Chapter 90: The war before the war
The Riyadh sun rose heavy and golden over the city.
With Real Madrid and Real Betis out of the competition, there were only two Spanish clubs left in Riyadh... FC Barcelona and Atletico Madrid.
For most people around the world, it was just another day. For Spanish football though, it was the calm before a storm. Tomorrow night, Barcelona and Atlético Madrid would collide in the Supercopa de España final.
And as expected, the battle had already begun long before kickoff.
After taking their time to thoroughly dissect and crucify Real Madrid after their semifinal loss, the Spanish press now diverted their attention finally to the final as they pumped stories like veins carried blood.
Marca wrote. ["SIMEONE’S TIME TO BREAK THE GOD."]
Mundo Deportivo wrote. ["MOSES AWAITS HIS NEXT CROWN."]
As for AS, they wrote about the theoretical head to head clash of the final. ["GRIEZMANN vs MOSES – BRAINS AGAINST FLAME."]
Many reckoned that it was Antoine Griezmann’s last dance with Atleti.
Having given his best years to this club, despite the fact that he left during his prime to go on a brief stint with FC Barcelona, the love that Atleti fans had for Griezmann didn’t wane as they respected him as their legend.
Advancing in on age already, Antoinne Griezmann was no longer as consistent as he was during his prime.
But despite slowing down due to age, he still popped up occasionally with one or two moments of individual brilliance, like his staggering cameo performance in the semifinal that helped dump Real Madrid out of the competition.
Griezmann himself had not confirmed it yet, but fans dreaded, and the media believed that this was going to be his last season with the Spanish Capital club.
Maybe after this, he’d go to MLS or hang up his boots altogether, either choice that he took, he would go out as an Atletico Madrid legend.
And what better way to send off a legend than with a trophy?
This season, Atletico Madrid were off it as the unstoppable Real Madrid and Barcelona tide already pulled ahead of everyone else in the league race.
There was literally no chance of any other club not Real Madrid or Barcelona winning the league title. There was also the Copa del Rey title, but Atletico Madrid reckoned that this was their best chance of winning silverware this season.
This was why they put so much into the preparations for the game, not just the fans, but the players and the Atleti head coach himself, Diego Simeone.
In the build up to the game, the media frenzy continued as Sports channels ran montages on repeat, showcasing Sam’s electric display against Real Betis, Mbappé’s goal in the derby, and Griezmann’s ice-cold equalizer.
The narrative burned... could Atlético’s grit suffocate Barcelona’s flair like they did with Real Madrid?
At Atlético’s press conference, Diego Simeone leaned forward on the table, black shirt clinging, eyes glinting like flint.
"They call him Football God," he smirked. "But he still breathes, and he still bleeds. My players don’t bow to names. Tomorrow, we’ll show Barcelona that destiny doesn’t play football. Men do."
The reporters roared with questions, Simeone deflecting some, embracing others. "Sam is special, yes, but we’ve stopped Messi, Ronaldo, and Neymar. Why should Moses be any different?"
Griezmann spoke next, calm but sharp. "Barça are favorites".
"We’re the underdogs but that’s just perfect, the underdog title suits us better. We like it that way".
"Sam is the best in the world? Fine. Tomorrow, he plays against eleven men, not headlines."
Jan Oblak, captain and veteran, was more direct. "We respect Sam, but football isn’t about one man. Atlético wins because we suffer together. Let them underestimate our suffering; we’ll make them pay for it".
Even Alvarez, hero of the semifinal, added fuel to the fire. "119 minutes against Real Madrid? That wasn’t luck, that was heart. And if we can kill Madrid, we can kill Barcelona too."
The red and white press pack ate it up. The narrative of warriors sharpening their blades against a deity was perfect.
On the other side of Riyadh, at Barça’s team hotel, the mood was different. Where Atleti roared, Barcelona whispered.
Hansi Flick, meticulous as ever, had his players gathered in the conference room, screens glowing with Atleti clips. He paused, laser pointer stabbing the frame of Griezmann drifting deep.
"This is their brain," Flick said. "Cut his space, and the body starves. They’ll press, they’ll bite. You know this, but you are not just a team, you are Barcelona! Let’s go out there and play our football; press high, move fast, and stay calm."
The players nodded, but the tension was palpable. Everyone remembered Simeone’s men sending Madrid home.
Sam sat quietly at the back, arms folded, listening.
When Flick dismissed them, Pedri leaned over. "You hear them? Simeone, Alvarez, all talking like they already beat us."
Sam smiled faintly. "That’s fine. Let them talk, words don’t win finals."
Yamal piped up nervously. "They’ll mark you hard, Sam. Like Betis did."
Sam nodded. "Good. Let them. When they chase me, you’ll be free. That’s when you kill them."
The room went silent for a moment, then Gavi grinned. "So basically, you’re bait?"
Sam chuckled. "The deadliest bait they’ll ever see."
That evening, Kayla called from Abuja.
Her voice carried warmth across the distance. "Don’t listen to them. Let Simeone shout, let them all shout, you just play."
Sam exhaled, gazing at the Riyadh skyline. "Tomorrow, it’s more than a trophy. It’s proof, proof that I’m not just hype."
Kayla’s tone softened. "You’ve already proved it, Samuel. Tomorrow is just another step."
He smiled. "Another step toward being the Football God."
Riyadh streets swarmed with fans, red and white on one side, blaugrana on the other. Flags, drums, and chants filled the night air. Spanish police patrolled the plazas, separating the oceans of color.
Inside hotels, both squads prepared in their own ways; Atleti with fury, and Barça with focus.
And somewhere in the middle, the final sharpened itself like a blade, waiting to carve history.