In the broadcast booth, Santiago was still working through what he had just watched.
"Look at the rotation on the replay," he said. "The ball climbs on an outward curve, you expect it to keep going wide, over or around the wall. Then at the apex it snaps. The spin reverses. The trajectory goes from wide to inside in less than a tenth of a second. Bravo read the approach correctly and committed to the right side. By the time the snap happened, his momentum was already the wrong way."
Inés had the high-speed footage. "The combination of outward curve and late drop, it's a hybrid delivery. The curve gets it past the wall, the drop gets it past the keeper. They solve two problems with one contact. Bravo had no position that covered both phases." She set the tablet down. "And he hit it with his right foot, from left of centre, which makes the delivery technically more difficult than anything a left-footed player would attempt from that position. The angle works against the natural curl."
The digital feed was going.
[The first goal was a diving header from eight yards. The second was a right-foot free kick from an impossible angle. What's the third going to be?]
[Spain is in Group G with the Netherlands next summer. Lorenzo versus Van Persie is going to be the defining duel of the World Cup.]
[Someone tell the AFA to look at the scoreline. Twenty-two minutes. Two-nil. At the Anoeta.]
On the pitch, Messi had jumped on Lorenzo's back before he finished his run toward the away section. The rest of the squad converged. Busquets arrived and shook Lorenzo's shoulder hard enough to mean something.
"Two free kicks in three La Liga seasons and you've scored both," Busquets said. "The keepers are going to start flipping coins just to have a plan."
Martino watched from the touchline, arms folded. He let the celebration run its natural course, then turned to Pautasso. "Griezmann's going to come alive now. Watch the space behind Alba in transition."
On the Sociedad bench, Arrasate sat for a moment, then stood. He looked at the 2-0 scoreline on the board and looked at his squad still on the pitch and made a decision about tone.
"PRIETO!" he called, loud and direct.
Prieto looked over.
"You've been here before. Get them up."
Prieto walked to the centre circle, clapping with a rhythm that the Anoeta crowd knew. They had heard it before - last season, down two goals at half-time against this same team. The memory was in the stands as much as on the pitch.
"HEADS UP!" Prieto's voice carried across the noise. He grabbed González by the jersey. "Last season we were two down against Barcelona and we sent them home crying. This is the Anoeta. Are you Basques or are you cowards?"
The home crowd answered with a wall of sound that felt like something had been unlocked.
Griezmann stood near the halfway line, jaw set. He had watched Lorenzo produce a diving header and a curling right-foot free kick from a position coaches called impossible. He was fast. He was dangerous. He was also still chasing a player who was moving through this match as if the obstacles were slightly smaller than they looked to everyone else. That feeling, the sense of pursuing someone whose ceiling you can't yet see, sharpened his focus rather than deflating it.
Fweet—!
The match restarted. For the next fifteen minutes Sociedad played with a compressed, grinding urgency, five-man midfield contracting into the spaces, Granero and Prieto on Lorenzo constantly, the physicality sustained and deliberate. The referee's whistle became a constant interruption. The match stopped being a football match and became a war of possession in small spaces.
In the 41st minute, the pressure found a crack.
Prieto muscled past Iniesta near the centre circle and played a diagonal ball wide left. Elustondo won the race with Alves along the touchline and, without reaching the byline, whipped a forty-five-degree cross into the box.
"VELA!" Santiago called.
Vela and Mascherano went up simultaneously. Mascherano won the contact but his head angled wrong on impact. The ball came off the back of his skull in a slow, looping arc toward the goal rather than away from it.
Valdés reacted immediately - springing from his line to tip it over the bar. The Barça fans exhaled.
For one second.
Griezmann arrived at the landing spot of the corner before Piqué. Valdés launched himself again, punching the ball clear with both fists. It dropped twenty yards out, directly to Prieto.
Valdés was still recovering his position. The goal was momentarily open. Prieto met the dropping ball with a low, driven first-time volley.
THUD.
It went through Piqué's attempted block and found the bottom-right corner.
SWISH!
2-1.
The Anoeta detonated. Every supporter in blue and white on their feet, the Basque war cry filling the ground, Prieto sprinting toward the corner flag with his fist raised. The captain who had stayed when others had left, the one who had scored a hat-trick against Real Madrid, had just turned the match.
The halftime whistle had come a minute later. Mascherano walked toward the tunnel with his hands over his face.
"Two-one to Barcelona at the break," Santiago said. "The Anoeta script from last season, two down, one back before the half - is being followed exactly. The second half is going to decide the match."
[Status: Leading (2-1). Halftime. Copa del Rey R16 L1 - Anoeta.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_