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Mid-August arrived, and with it, the long-awaited curtain-raiser for the 2013-2014 La Liga season.
The official release of the schedule had sent shockwaves through the Spanish sporting world. Usually, the "Mars colliding with Earth" event of El Clásico was reserved for the middle of the season. But this year, the league had scheduled the showdown for Round 2. It was an unprecedented move that essentially turned the first week of the season into a high-stakes warm-up for the biggest game.
On the team bus heading toward the Nuevo Los Cármenes stadium for their opening match against Granada, the atmosphere was quiet and professional.
"It's a calculated risk, Tata," Jorge Pautasso whispered to Martino as he looked at the starting lineup sheet. "If we bench Lorenzo today, and Granada decides to park the bus, we might drop points before we even see Madrid."
Tata Martino leaned back, his eyes fixed on the Andalusian landscape passing by. "Granada is physical, but we have enough quality with Leo and Neymar to secure three points. To win the war, we must be willing to sacrifice a few headlines. If Lorenzo starts today and scores a hat-trick, Ancelotti will spend the next seven nights designing a cage for him. I want him to arrive at the Bernabéu as a ghost."
Lorenzo, sitting a few rows back, was unusually still. He had discussed the plan with Martino the night before.
"One match on the bench won't affect my race for the Pichichi, will it, Coach?" Lorenzo had asked with a faint, predatory smile.
Martino had been stunned. A seventeen-year-old making his debut, already thinking about taking the Golden Boot from the prime versions of Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi? It was a level of ambition that bordered on the divine.
In the stands of the Nuevo Los Cármenes, Inés Valdes adjusted her camera equipment. Beside her, a correspondent from TyC Sports was checking his watch. The Argentinian public was in a state of absolute fervor; millions had tuned in to see Lorenzo's official La Liga debut.
"The lineup is out," the correspondent muttered, his face falling. "Sanchez is starting. Lorenzo isn't even in the XI. He's on the bench."
Inés frowned, her professional instincts kicking in. "Martino is hiding him. He has to be. You don't bring a kid to the first team and give him the number nineteen jersey just to let him rot on the bench against Granada."
Across the Atlantic, the live broadcast forums in Argentina were already exploding.
[Are you kidding me? We stayed up for this?]
[Sanchez? Again? Did Martino learn nothing from last season?]
[Martino is an Argentinian, he should know better.]
The match proceeded as a typical Barcelona masterclass in possession. Messi scored a trademark solo goal in the 22nd minute, and Neymar added a second just before the hour mark. Barcelona cruised to a 2-0 victory.
But as the 90th minute ticked away, the fourth official held up the board for the final substitution. Pedro came on for Neymar. Lorenzo remained on the bench, his training bib still on, watching the game with an unreadable expression.
While Barcelona was playing a game of tactical hide-and-seek, Real Madrid was making a loud, violent statement at the Bernabéu.
Madrid crushed Osasuna 5-0.
The "BBC" era had begun with a vengeance. Cristiano Ronaldo scored a brace, while Gareth Bale and Karim Benzema each found the net. The white jerseys looked like an unstoppable machine of vertical aggression.
In the post-match press conference, the air was thick with the scent of Madridismo triumph.
"This question is for Cristiano," a reporter shouted. "You're already leading the scoring charts after Round One. Do you intend to reclaim the Pichichi this season?"
Cristiano leaned into the microphone, a confident, almost mocking smile on his face. "The Golden Boot? To be honest, I've already planned to expand my trophy cabinet. After this season, I don't think the current one will be large enough."
Ancelotti was asked about the upcoming Clásico. He chewed his gum calmly. "The Clásico is what the fans live for. But at the Bernabéu, miracles are rare for visitors. We are in peak form."
After the press conference, Ancelotti walked through the corridors of the Bernabéu, joined by his new assistant, Zinedine Zidane.
"Barça started Sanchez again today," Zidane noted, flipping through a tablet showing the Granada highlights. "Their frontline looked... familiar. A bit disjointed when they couldn't find the final pass. They struggled to break the low block until Messi took a long shot."
Ancelotti sneered. "They are stubborn, Zizou. They refuse to abandon the False Nine. Without a player like Benzema to create space and act as a pivot, they are just playing keep-away. If they come to our house with Sanchez and Messi rotating in the middle, Ramos and Pepe will eat them alive."
Zidane shrugged. "Perhaps. But Martino isn't a fool. I'm still keeping an eye on that boy but, Lorenzo, He didn't play a single minute today."
"A seventeen-year-old?" Ancelotti laughed. "In a Clásico? Tata might be desperate, but he isn't suicidal. The lack of a true center-forward will be their downfall. We have the best strikers in the world; they have a collection of wingers trying to be Messi."
As the lights dimmed at the Bernabéu, the Barcelona official website made a small, quiet update to the player roster.
Alexis Sanchez's registration number was changed from 9 to 19.
The number 9 spot, the jersey of the primary striker was left vacant.
No one in the media noticed the change. No one in Madrid realized that the "Smoke Bomb" was about to reach its final stage. The world was looking at the BBC, but the Beast was already sharpening its claws.
The countdown to El Clásico had begun.
[Status: Round 1 Complete. Barcelona (2-0), Real Madrid (5-0).]
[Target: El Clásico at the Santiago Bernabéu.]
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