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The moment the ball crossed the line, Simeone dropped to his knees.
Arms pumping. Voice raw with emotion.
For most of the season, they'd been held down by Barcelona, unable to breathe. Then came the exits—Copa del Rey, Champions League. After that run of setbacks, Simeone had started to wonder if this would be another season of heartbreak. Another year as perennial runners-up. Another trophy cabinet left empty.
But the seventeen-year-old boy he'd insisted on signing in winter had given him hope.
He wasn't the only one who'd lost composure. Every Atlético player, every fan in the away section—they'd all seen it.
The championship trophy they'd been chasing for so long was finally within reach.
Where there is joy, there is disappointment.
For Barcelona's players and supporters, a sudden unease gripped their hearts.
They'd been the happiest people in Spanish football for months. League leaders all season. Champions League quarter-finalists in brilliant form. Copa del Rey semi-finalists. Three victories over Real Madrid across all competitions.
The treble had been waving at them, tantalisingly close.
André's goal had knocked them from their pedestal into the dust.
The Barcelona sections of the Camp Nou fell silent. Several seconds of stunned disbelief—unthinkable under normal circumstances, but it happened today.
Then the boos erupted. Louder than before. The home supporters trying to drown out their own fear.
The referee ushered the celebrating Atlético players back to their positions.
Barcelona made a change: Aleñá for Roberto. A midfielder for a defender. Their shape shifted to 3-4-3.
Simeone recognised it immediately—Valverde was gambling everything on one final push.
He responded in kind. Savić replaced Griezmann. A defender for a forward. Atlético's formation became 5-4-1, with André left alone up front.
The siege began.
Barcelona pushed their defensive line almost to the halfway line. Even André was standing in his own half, waiting.
Eighty-eighth minute. Messi received on the right, cut inside, and unleashed a shot. The ball whistled past the post by centimetres.
Eighty-ninth minute. Suárez attempted a snap-shot from a cross. Oblak smothered it.
The fourth official raised the board. Three minutes of stoppage time.
Wave after wave of Barcelona attacks crashed against Atlético's wall. It felt like the goal could fall at any moment.
But while Valverde's men threw everything forward, they didn't realise they'd exposed their fatal weakness.
Stoppage time.
Alba collected the ball on the left and drove toward the byline. Juanfran shepherded him, preventing the cut inside, forcing a hurried cross. The delivery had no real threat—Oblak plucked it from the air.
The Barcelona players pressed high, ready to win the second ball.
They didn't see the danger.
Oblak evaded two challenges, scanned the pitch, and launched a long throw directly toward André.
Only Lenglet and Umtiti remained in Barcelona's defensive third. Piqué was in midfield, helping organise attacks. Busquets had pushed so high he might as well have been a striker.
Umtiti rushed to challenge. André used his frame to hold position, cushioning the ball with his right foot before flicking it over his own head. He spun in one fluid motion, shrugging off Umtiti's desperate grab at his jersey, then knocked the ball forward with a heavy touch.
Now it was a race.
Lenglet could only grit his teeth and chase, the gap widening with every stride.
André took several more touches, accelerating each time. Soon, only one man stood between him and the goal.
Ter Stegen lowered his centre of gravity, ready for anything.
André produced a wide pendulum dribble—more power than finesse—and swept past the goalkeeper. A gentle push, and the ball rolled into the empty net.
3-1.
In the dying seconds of stoppage time, André's brace had killed the game.
He sprinted toward the away section, tearing off his shirt and hurling it into the crowd.
The Atlético supporters looked ready to climb over the barriers and join him on the pitch. Inside the Camp Nou, only one sound could be heard.
"KING KONG! KING KONG! KING KONG!"
Simeone didn't celebrate wildly this time.
He simply high-fived Burgos, then sat down on the bench—the first time he'd sat during the entire ninety minutes. For the rest of the match, he'd been standing, pacing, screaming instructions.
Across the technical area, Valverde also sat. But while both managers had chosen the same posture, their expressions couldn't have been more different.
Simeone wore a quiet smile of satisfaction.
Valverde looked like a man attending a funeral.
The referee showed André a yellow card for removing his shirt.
It didn't matter.
Less than a minute after the restart, the final whistle blew.
Barcelona 1-3 Atlético Madrid.
The visitors had conquered the Camp Nou. With this victory, they leapfrogged Barcelona in the league standings.
For the first time all season, Atlético Madrid sat at the top of the table.
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