Spain, Valencia. Mestalla Stadium.
This stadium, with nearly a century of history, is famous for having the most fanatical and noisy stands in all of Spain. Its stands are extremely steep; fans sitting in the top tier seem to be shouting right over the players' heads, with sound waves cascading down like a waterfall onto the pitch.
Tonight, this nest of the 'the Bats' turned into a boiling cauldron of oil. La Liga Matchday 13, the top-of-the-table clash. League leaders Barcelona (34 points) visiting second-place Valencia (30 points).
Under Marcelino's guidance, this season's Valencia are like a pack of hungry the Bats. Kondogbia and Parejo control the midfield, while Zaza and Rodrygo are as fast as lightning up front. They are one of only two teams still undefeated in La Liga—the other being Barça.
If Barça have been clinging to the top spot with 'ugly pragmatism,' then Valencia have won universal acclaim with their fluid counter-attacks. Before the match, the newspaper *Super Deporte* even ran the headline: 'Tonight, We Represent Football and Defeat That Wrestling Team.'
Bartomeu sat in the front row of the presidential box, wearing a dark blue overcoat, his face calm as he watched the players warming up below.
'Josep, it's a bit noisy here, I hope you don't mind,' Valencia Chairman Layhoon Chan politely offered a glass of water. 'Our fans haven't seen a genuine title challenge in too long.'
'Passion is the lifeblood of football; I love this atmosphere,' Bartomeu replied with a smile, but his peripheral gaze drifted to the other side of the box.
There sat someone he didn't really want to see, but had to face—the Chairman of La Liga, Javier Tebas.
This was the first time the two had met in public since the 'empty stadium' incident. Tebas was laughing and chatting with several Spanish Football Federation officials. Noticing Bartomeu's look, he raised his wine glass in a toast, a meaningful smile playing on his lips.
That smile made Bartomeu feel nauseous. It wasn't a friendly greeting; it was a hunter looking at prey caught in a trap.
'Óscar,' Bartomeu said quietly to CEO Grau beside him, 'who's the referee tonight?'
'Iglesias Villanueva,' Grau glanced at his notes. 'A referee with a... rather 'lenient' interpretation of the rules. His internal rating with the Referees' Committee this week wasn't high.'
'Lenient?' Bartomeu snorted coldly. 'For a team that relies on physicality, leniency might be a good thing. But for Tebas, leniency means 'room for maneuver.''
With the referee's whistle, the match began.
Just as the media predicted, the match descended into a physical battle from the very first minute. With Iniesta still sidelined due to injury, Valverde had no choice but to continue with the controversial 4-4-2 'Giant' formation. Paulinho and Gomes occupied the flanks, forming, alongside Busquets and Rakitić, a midfield lacking in creativity but possessing immense solidity.
Valencia's midfield was extremely robust; Kondogbia swept through the center like a black gorilla. On Barça's side, Paulinho and Gomes were not to be outdone, the two of them like two solid doors, repeatedly sending the attempting-to-dribble Guedes flying.
The play was fragmented, the whistle frequently blown.
In the 30th minute, the moment arrived to break the deadlock—or rather, the moment that *should* have broken it.
Barça won the ball high up the pitch. Paulinho used his body to shield off Parejo and poked the ball to Messi on the right wing. Messi controlled it, facing Gayà's defense. Messi wasn't at his best, fatigue accumulated over time meant he didn't choose to dribble past him. Instead, just outside the penalty arc, he used his incredibly quick footwork to create a tiny sliver of space.
Left foot, thunderous shot.
The ball shot out like a cannonball, with a fierce dip, heading straight for the goal. Valencia goalkeeper Neto made a fatal error. He tried to catch the powerful shot with his hands, but the ball, spinning fiercely, slipped like an eel between his gloves and through his legs.
Neto scrambled back in panic to claw the ball out. But before he could touch it, the ball had—completely, utterly, and without any doubt—crossed the goal line. It was even a full half-meter over the line!
Messi raised his arms in celebration. Suárez charged towards the corner flag. Even the Valencia fans in the stands let out a groan of despair, preparing to accept the reality of being 0-1 down.
However, the whistle didn't blow.
There was no whistle for the kick-off. Referee Villanueva showed no reaction, and the linesman didn't raise his flag. The match continued!
Neto scooped the ball out from inside the goal and quickly launched a long ball upfield. The celebrating Barça players were all stunned. 'What's going on?!' Suárez roared, chasing after the referee. 'That was a goal! Half a meter over!'
The referee shook his head impassively. 'Play on! No goal!'
Valencia launched a swift counter-attack. A 2-on-1 situation developed up front. If not for ter Stegen rushing out of his box and heading the ball clear, Barça might have even been caught out celebrating and conceded a goal!
After the ball went out of play, the anger erupted. Messi, usually the most mild-mannered, rushed to the linesman, pointing at the white line on the pitch, shouting questions. Piqué was hopping mad, gesturing with his hands the distance the ball had crossed the line. But the referee just coldly pulled out a yellow card, cautioning the most vociferous protester, Suárez.
Inside the Mestalla Stadium box, the air was suffocatingly tense.
When that scene unfolded moments before, Bartomeu had shot up from his seat, the water glass in his hand creaking under his grip. He turned his head, staring fixedly at Tebas not far away.
Tebas wasn't watching the pitch; he was looking at his phone, or rather, pretending to look at his phone. Even from several meters away, Bartomeu could sense the sickeningly relaxed aura about him.
Bartomeu strode over. Grau tried to stop him but failed.
'Is this your 'fair play,' Javier?' Bartomeu's voice was low, but each word was like an icicle forced through gritted teeth.
Tebas looked up, feigning surprise. 'Oh, Josep. What happened? That ball just now... oh dear, the angle was bad, I couldn't see clearly. What, you think it went in?'
'The whole world saw it,' Bartomeu pointed at the TV broadcast screen in the box, which was replaying the incident—the ball crossing the line by at least fifty centimeters. 'This is a disgrace to La Liga. This is 2017, not 1917. We need VAR. You need to give an explanation.'
Tebas shrugged, leisurely picking up his red wine. 'Mistakes are part of football, Josep. Like accidents in life. You've enjoyed the benefits of plenty of 'mistakes' yourselves before, haven't you? The tears at Stamford Bridge? What, now that it's your turn to suffer, you can't take it?'
This wasn't just evasion; it was naked provocation.
Bartomeu's pupils constricted sharply. He read a deeper meaning in Tebas's eyes—the arrogance of power. This wasn't just a single mistake. This was a warning. A reprimand aimed at Barça as a'symbol of Catalonia.' It was telling Barça: in this League, you only win if I let you win; if I want you to go blind, you go blind.
'You're playing with fire,' Bartomeu leaned in, close to Tebas's ear, his voice low enough for only the two of them to hear. 'You think such despicable tactics will make us bow our heads? You think robbing us of a goal will stop us from winning the title?'
The smile on Tebas's lips widened. He looked at Bartomeu with a pitying gaze. 'Josep, don't get so worked up. It's just a game. Also, a reminder for you: your Paulinho is getting quite physical. Be careful of a red card.'
Bartomeu straightened up, adjusting his collar. He didn't argue further, nor did he lose his composure and shout. On Wall Street, when your opponent shows their hand, the stupidest move is to flip the table. The smartest move is—to raise the stakes.
'Fine,' Bartomeu said coldly. 'Remember this moment, Javier. You owe us a goal. But I'll make you pay it back. With interest.'
With that, he turned and returned to his seat. 'Chairman...' Grau looked at him worriedly.'Shut up and watch the match,' Bartomeu said expressionlessly. 'Also, notify the PR department. No complaint tweets about the referee after the match. Not a single word.'
'Why? That was a scandalous mistake!' 'Because complaining is what the weak do,' Bartomeu stared at the furious players on the pitch. 'We will respond in a more brutal way.'
The dressing room at halftime was like a powder keg.
Suárez was furiously kicking the lockers, swearing profusely. Piqué was naming the referee's ancestors, one by one. Even Messi sat in a corner, face dark, silent. The anger of being 'robbed' was consuming the team's rationality.
'They just don't want us to win!' 'That blind man! He couldn't see it even from the goal line!'
Valverde tried to calm everyone down, but his voice sounded feeble amidst the roars of anger.
Then, team manager Pepe Costa walked in, holding a phone. 'The Chairman's call. On speaker.'
The dressing room instantly fell silent.
'Have you all calmed down?' Bartomeu's voice came through the speaker, steady, calm, carrying a strange, calming force.
'Chairman! You saw it too, right?! That ball...' Piqué couldn't help but shout.
'I saw it. I just spoke with Tebas,' Bartomeu cut him off. 'He's very pleased. He's waiting to see you go crazy, waiting to see you lose your composure, waiting to see you get a red card out of frustration in the second half and lose the match.'
'That's their script. Provoke you, turn you into beasts, and then lock you in a cage.'
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"But we are not beasts. We are warriors." "Listen, gentlemen. That goal in the first half is dead. It no longer exists. If you waste your energy complaining about dead things, then you have already lost." "Since the referee is blind, then kick the ball harder. Kick it so hard that even a blind man can hear the sound of the ball hitting the net. Kick it until the net breaks, kick it until no one can deny it."
"Messi." Bartomeu suddenly called his name. "I'm here." Messi looked up. "That goal went in, you know it, and we know it. That is enough. In the second half, I don't demand you score another one, but I demand you lead them, swallow that anger, and turn it into power. Tell Tebas that Barça can win without the charity of referees."
"Understood." Messi's voice was low, but he clenched his fist.
The second half began. Barça, filled with fury, tried to fight back, but the emotional turmoil affected their technique. Anxiousness led to frequent passing mistakes. Moreover, lacking the orchestration of Iniesta and Eriksen, Barça's midfield could only rely on the raw charges of Paulinho and Gomes. This approach became extremely difficult once Valencia tightened their defensive shape.
Valencia seized the opportunity. In the 60th minute, Gayà broke through on the left flank and cut the ball back. Rodrygo, arriving at the near post, gave it a gentle poke. The ball rolled into the net. 1-0! Valencia leads!
The Mestalla Stadium erupted completely. Fifty thousand fans of the Bats waved their scarves frantically, mocking Barça's plight. The 1-0 on the scoreboard was particularly glaring. The 1-1 that should have existed had become 1-0.
A sense of despair began to spread among the Barça players. You clearly scored a goal, but it was disallowed; you tried hard to counterattack, only to be sucker-punched. It felt like the whole world was against you.
In the 72nd minute, Valverde stood on the touchline, watching his nearly exhausted midfield, his brow furrowed. The bench was empty. No Iniesta, no Eriksen, no Roberto. The cards he could play were pitifully few. "Denis, warm up," Valverde called out helplessly. "And Deulofeu."
In the 75th minute, Barça made a substitution. Rakitić off, Deulofeu on. Barça switched to a 4-3-3 formation, attempting one last gamble. But after coming on, Deulofeu still seemed like a headless chicken, his few dribbling attempts easily intercepted by Gayà.
Valencia retreated tighter and tighter, deploying a desperately frustrating defensive wall. Time ticked away. 80 minutes... 82 minutes... It seemed Barça was about to swallow their first League defeat of the season tonight. And it was a loss filled with injustice. Tebas in the VIP box had already started clinking glasses with the person next to him.
82nd minute. Messi received the ball in midfield. Due to fatigue, he couldn't surge forward anymore. Kondogbia and Parejo sandwiched him like two mountains. Messi was jostled and stumbled, but he didn't fall. Through the crowd of bodies, he saw a blur of red and blue charging forward with reckless abandon.
It was Paulinho. The Brazilian had been running for a full 80 minutes, yet he still looked as charged up as if he had just come on. He didn't understand complex positioning; he only knew what the Chairman had said: if they won't give us a goal, we'll crash through the net.
In the moment before hitting the ground, Messi delivered an incredibly imaginative lobbed pass over the top. This ball sailed over Valencia's packed defense, dropping towards the left side of the six-yard box.
It wasn't an absolute chance. Alba sprinted onto it, but he is left-footed, and the angle was too tight for a shot. Alba didn't get greedy. He met the ball in the air and volleyed it across the face of the goal towards the center.
The center was a meat grinder. Valencia's center-backs, Garay and Paulista, had blocked off all the routes.
But they couldn't stop that tank. Paulinho, launching from midfield, charged into the penalty area like a cannonball. Facing Garay's block, he didn't even slow down, nor did he make any shooting motion. He threw his entire body forward!
It was a suicidal attempt to reach the ball. Paulinho still possessed that raw power he brought from the Chinese Super League. He stretched his body in the air, not using his head, nor his foot, but his broad chest, which he slammed fiercely into the incoming ball.
"THUMP!!!"
A dull thud. The ball, struck by his chest, changed direction. Carrying immense kinetic energy, it violently smashed into the net, flying between the top of Garay's head and the fingertips of Neto!
Due to the tremendous momentum, Paulinho didn't stop after scoring. He, along with the ball, crashed into the net, even dragging down Garay, who had tried to hold him back, into the goal.
The net shook violently with a loud "WHOOSH," as if it really was about to tear.
1-1! 83rd minute! A last-gasp equalizer!
The entire Mestalla Stadium fell silent in an instant. Only that small pocket of Barça fans let out a heart-rending roar.
Paulinho crawled out of the net, pounding his chest like a savage. Sweat covered his face, his expression was fierce as he roared at the stands. In that moment, he didn't look like a technical Barça player; he looked like Spartacus crawling out of the gladiatorial arena.
Messi rushed over and jumped onto his back. Suárez rushed over and hugged his leg. "Well done! Pauli! Well done!"
In the VIP box. Bartomeu watched that goal, and the nerves that had been tense for the entire match finally relaxed. He let out a long sigh, feeling his back was already soaked with sweat.
He turned his head and looked at Tebas. Tebas's wine glass stopped mid-air, the smile on his face frozen, looking somewhat comical.
Bartomeu didn't speak. He simply raised his water glass towards Tebas, slowly. It was a silent toast. A toast to—violent beauty.
The match ended. 1-1. Although they didn't win, taking a point under such extremely adverse circumstances was enough to keep Barça's massive lead at the top of the table intact.
The mixed zone after the match was packed with reporters. Everyone wanted to hear Barça's take on that "ghost goal." They were expecting an outburst, an indictment full of conspiracy theories.
Alba did indeed curse during his interview: "That's a disgrace to goal-line technology! I saw the ball go in by a meter!" Busquets was also sarcastic: "Looks like we need to get the referees a guide dog."
But everyone's gaze was fixed on Bartomeu, who walked out last.
Bartomeu stopped. Camera flashes went crazy. "Mr. Chairman! What is your view on that disallowed goal? Is this a conspiracy against Barça?" a Marca reporter asked with ill intent.
Bartomeu adjusted his scarf. His face showed no anger, only an inscrutable calm.
"Conspiracy? No, I don't believe in conspiracy theories. I believe that in this world, some mistakes are accidental, and some are... inevitable."
He scanned the cameras, his voice steady and powerful:
"What happened today, the whole world saw. I don't want to stand here complaining about the referee like a broken record; that is not Barça's style. We will not go begging the League for fairness, because fairness cannot be begged for."
"I only want to say one thing."
Bartomeu pointed towards the direction of the pitch behind him:
"In this match, there was a force trying to stop us from winning. It wore a referee's uniform, or sat in some plush office. It thought that by taking away one of our goals, it could crush our will."
"But they were wrong."
"Did you see Paulinho's goal? That was scored with his chest, with flesh and blood. That goal tells everyone: if they won't give us a goal, we'll go and take one ourselves. If the goal-line technology can't see it, we'll crash the ball, ourselves, and the net all in together."
"This is Barça now. We do not seek pity; we only create facts."
Having said that, Bartomeu turned and left, leaving behind a crowd of dumbfounded reporters.
It was already late at night when they returned to Barcelona. On the team bus, the players slept from exhaustion. Paulinho was even snoring.
Bartomeu sat in the front row, wide awake. He opened his phone. The screen showed real-time cryptocurrency prices. bitcoin: $9,200. Less than half a month remained until the frenzied December he remembered.
He switched screens and opened an encrypted messaging app. The other user's ID was "Piqué."
Bartomeu sent a message: [Did you see? Tonight, Tebas wanted to finish us off.]
Three seconds later, Piqué replied: [Saw it. Chairman, I almost did the handcuffs celebration for my goal, but I held back. Those bastards are too dirty.]
Bartomeu: [Holding back was right. Gerrard, today's draw is just the beginning. Over the next month, we will face even greater pressure. Injuries, the schedule, and the upcoming El Clásico. But I need you to help me with something.]
Piqué: [What is it?]
Bartomeu: [bitcoin is about to break ten thousand. Your 5 million should have doubled by now. But I need you to use your connections in the financial world, especially those investors who prefer to stay out of the spotlight. I need to raise approximately 100 million euros in... bridge financing.]
Piqué: [100 million?! Chairman, what are you going to do? Buy La Liga?]
Bartomeu looked at the streetlights flashing by outside the window, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
[No. I'm going to prepare a New Year's gift for our enemies. A gift that will make them regret not finishing us off completely tonight.] [By the way, help me check the short-selling data on those companies holding La Liga broadcasting rights distribution. Since Tebas wants to play politics, I'll play finance with him.]
Putting down his phone, Bartomeu closed his eyes. Valencia's ghost goal was like a bolt of lightning; while it split the darkness, it also illuminated the abyss ahead. Umtiti's leg seemed uncomfortable towards the end of the match. Although he played on, it was definitely not a good sign. The final stretch before the winter transfer window would be the most difficult, bitter winter.
"Come on," he thought to himself. "Let's see who falls first."