Dominating Football with Perfect Ball Control

Chapter 361: 361. The Shocking Final Blow!

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In a bar in Barcelona, Catalonia, many Barcelona stars were present: Alves, Piqué, Neymar, Suárez, and Messi among them.

But no one was paying attention to them.

Every pair of eyes in the bar was fixed on the television, Barcelona’s stars included.

”Hang on, weren’t we supposed to be relaxing today? How did we end up watching another match?”

Piqué suddenly realised something had gone wrong.

Barcelona’s recent results had been excellent, making them heavy favourites across all three fronts. In the league, they had shown absolute dominance with a 5-0 rout against Rayo Vallecano. They had completely dismantled Arsenal 3-0 in the first leg of the Champions League Round of 16. And they had crushed Sevilla in the Copa del Rey, successfully advancing to the final.

With results like that and a rare day off, they should have found a club to celebrate in!

How had Messi managed to drag them to a regular bar? And now they were watching the Madrid Derby, of all things. They couldn’t stand either team. There was no good outcome for Barcelona, unless both sides battered each other to a draw, ideally with a few key players picking up injuries along the way.

The match itself had certainly delivered on the drama. After Real Madrid took a 2-0 lead at home, Atlético Madrid, inspired by Lance, had clawed their way back to 2-2. That pass Lance played to set up Torres’ goal in particular was something else. Messi couldn’t help but leap to his feet, nearly cheering out loud.

Suárez actually applauded. He even let out a whistle before Piqué yanked him back by the arm.

”Mate, keep it together.”

Piqué shot him a sharp look, nodding pointedly towards Messi.

Suárez gave an awkward laugh and quickly went quiet. Everyone knew the media had long painted Messi and Lance as arch-rivals. The Madrid press loved using Lance’s success as a stick to beat Messi with, and the fans followed along eagerly.

If it had only been a matter of public opinion lifting one and knocking the other, that would have been one thing. But in recent years, whenever Barcelona faced Lance’s team, they hadn’t won a single match.

Messi versus Lance: a 0% win rate.

The Champions League semi-final the previous season had been the worst of it. The controversial refereeing at the Camp Nou had practically gifted Barcelona the tie. And yet they still hadn’t won. Lance had eliminated them anyway. Barcelona lost both the match and their dignity, and the narrative still turned against them.

That had little to do with the players themselves. Busquets’ theatrics were one thing; the backroom dealings between Barcelona’s board and former UEFA President Platini were another entirely.

Messi had seethed over it ever since. Every honour he’d earned became tainted with the label of ”special treatment,” with Platini dubbed his godfather by the press. All his hard work, dismissed in an instant. That was what cut the deepest.

So whenever Lance came up in conversation, Messi went quiet, retreating to a corner with a dark expression and saying nothing. Lance had become the Voldemort of the Barcelona changing room. Nobody dared mention his name, let alone praise him.

Suárez realised his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. He glanced nervously towards Messi, only to find him calmly taking a sip of beer.

”Why are you looking at me?”

”Leo, sorry, I didn’t mean...”

”What for? Lance played well just then. That was a brilliant pass.”

Messi’s face remained unreadable. The other Barcelona players still shifted uneasily in their seats.

”Relax,” Messi added. ”They’ve drawn. That’s good news for us.”

”Fair point.”

With one minute left, the clock read 92:21. Real Madrid had possession. Neither side looked likely to find a winner now. A 2-2 draw would extend Barcelona’s lead to six points, and the La Liga title was tilting firmly in their direction. That was good news, at least.

The Barcelona players leant back in their chairs, allowing themselves to breathe.

Only Neymar frowned. He had a feeling this wasn’t over.

Real Madrid wanted more. They wanted a winner, right at the death.

Marcelo had practically stormed into the opposition box. They were not settling for a draw.

Real Madrid pushed forward with everything they had. Since Atlético Madrid would have no time to hit back, they could afford to throw caution to the wind. Varane and Pepe were practically playing as centre-forwards, hurling themselves into the box, whilst Bale and Modri? looped ball after ball into the area. Cristiano Ronaldo and several other tall players contested fiercely in the air.

The Atlético Madrid fans could barely watch.

”The shot!! Oblak!!”

”He punches it clear, but Real Madrid have the second ball!”

”Modri? picks it up outside the box, chips it with the outside of his boot to the left. Marcelo!!”

”No cross, he cuts inside and plays Cristiano Ronaldo in!!”

Cristiano Ronaldo controlled inside the box, shook off his marker, and the moment he shaped to shoot, every Atlético Madrid fan in the world felt their heart stop.

The ball flew straight towards the top corner.

It grazed the post and spun out for a goal kick.

”What a strike!! Top quality!! Cristiano Ronaldo nearly won it!”

The clock read 92:53. The referee could blow his whistle at any moment. A 2-2 draw looked inevitable.

The commentator let out a long sigh.

”Both sides have produced a match of the highest quality today. Real Madrid were brilliant in taking that early 2-0 lead, and Atlético showed tremendous character in the second half, pulling level deep into injury time.”

A pity, then, that Barcelona would now pull further clear. Atlético had been so close. Given another ten minutes, they might well have gone on to win it. But there’s no extra time in the league. Both Madrid clubs would end up handing Barcelona the spoils.

The Atlético players on the pitch were crestfallen. Saúl, Griezmann, Torres, all of them deflated. All of them, except Lance, who was still running.

Wait. Lance?

In the dying seconds, the referee had already glanced at his watch. The clock read 93:02. The three minutes of stoppage time had elapsed. The whistle could come at any moment, perhaps another thirty seconds, perhaps less.

Barcelona fans were already celebrating. Atlético fans looked on helplessly.

Then Lance suddenly sprinted towards the halfway line, simultaneously gesturing back to goalkeeper Oblak.

”What’s he doing?”

Oblak didn’t quite follow. But he understood one thing. Lance hadn’t given up.

As Lance charged forward, Oblak snatched the ball, ran to the edge of his area, took a quick stride, and launched it long without warning.

”Quick goal kick, up to midfield! Wait. Lance!!”

The commentator’s voice, which had settled into a subdued murmur, suddenly shot upward with a burst of raw energy.

”What a ball!! Lance!!!”

The kick travelled fifty metres, arriving above Lance’s head on a flat, fast trajectory. Toni Kroos was immediately alert, stepping across to challenge. If he could just disturb Lance’s touch, the referee would blow. If neither side threatened, the match was over.

As Kroos and Lance jostled for position, with Kroos preparing to use his strength to barge Lance off the ball, Lance did something completely unexpected. He used Kroos’s own momentum, took two sharp steps forward, and leapt high into the air.

A delicate flick of the head.

”What?!”

Kroos instinctively lunged to intercept, then froze. Lance hadn’t headed it on. He had used his head to control it past him.

Could you even do that with a header?

By the time Kroos gathered himself, Lance had already gone past him. The ball had floated perfectly over Kroos’s head and dropped neatly in front of Lance’s feet.

Nearly forty metres from goal.

The next second:

”Lance, he’s shooting himself!!!”

Bang.

A long-range volley. The final shot of the entire match. The most critical moment of the La Liga title race, and Lance had taken it upon himself.

Had it been anyone else, Atlético fans would have been furious. What a waste! Why not dribble forward and create something proper?

But this was Lance. There was nobody around him. And so, in silence, every single one of them began to pray.

The truth was, Lance was gambling.

He had no template boost today. He was running entirely on muscle memory. The header control and evasion had mimicked Nagi Seishiro’sPerfect Ball Control, but it hadn’t been executed cleanly. The ball had bounced awkwardly on landing, throwing him slightly off balance. A direct volley from there was borderline reckless, and he couldn’t find the ideal point of contact.

But the arrow was already on the string. The referee’s hand was moving. There was no time to think.

Lance threw everything behind it, the vague, instinctive muscle memory of Hyuga Kojiro’sTiger Shot, and swung.

As the ball arced towards goal, even Lance felt his stomach tighten.

Across the world, fans of every persuasion, Atlético, Real Madrid, Barcelona, and those with no allegiance at all, held their breath as one.

The ball seemed certain to sail over the bar. Goalkeeper Navas hesitated, not jumping immediately.

Then he saw it dip.

By the time he reacted, he was half a beat too late.

”Shit!!!”

Navas threw himself upward, desperately clawing at the air. And in that instant, the ball swept down like a falling leaf, grazing the underside of the crossbar and dropping into the net.

Hiss.

Something ignited deep in the commentator’s chest. An energy like an engine catching, then roaring to life all at once.

”Lance!!!!!!!!”

”The goal is in!!! A winner, a winner!!!!!”

”In the final second of the match!! Lance has done it again!!”

”Here, at the Bernabéu, he has delivered the ultimate act of individual brilliance!!”

”A world-class strike, an earth-shattering, unstoppable world-class strike, to beat Real Madrid!! The comeback is complete!!”

”3-2!! Atlético Madrid win!!”