11 Visca El Barça

Read while listening to Ele Te Bota Soca Soca.

~

The atmosphere inside the locker room was heavy with tension, suffocated by an eerie silence that enveloped the space. Xavi, the team's coach, stood at the center, his face a reflection of the disappointment and determination weighing heavily upon his shoulders.

The players, heads bowed in unison, didn't exchange a single word amongst themselves. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for someone to break the silence, yet each one of them was lost in their thoughts and emotions, unable to find the right words to convey the magnitude of what they were feeling.

"2-0.... 2-0.... 2-0..."

The former Barcelona star muttered, deep in thought. A second later, he looked at the new player, his eyes brimming with intensity.

"Storm, you are up. Ansu, you will sit," Xavi declared firmly, his voice carrying a mix of authority and consideration.

Bobby felt a surge of excitement mingled with nervousness as his name was called. His heart raced, knowing that this was the moment he had been tirelessly working towards since before joining the team.

It was his dream.

He nodded with determination, ready to prove himself on the field. Ansu, on the other hand, accepted the coach's decision. Disappointment briefly flickered across his face, but he quickly masked it, knowing he had fucked a goal up.

Raphinha stood by the side, his frustration evident in the creased lines on his forehead as he spoke with a hint of anger in his voice.

"Xavi, why him? He's a new player with no experience. Do you want Barcelona to be humiliated?"

Xavi met Raphinha's gaze with a sharp, unwavering look, his eyes reflecting the weight of his responsibilities as the coach. Despite the tension in the room, Xavi's response was composed and resolute, causing everyone to take a collective deep breath, hanging onto his every word.

"We have already been humiliated,"

The statement hung in the air, serving as a reminder of the team's recent struggles. Xavi's words weren't an admission of defeat, but rather an acknowledgment of the reality they faced.

Xavi's gaze lingered on each player, his expression a mix of disappointment and frustration. He clicked his tongue with disdain, unable to mask the weight of his emotions.

Silently, he walked out of the locker room, the sound of his footsteps echoing like a metronome.

As the door closed behind Xavi, the tension in the locker room slowly eased, and the players collectively released a long-held breath.

They understood the magnitude of their coach's expectations, but they also recognized that his passion for the game was rooted in a desire to revive the glory days of Barcelona.

With memories of the golden era flooding their minds, the players couldn't help but reminisce about the legendary trio of Xavi, Iniesta, and Ronaldinho. Messi later.

They were football magicians, orchestrating plays with an unrivaled finesse that left opponents awestruck and spectators in awe.

In those golden days, it wasn't just about winning matches; it was about playing football with joy and exuberance, as if they were kids again, relishing every moment on the field.

The team's style was a blend of artistry and technical brilliance, making the opposition seem like mere amateurs in comparison.

However now... Barcelona were not playing and were losing despite being serious. Most of them felt as if they were a bunch of losers, disgracing the famed club of it's reputation.

Gone were the days of carefree play and effortless victories. The players felt a heavy burden on their shoulders, knowing that they were not living up to the legacy of the esteemed club.

Doubt and frustration gnawed at them, and they questioned whether they were worthy of wearing the Barcelona jersey.

Inside the locker room, a noticeable sense of disappointment lingered like a black cloud in isolation. The players' expressions mirrored the collective feeling of letting down the club's passionate fan base.

They couldn't help but compare themselves to the legendary players of the past and felt inadequate in comparison.

As the echoes of cheers from the stadium seemed distant, the players struggled to hold back all the dark emotions behind their stoic facade.

Suddenly Sergio Busquets, the legendary midfielder, clapped his hands with determination as he rose to his feet, fixing his gaze on each and every player, especially Bobby.

"Okay. Now no more wallowing in sadness. Madrid is 2 goals ahead of us and in great form. It's okay. Barcelona has performed miracles before, and we can still do it. Stand up!"

Busquets' words were like a rallying cry, stirring a reminder of the storied history of Barcelona's comebacks.

"I don't care if you slap yourself, punch yourself," he continued, his voice escalating in intensity. "I want everyone running on that field with their eyes wide open. We are going to win this because we are more than a club. VISCA EL BARÇA!"

As the echoes of Sergio Busquets' empowering speech lingered in the air, a wave of adrenaline coursed through the players' veins.

They stood tall and resolute, their spirits lifted, ready to take on the challenge that lay ahead. They shouted in unison, their voices intertwining into a powerful chorus of determination and passion.

"VISCA EL BARÇA!"

The locker room seemed to reverberate with their collective energy, as if it had come alive with the spirit of Barcelona's storied history.

Bobby, too, felt the surge of inspiration coursing through him. He smiled, witnessing the transformation in his teammates. The sense of camaraderie was palpable, and he realized that he was not alone in this journey.

He was part of a united front, driven by the desire to uphold the club's legacy and restore its glory. He whispered silently and before long his mutterings transformed into full blown shouts.

"...visca el barça... Visca El Barça... VISCA EL BARÇA!!!!"

Halftime had come to an end, the players started to leave the locker room one by one. Their faces were a mix of determination and focus, each one mentally preparing for the battle that awaited them in the second half.

The sound of the stadium's roaring crowd reached Bobby's ears, a reminder of the unwavering Barcelona fans that did not care if they lost or won. All they cared about was supporting their past, present, future and having a good fucking time.

As Storm stood on the grassy pitch, he couldn't help but be in awe of the thousands of people filling the stadium.

The sight of the cheering fans, their excitement palpable, made his heart race with adrenaline. Yet, amidst the sea of faces and the bright lights of the stadium, he felt an unexpected calmness.

The deafening noise of the crowd was like a distant hum, fading into the background. At that moment, as he looked at the stadium lights shining down on the pitch, he felt a sense of detachment from the outside world.

It was as if he had entered a serene bubble, where only the game and the field existed. With every step, he felt a connection to the ground beneath him. The holes left by his studs symbolized the groundwork he was laying for the game, the foundation upon which he would build his glory.

A smile crept onto Storm's lips, a mixture of excitement and determination as he affirmed to himself again... and again... and again.

"I am the storm... I am the storm... I am the storm...

...and I am approaching."