The tunnel at the Cornellà-El Prat swallowed the two teams at halftime in different states. Barcelona jogged through it loose and energised, voices echoing in the concrete corridor, Neymar's bleached spikes still catching the light as he walked. The Espanyol players moved more quietly, not defeated in spirit, but carrying the specific weight of men who know what the second half is going to require of them.
Three-nil down. Ten men. Forty-five minutes to go.
In the visiting dressing room, Martino didn't need to say much. He stood at the board, drew two quick lines, and looked at his players. "Same shape. Don't get reckless chasing a fourth. Let them come out, find the spaces, and be professional about it." He looked at Lorenzo. "You're done for the night. Sanchez on for you at sixty minutes."
Lorenzo nodded once, no argument. The hat-trick was done. His body felt fine, but Martino was managing the bigger picture.
Across the corridor, Aguirre's half-time talk was measured and direct. He didn't raise his voice.
"We have forty-five minutes with ten men," he said, standing in front of his players. "That's a fact. The result is what it is. What we control is how we play those forty-five minutes." He looked at Sánchez, his new captain for the half. "Compact shape. No individual heroics. Make them work for anything else they get. This club has a history and a dignity that doesn't end at 3-0. Protect both."
Sánchez held his gaze and nodded.
The second half began with Espanyol in a narrow 4-4-0, essentially a double bank of four, no recognised striker, Sergio García dropping deep to link whenever the ball was won. It was pragmatic. It was honest. Against Barcelona's quality, holding 3-0 for forty-five minutes with ten men would represent something worth carrying into the next week.
Barcelona probed without urgency. Xavi circulated the ball at walking pace at times, respecting the scoreline and managing the clock. Iniesta found pockets between the lines but looked for the safe pass rather than the incisive one. The game had entered its administrative phase.
In the 58th minute, Messi found a sliver of space on the right side of the area. He took one touch, shifted his weight, and curled a low shot toward the far post. Casilla dove full length and pushed it around the post, a genuine save, clean and composed. The Espanyol fans gave him a round of applause. He deserved it.
In the 60th minute, the board went up. Number nine coming off. Number seventeen going on.
The Cornellà gave Lorenzo a sound as he left the pitch, not warm, exactly, but not hostile either. The particular sound a crowd makes when it has been beaten comprehensively and knows it. He had scored three. He had used the Pendulum. He had converted the penalty with Casilla going the right way and still not getting there. There wasn't much else to say.
Martino met him at the touchline with a brief nod. "Good afternoon," the coach said simply, which from an Argentine of his generation meant more than a speech.
Alexis Sánchez came on and immediately added width and energy, pressing the Espanyol fullbacks with the relentless industry that made him a useful tool in exactly these situations. The game remained controlled. Espanyol held their shape with discipline Capdevila reading the play with veteran intelligence, Casilla commanding his area when called upon.
In the 71st minute, Messi finally found the fourth. A quick one-two with Iniesta at the edge of the box, a half-yard of space opened up, and the finish was low and precise to the near post. Casilla got a hand on it but couldn't keep it out.
4-0.
The Cornellà processed it in silence. Four-nil in a Catalan Derby, down to ten men, with Aguirre's side having given everything the remaining shape could give. The scoreline was emphatic. The manner, at least in the second half, had been professional on both sides.
The final whistle came at ninety-one minutes.
Final score: Espanyol 0 - 4 FC Barcelona.
On the pitch, the post-match handshakes moved quickly. Sánchez sought out Xavi, two La Masia graduates, two different paths. They exchanged a few words quietly. Capdevila found Messi and said something that made the Argentine laugh.
Casilla shook hands along the Barcelona line. When he reached Lorenzo, he paused.
"You told me where you were going," Casilla said, a flat, slightly rueful quality in his voice. "And I still couldn't get there."
"You were close," Lorenzo said. It was the truth.
Casilla gave a short, dry laugh and moved on.
Aguirre was already in the tunnel by the time the handshakes finished. He had his assessment done, his notes ready, and forty-eight hours before the next training session. That was the job.
In the stands, the final announcements were still playing as the crowd filtered out. Cecilia was on her feet, scarf around her neck, scrolling through her phone.
"Six league goals in three matches," she read aloud. "Youngest player to score a hat-trick in the Catalan Derby. Pichichi leader by a distance." She looked at the pitch where Lorenzo was gathering with the squad for the brief post-match team circle. "Mom, I think I need to learn more about football."
Blanca gathered her jacket. "You seem to be learning at a reasonable pace already."
Across the VIP section, Lucia was already at the exit, waiting for the crowd to thin. She had watched all ninety minutes without sitting down.
In the Argentine digital feed, the numbers were still climbing.
[Six La Liga goals. Three matches. Hat-trick in the Derby. The AFA is going to have to build a statue of Marcos just so people have something to throw things at.]
[Casilla went the right way on the penalty and the ball was past him before he landed. What is he supposed to do against that?]
[Pichichi race: Lorenzo 6, Cristiano 2, Messi 1. In three games. In his first season. At seventeen.]
[Casilla held the shape with ten men for the whole second half and only conceded one.]
[Status: Full Time. Espanyol 0 - 4 FC Barcelona. La Liga Matchday 3.]
[System Note: Hat-trick confirmed. Season total: La Liga 6 goals. Pichichi leader.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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