Lionel Messi night!
On the day of the match, World Sports Daily in Catalonia ran such a headline across its front page. The message was unmistakable. The newspaper, like the entire region, was filled with anticipation for Lionel Messi, freshly returned from injury.
"If it is Messi's night tonight, then it will also be Barcelona's night. This is the shared feeling of Barcelona supporters ahead of the most important match of the season so far."
Across Catalonia, this first leg of the Champions League round of sixteen at Camp Nou was treated as the defining match of Barcelona's campaign. In the eyes of the fans and media alike, the result would shape the club's entire season. Barcelona's lead in the league was far from secure, fragile enough to collapse at any moment, and as a result, the Champions League had become the true focal point of the club's ambitions.
The anxiety ran even deeper because Barcelona had finished only second in their group, trailing behind Chelsea, a result that left supporters deeply dissatisfied. If Barcelona failed to overcome Liverpool and were eliminated at the round of sixteen, how could they possibly hold their heads high in front of their eternal rivals, Real Madrid?
"Ronaldinho's magic has been calling for a reliable partner for a long time. Now, the stage at Camp Nou has been set. Messi has arrived just in time and will make his debut."
"Despite being sidelined by injury for nearly three months, the Argentine's speed remains razor-sharp. His breakthroughs are still like lightning. There is no visible difference compared to before the injury. This gives us reason to believe that his rehabilitation has been handled perfectly."
Beyond World Sports Daily, Daily Sports matched the frenzy with headlines just as bold.
"Messi holds the magic key to success!"
"Fate is in Messi's hands!"
Headline after headline poured out, capturing the collective expectations placed upon the young Argentine. For the people of Barcelona, this was not difficult to understand. Originally, their hopes had been pinned on Eto'o. However, no one could have anticipated that, on the eve of such a decisive battle, the Cameroonian striker—himself just returning from injury—would become embroiled in a storm with the club, openly breaking with Rijkaard and Ronaldinho.
Under such circumstances, it was unrealistic to place the burden of salvation on Eto'o's shoulders. And so, aside from him, there was only one remaining figure capable of reigniting Barcelona's campaign.
Lionel Messi.
On the morning of the match, the streets of Barcelona were already saturated with the atmosphere of a European night. From newspaper kiosks to radio broadcasts, every major media outlet was reporting on and building up the clash scheduled for the evening. Conversations in cafés, on buses, and along the sidewalks all revolved around the same subject. Anticipation hung heavily in the air.
Everyone was filled with expectation for Barcelona, and the hopes placed on Messi were unmistakably high. In the collective imagination of the city, this was the night he would lead Barcelona out of their difficulties and restore confidence when it mattered most. The belief was strong, almost absolute.
Because in their eyes, Camp Nou was a steel fortress—one that no opponent could truly breach.
…
…
The match was scheduled for the evening.
After getting up, Yang Yang went down to the hotel gym, where he spent some time running and working through a set of strength-training equipment. When he returned to the room, his body damp with sweat, he found his roommate, Xabi Alonso, sitting by the table with a newspaper spread open in front of him.
Yes, once again, round after round, it was their turn to be paired together.
"These newspapers are really interesting today. You should take a look," Xabi Alonso said with a chuckle.
"Why?" Yang Yang asked as he walked over, already preparing to take a shower and change.
"You'll feel more motivated after reading them."
Yang Yang raised an eyebrow. "I don't need to read them to be motivated." He nodded with confidence and headed straight into the bathroom.
Watching him disappear inside, Xabi Alonso couldn't help but laugh.
They had been teammates for more than half a year now. Especially after the singing incident earlier in the season, their relationship had clearly grown closer. Xabi Alonso understood Yang Yang's personality quite well by this point.
This was definitely someone who held grudges.
Why? Because last year, Barcelona had eliminated Ajax at Camp Nou in the Champions League quarter-finals. Now Yang Yang was wearing a Liverpool shirt, but he still remembered that defeat clearly.
That alone made Xabi Alonso certain that facing someone like Yang Yang would be a nightmare. God knew how long he would hold onto it—what year, what month, no one could tell. With that stubborn, unforgiving character of his, if he never got his revenge, it would probably stay with him for life.
Before long, Yang Yang finished his shower and walked out, a towel wrapped around his waist.
Xabi Alonso was completely unfazed. In the dressing room, whose backside hadn't been seen before? Making a fuss about it would only invite ridicule.
"I'll read you a paragraph," Xabi Alonso said, clearly enjoying himself. "Listen to this."
He laughed as he continued, "'The entire Barcelona squad has been eagerly awaiting his return. Messi's physical condition has improved significantly in recent weeks. He can, and he will, bring the team many of the things it needs. Right now, he is desperate to play, desperate to face Yang Yang on the same pitch.'"
The newspaper was in Spanish. Xabi Alonso could read it easily, but Yang Yang could not, so he translated it into English for him.
After finishing, Xabi Alonso looked at Yang Yang with a smile, clearly waiting for some kind of response.
Instead, Yang Yang curled his lips slightly. "That kid has never beaten me," he said calmly. "Tonight won't be any different."
With that, he turned and began getting dressed.
Xabi Alonso smiled. "So, are you planning to give the media an interview as well? The British press, maybe?"
Yang Yang shook his head. "No need."
"Why?"
"I was going to say something," Yang Yang replied, then paused. He had almost used a sharp saying—that dogs which bite do not bark—but quickly realized that would only turn the meaning back on himself. "There's a saying back home in China—we value restraint and don't speak too harshly."
Xabi Alonso nodded thoughtfully. "Then staying silent might be even more effective. Sometimes it carries more weight."
Yang Yang turned his head and gave Xabi Alonso a long look. Deep down, he really believed that explanation.
Damn it—he had been fooled again.
…
…
As kick-off approached, the air in Barcelona seemed to grow heavier by the minute.
Before taking his midday rest, Yang Yang went for a swim, loosened his muscles, then returned to his room and slept soundly. Xabi Alonso, on the other hand, was too wound up to rest at all and barely closed his eyes. When Yang Yang woke up refreshed and full of energy, Xabi Alonso complained bitterly that Yang Yang's snoring had disturbed his sleep.
What nonsense. Who was snoring? If you couldn't fall asleep, then just admit it. Complaining to the air and blaming others—wasn't that exactly what those words described?
Yang Yang was too lazy to argue with someone like that. After resting, he opened his laptop and chatted with Su Ye for a while. The conversation was nothing special. He asked how things were going on set, whether Liu Dehua and Jin Chengwu were really that handsome, whether Jet Li could actually fight. Yang Yang was curious about everything, as always.
Su Ye told him that filming would continue late into the night, possibly until midnight. She was not sure if she would be able to catch his match. She reminded him to take care of himself, to stay focused, and not to get injured.
While chatting with Su Ye, Yang Yang also received several messages and phone calls—friends and relatives sending their concern and encouragement. Among them were Van Gaal, Van Basten, Ibrahimović, Sneijder, and Ronald Koeman, all of whom sent messages wishing him a strong performance that night. Yang Yang replied to each of them in turn.
When the time came, the team gathered for a unified dinner and then rested briefly.
Every player had his own way of adjusting before a match. After four years in professional football, Yang Yang had gradually learned how to manage the fluctuations of his physical and mental state. He knew how to bring himself to the right level before a big game.
Kick-off was scheduled for 20:45. After night fell, Liverpool boarded the bus and headed toward Camp Nou.
Barcelona supporters lined the streets along the route. When they spotted the Liverpool team bus, groups of fans surged forward, and a few extreme supporters even threw objects at it. Fortunately, the Barcelona police escort quickly stepped in to maintain order and ensured the bus passed safely.
Nearly one hundred thousand people hissing at you at the same time—what kind of feeling was that?
Perhaps most people would never experience it in their lifetime.
But Yang Yang did.
The moment he stepped into Camp Nou, nearly ninety-five thousand Barcelona fans erupted into deafening boos directed at him. Many shouted insults, their voices blending into a single, overwhelming roar.
For a brief instant, Yang Yang felt his legs go weak.
But he quickly steadied himself, controlled his breathing, and continued forward with measured steps.
This was Camp Nou.
The largest stadium in Europe, and one of the most intimidating home grounds in world football.
Standing by the pitch, Yang Yang saw the stands packed tightly with supporters, ninety-five thousand people pressed together. Being stared at by all of them at once sent a chill down his spine.
He knew he wasn't the only one. Every Liverpool player felt it. They were the visiting side, and none of these ninety-five thousand people welcomed them.
And for the next ninety minutes, they would have to endure those ninety-five thousand voices.
"Hey, Yang, are you scared?" Gerrard turned around, noticed Yang Yang scanning the stands, and asked with a smile.
This was someone with a huge heart. The bigger the stage, the more excited he became. Yet Yang Yang could sense that Gerrard was not fearless by nature. He simply knew how to suppress his fear and keep it from showing.
"Of course I'm scared," Yang Yang replied calmly.
Gerrard was momentarily surprised by the honesty.
Then Yang Yang added, "I'm just checking whether the security around here is reliable. If I score later and they rush onto the pitch to beat me up, what should I do?"
The deadpan joke caught Gerrard off guard and made him laugh. "Run. Are you planning to die with them?"
"Would that count as a foul?" Yang Yang continued seriously. "Would I get sent off with a red card?"
This time Gerrard burst out laughing. What kind of twisted logic was this?
Other teammates noticed Gerrard laughing oddly and thought something was wrong with him. When they asked what happened, the story quickly spread, and laughter followed.
"Relax. If a fan charges at you, I'll be the first one to rush over and protect you."
"Just score. I'm here."
"Should we ask the boss to double-check security?"
"Are you joking? Camp Nou's security has passed inspection. UEFA has checked it."
"Still, I'm really worried about Yang Yang."
"Worried about what? He can score—can you?"
"I may not score, but I can stop them from scoring, and I'm closer to the stands."
"So you're a traitor from Barcelona."
"I go…"
During the final warm-up before kick-off, Barcelona entered the pitch. Liverpool remained in their own half, continuing their preparations… play!