking at the slightly overweight but resolute middle-aged man reflected there. "I'm going there to give these overgrown babies living in a dream a vivid lesson in adulthood."
11 PM. Catalunya Ràdio studio hall.
'Midnight Club' was the highest-rated sports talk show in Catalonia, famous for its sharp, even personally offensive debate style. Tonight, due to the Barça Chairman's unexpected arrival, listenership shattered historical records.
The studio lights were harsh and glaring. On one side of the long table sat three guests: La Vanguardia's Casanovas; former Barça legend and current pundit, Lobo Carrasco (a staunch DNA advocate); and the host, Francesc.
On the other side of the table sat Bartomeu alone. Before him was a glass of water, no documents or notes in sight.
This 'three against one' setup filled the air with the smell of gunpowder.
"Good evening, Mr. Bartomeu," host Francesc initiated the attack, his opening salvo full of aggression. "Glad you could make it. Frankly, we're all surprised. After reading this morning's paper, most people in your position would probably choose to hide at home with the lights off."
Bartomeu smiled slightly, leaning back relaxed in his chair: "Why turn off the lights? To save on electricity? You know, since I secured the new sponsorship deal, the club can still afford the electricity bill."
A dry joke. The three men opposite did not laugh.
Casanovas pushed his glasses up, his gaze coldly fixed on Bartomeu: "Mr. Chairman, don't try to deflect with that American-style humor. Let's talk football. Did you watch yesterday's match?"
"Of course. 3-0. A complete victory."
"Complete victory?" Casanovas sneered, slapping a data sheet on the table. "48% possession, 79% pass completion rate. These are Barça's lowest figures in nearly a decade! Against Leganés—a relegation-battling team—we abandoned the midfield! You call that a complete victory?"
"What is the criterion for victory in a football match?" Bartomeu retorted calmly. "Is it the numbers on the scoreboard, or the possession percentage? If it's the latter, should we petition FIFA to change the rules? Just award the win to the team with higher possession?"
"You're twisting the argument!" Carrasco interjected, agitated. "Barça's victory was never just about the score! We demand dominance! The despair of making opponents unable to touch the ball! But now? We're brawling with opponents! Paulinho is rolling around the midfield like a wrestler! It's an insult to La Masia!"
Bartomeu turned his head, looking sharply at the former legend.
"Lobo, since you brought up La Masia, let's talk about reality."
Bartomeu leaned forward, the sense of pressure intensifying.
"Xavi is gone. You've retired. Iniesta is now lying in a hospital bed. Our new brain, Eriksen, just had heart surgery. Tell me, under these circumstances, what do you expect me to use to 'dominate'? To 'make opponents unable to touch the ball'?"
"I had two choices," Bartomeu held up two fingers. "First, force Paulinho and Gomes to imitate Xavi and Iniesta, play with fire in our own half, get dispossessed for counter-attacks, lose 0-3, but we can proudly say, 'Look, we died with elegance.'"
"Second, admit we don't have that capital right now, swallow our pride, use our bodies, our strength, our sweat to fight for every ball, even if the posture is a bit ugly, but bring the three points home, keep Barça at the top of the table."
"If it were you, Lobo, Newspaper a coach, which would you choose?"
Carrasco was momentarily speechless, but then argued back: "That's your recruitment failure! Why buy a workhorse like Paulinho? Why not buy a technical midfielder?"
"Because a technical midfielder can't save Messi's life!"
Bartomeu suddenly raised his voice, the roar seeming to make the studio's soundproof walls vibrate.
"You only see the possession stats. Have you seen how many times Messi has been kicked in recent years?!"
Bartomeu pointed at his own eyes. "I have! In Turin, in Paris, in Madrid! When our midfield is soft Newspaper paper, opponents can charge straight through the center circle and chop down Leo like lumberjacks! Because they know Barça only knows how to pass, not how to fight!"
"The so-called Tiki-Taka, without sufficient physicality to support it, is a form of slow suicide! Cruyff's football is art, but protecting art requires bodyguards! Paulinho is that bodyguard! Gomes is that meat shield!"
"You sit in air-conditioned rooms writing articles, mocking Paulinho's roughness. But it's this rough Brazilian who ran 12 kilometers yesterday, three times charging in to shove opponents away when Messi was surrounded! He's doing the dirty work so your beloved Leo can catch his breath up front!"
"And you... are insulting Messi's bodyguard." Bartomeu swept a cold gaze over the three men opposite. "That is the real disgrace."
A brief, dead silence fell over the studio.
Casanova clearly hadn't anticipated that Bartomeu would counterattack using the moral high ground of 'protecting Messi.' He gritted his teeth and changed his angle: 'Fine, even if it's for Messi. But what you're doing is Drinking poison to quench thirst. You are destroying Barça's brand value. Our fans are spread all over the world; what they love is the artistic Barça. If we turn into a team of muscle-bound brutes, our commercial value will plummet.'
'Commercial value?'
Bartomeu, Newspaper if hearing the funniest joke, threw his head back and laughed heartily.
'Mr. Casanova, you write columns, and I work in finance. When it comes to business logic, please don't challenge my profession with your amateur hobby.'
'Do you know how much the jersey sales for the 'ugly Barça' have increased in the past month?'
'30 percent,' Bartomeu stated a number.
'Why? Because the vast majority of people in this world are struggling in life, rolling around in the mud. The old Barça was too aloof, like an immortal detached from the mortal world. But this current Barça, this team that, despite being ravaged by injuries and short on manpower, still grits its teeth, gets covered in mud, and fights to win—this Barça resonates with ordinary people!'
'They see struggle, they see unyielding spirit, they see the courage of 'if you don't have an umbrella, run in the rain.''
'That is the ultimate business story,' Bartomeu stared into Casanova's eyes.'So-called sentimentality is a dessert for the rich. For the hungry, winning is bread. What I need to do now is first ensure Barça has bread to eat, so we don't starve to death this winter.'
'This is pure sophistry!' Casanova's face turned pale with anger. 'You're glorifying vulgarity! You've betrayed the faith!'
'Faith?'
Bartomeu's smile faded, his expression turning extremely serious, even carrying a hint of pity.
'José, I know you miss that Dream Team era. I miss it too. It was the pinnacle of human football.'
'But one cannot live in memories forever. Cruyff is gone. Xavi is old. If we cling to that bible and refuse to change based on reality, then we can only guard past glories and dream impossible dreams.'
'I am not a heretic.' Bartomeu stood up, straightened his suit, and delivered his final statement to the camera.
'I am the one willing to reinforce the pillars with unsightly steel and concrete when the church is about to collapse. Perhaps this pillar is no longer Newspaper exquisitely carved Newspaper before, but at least it can support the roof, preventing it from crashing down on the heads of the faithful.'
'When the storm passes, when we've repaired the roof, I will hire the finest craftsmen to re-carve the flowers. But until then...'
Bartomeu's gaze pierced through the camera, Newspaper if looking at every Barça fan watching on TV.
'Please allow me, in the mud, to continue crawling towards victory with this imperfect team.'
The live broadcast ended.
The next day, at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper.
The previous night's live video had already gone viral online, with views breaking a hundred million. Bartomeu's line, 'Protecting art requires bodyguards,' became a trending golden quote.
In the locker room, the atmosphere had undergone a subtle change.
Paulinho sat in front of his locker, watching a clip of the video on his phone, his eyes slightly red. Newspaper a 'migrant worker' who came from the Chinese Super League, he was used to being questioned and mocked. Never before had a club Chairman publicly defended him, taking on the entire media circle.
'Did the Chairman really say that?' André Gomes leaned over, his voice trembling slightly.
'Yeah,' Paulinho sniffled, tossed his phone aside, and began tying his shoes. 'He said I'm Messi's bodyguard. Damn, that sounds way cooler than 'midfield maestro.''
'And me, he said I'm a meat shield,' Gomes touched his chest, where a bruise from yesterday's collision was.'Suddenly this bruise doesn't hurt anymore.'
Piqué sat in the corner, his expression complex. Newspaper a representative of the 'DNA faction,' he didn't fully agree with Bartomeu's pragmatism intellectually, but emotionally, he was moved.
'Gerard, what are you thinking?' Busquets asked.
'I'm thinking...' Piqué gave a bitter smile, 'perhaps we really were spoiled. The Chairman is right; we used to win too easily, to the point we forgot how difficult winning itself is.'
At that moment, Messi walked in. He had clearly seen the video too.
He walked straight up to Paulinho and extended his fist.
'Good morning, bodyguard,' Messi joked, but his eyes were serious.
Paulinho grinned and bumped fists with Messi. 'Good morning, boss. If anyone dares to kick you today, I'll knock them flying.'
The locker room erupted in laughter. The oppressive feeling caused by media criticism vanished at that moment. An emotion called 'A scholar will die for his bosom friend' was taking root and sprouting in the hearts of these imperfect players.
At La Rambla, beside the Canaletes Fountain. This was where Barça fans celebrated championships and also the famous 'Fans' Parliament.'
Last night's debate had completely split the fanbase into two factions, now fiercely arguing.
An old fan wearing a retro jersey waved his arms excitedly: 'Bartomeu is a liar! He's using sophistry! AC Milan declined because they had no money, not because they stuck to their style! Barça can never abandon Tiki-Taka!'
'Give it a rest, old man!' a young fan wearing a jersey with Paulinho's name on it retorted. 'Do you want to watch Tiki-Taka, or do you want to watch Real Madrid win the title? Last year we played beautifully, and what happened? We got thrashed by Juventus, three-nil! Where was your Tiki-Taka then?'
'That was an anomaly!'
'That was weakness!' the young man roared. 'I like the current Chairman. He's a real man. He's right; Messi needs protection. You guys, just sitting in the stands munching sunflower seeds, have no idea how much it hurts on the pitch.'
'This is degradation!'
'This is survival!'
Arguments rose and fell. Although the divide remained, a clear change was evident: Bartomeu was no longer the universally despised 'big bear.' He had gained a group of die-hard supporters—the new generation of fans who valued results, were tired of weakness, and craved an iron-willed team.
In Madrid, at the Newspaper headquarters.
The famous Real Madrid mouthpiece, Editor-in-Chief Lonsero, was watching a replay of last night's debate. Newspaper Barça's arch-rival, he would usually seize any chance to mock Barça. But today, looking at the screen showing Bartomeu eloquently debating the pundits, he remained silent for a long time.
'Chief, how should we write this?' an assistant asked. 'Continue mocking Barça's internal strife?'
Lonsero shook his head and turned off the video.
'No. No mockery this time.'
Lonsero sighed, his expression grave.
'Write an article. Title it: 'Barcelona Has Finally Found Their Florentino.''
'What? You're going to praise him?'
'It's not praise; it's vigilance,' Lonsero pointed to his head. 'The old Bartomeu was a puppet, a nice guy. We weren't afraid of him. But now, this guy has shown his fangs. He dares to abandon dogma for victory, dares to stand against the entire Catalan media. This kind of pragmatic madman is ten thousand times more terrifying than those idealists who only talk about sentimentality.'
'If he really implants this 'win-at-all-costs' gene into Barça...' Lonsero shuddered. 'Then Real Madrid is in big trouble.'
Late at night, in the Camp Nou Chairman's office.
After the clamor, Bartomeu sat alone in the dark, only the city lights from outside the window illuminating his profile.
He had won this war of words. But he knew words were pale.
Without subsequent results to back them up, all tonight's bold declarations would become boomerangs hurled back at him after the next loss.
'To be, or not to be,' Bartomeu murmured the line from Hamlet.
He stood up and walked over to the row of trophies.
'Cruyff, are you watching?'
He stroked the base of the Champions League trophy; the touch was cold.
'I know you don't like my methods. You think I've tarnished your art.'
'But before your art can bloom again, I must first turn the temple you left behind into a fortress.'
'Even if the world calls me a heretic, I will not hesitate.'
Bartomeu turned around and picked up the red secure phone on the desk.
'This is Bartomeu.'
'Notify the finance department. Prepare the second special budget.'
'When the transfer window opens, I want the whole world to see what magnificent ornaments I've prepared for this fortress.'
'But until then...'
He glanced at the fixture list on the wall.
'Let's continue winning ugly, in the mud.'