Dominating Football with Perfect Ball Control

Chapter 404: 404. Messi, Your Celebration Is Really Useful

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What does it mean to dribble past seven players and tear through Barcelona?

Son Heung-min once sprinted 70 meters in the Premier League to score a solo goal against Burnley in a regular league match. There were no flashy moves in the build-up — mostly a combination of raw pace, physical strength, technique, and calm decision-making. That was enough for Son to achieve legendary status in the Premier League. The goal became a highlight reel staple, a Puskás Award candidate, and a permanent entry in the competition’s history.

That is the weight of a high-level solo goal.

Even in 2025, Messi’s breakout moment and most iconic goal remains the 1v5 strike from early in his career. And apart from the Hand of God, Maradona’s most remembered moment is his run past five England players at the 1986 World Cup.

In an era where football has become increasingly detailed and scientific, solo dribbling carries real risk — potential loss of possession, tactical non-conformity, the wrath of a head coach watching from the sideline. Many wingers, when carrying into the final third, would rather stop and recycle the ball than commit to a run. Bayern’s 17-year-old prodigy Jamal Musiala dares to drive at defenders and hold the ball, and it’s made him a globally recognized rising star. The reason Chelsea’s Hazard became ”King Hazard,” with a case for a top-five ranking in the world, is precisely his ability to beat multiple defenders in tight space.

So when Lance intercepted the ball in front of his own penalty area and single-handedly tore through the entire Barcelona line — against a Barcelona side in peak form, high on confidence, playing the best football they had managed all season — the scale of it was almost impossible to process.

Lance himself couldn’t have imagined the shock it would send through the entire world.

Legendary commentators Martin Tyler and Spain’s own José ángel, seasoned veterans with decades of experience between them, could not find the words. For the first time, they began to doubt the richness of the English and Spanish languages. They could only repeat, ”My God,” ”God,” and ”Jesus” in various combinations.

Simeone stood frozen on the sideline, eyes nearly out of his head.

”What kind of monster have we signed?”

He had been quietly pleased with himself lately, feeling that his coaching at Atlético had shaped Lance into a complete, well-rounded player — that he deserved some of the credit. Now, standing there watching the replay in his mind, Simeone felt only one thing: Lance could hold his own in any team on earth. He was an army of one. The world’s most unique, most dangerous individual player. He didn’t need any system.

Look at those dribbling moves. Look at his total command of space. So many Barcelona defenders, and not one of them could lay a boot on him. Lance was practically performing acrobatics in the middle of a crowd, and when he finally executed that second run past Piqué and volleyed into an empty net, it was both lethal and soul-crushing.

And then it got more soul-crushing.

After scoring, Lance couldn’t contain himself. He ripped off his jersey and sprinted toward the Atlético end of the Bernabéu, holding the back of his shirt up to the fans.

The cameras went into a frenzy. The photographers went into a frenzy.

Everyone watching understood instantly: this was one of those moments. It didn’t need to wait for the final whistle. The image of Lance holding up his number 10 shirt — bronze muscles, eight-pack, every line carved like something from a Renaissance workshop — would be circling the internet before the teams had even walked back to the center circle. Michelangelo, had he been alive, might have considered retiring David and starting over.

Lance’s pose, jersey raised toward the stands, was full of something difficult to name. All the Atlético fans and every neutral in the stadium felt it.

Number 10 — Lance.

Even people who don’t follow football would remember this.

”This...”

Messi’s brain had stalled.

Setting aside the goal. Setting aside being dribbled past by one player with the entire team present. There was something about this celebration that didn’t sit right.

Messi could never have imagined that Lance had just stolen his celebration.

On the original timeline, that image — a player holding up his jersey at the Bernabéu — was supposed to belong to Messi, after a last-minute winner against Real Madrid in El Clásico. But because of Lance’s butterfly effect, Real Madrid never fought Barcelona to the wire that night. Barcelona beat them 1-0 through a Suárez goal, and Messi never got his moment.

Tonight, Lance got it instead.

After the celebration, Lance slowly came back to himself. The frantic edge of the [Isagi Yoichi] and [Bachira Meguru] templates combined was genuinely unsettling from the inside.

”Probably best to avoid running those two together going forward.”

The referee came over, smiling faintly as he produced a yellow card. He appreciated the goal and the celebration as much as anyone in the stadium, but rules are rules. Jersey removal is a minimum yellow.

Fortunately, a yellow card in a cup final with no further suspension implications was nothing. For a moment like this, Lance had absolutely no complaints.

He turned and caught Messi’s expression — hollow, still trying to process it.

Lance’s mouth curled up slightly.

”Messi, your celebration is really useful.”

”?Qué?”

”Nothing.”

Messi didn’t understand. Lance had said it in Chinese. The first half ended with that exchange.

Lance walked back through the tunnel and was immediately swallowed by his teammates.

2-1. Down two goals with zero shots, less than 20% possession, unable to even touch the ball — and then Lance had forced the issue by himself and hauled them back into the game.

They wanted to worship him.

The fans at the Bernabéu who had paid over a thousand euros above face value for their tickets felt every cent was justified. Everyone was buzzing — in the restroom lines, at the hot dog stands, at the beer counters — reliving Lance’s 80-meter run, replaying it on phones, arguing about whether it was the greatest solo goal they had ever seen.

Online, the internet had already detonated.

The GIF of the solo run and the photograph of the jersey celebration were spreading at viral speed. Within ten minutes, #Lance1v7, #LanceCelebration, and #BarcelonaHalftime21 were dominating trending lists worldwide. Nobody had expected a Copa del Rey match to produce the most memorable single moment of the entire season.

In the Barcelona locker room, Luis Enrique moved quickly to settle his players down, made some minor tactical adjustments to cut off Lance’s influence in the second half, and told everyone to keep playing composed football.

”You did nothing wrong in the first half. Lance’s goal was an accident. The rest of your play was excellent. Keep it up in the second half and push for a third goal.”

Across the corridor, Simeone was doing the same.

”You’ve been excellent, especially Lance.”

”With a teammate like that, I want everyone to feel more confident. You’re all good players.”

”No matter what happens, Lance has got us covered... right, Lance?”

Simeone had no idea how to lift the mood right now, so he did the only thing that seemed to work. He brought up Lance.

To be honest, as a coach, today had been a humbling experience. His tactics and lineup had been completely nullified by Barcelona. To win this match, to win this trophy, it was going to come down to Lance.

”No problem, no problem.”

”What?”

Lance had instinctively reached for a phrase nobody in the room would understand for another decade.

”I mean... we’re going to win the championship.”

His eyes carried no doubt at all.

With [Isagi Yoichi] and [Bachira Meguru], two S-rank templates, in his corner.

”Believe in me.”