.png)
3 hours ago
6
You must always have faith, Diego Simeone had said and so it was. A biblical storm blew through the Metropolitano, leaving Barcelona torn to pieces and Atlético Madrid closer to a first Copa del Rey final in 13 years than even he could ever have believed. Forty-five extraordinary minutes gave them a 4-0 lead to take to the second leg at Camp Nou in three weeks’ time. An own goal from Eric García and three more, from Ademola Lookman, Antoine Griezmann and Julián Alvarez before the half-time whistle did the kind of damage that only a miracle can repair now.
Barcelona could not even begin to fix it here in a second half in which they had a goal ruled out after seven long minutes waiting on the VAR not bringing any more goals. They then had Eric García sent off late on. It was a wonder they were still standing at all, given what had hit them from the very start.
The first foul, on 30 seconds, was a fuse lit. Giuliano Simeone flew into Alejandro Balde and his teammates followed, a wild and perfect storm unleashed that Barcelona could not escape. For 45 frantic, breathless minutes in which Hansi Flick’s team didn’t know which way to turn, Atlético Madrid tore into them, leaving nowhere to hide, no place to take shelter. The best thing that Barcelona could say about the first half was that it did eventually come to an end, at last offered some shelter: up the tunnel and into the dressing room. By then, they had conceded four. And it should have been more.
If that sounds absurd, it sounds just as absurd to say that the opening goal was coming when it arrived after six minutes, and via an own goal, but that was how it felt here and that feeling never went away. Jules Koundé had to move fast to stop Alvarez getting in and Joan García saved from Simeone inside two minutes, Griezmann’s gorgeous cushioned pass into him then just the first brushstroke of what was becoming a masterpiece.
If that was sublime, the goal was ridiculous. Eric García’s back pass slipped under Joan García’s foot and although he sprinted back and threw himself at the ball, he didn’t get there in time to keep it out. And, anyway, Alvarez gave it to Lookman to score just in case. They weren’t going to stop there either, the smell of blood too strong: streaming into the wide space beyond Barcelona’s high line, screeching into every tackle, first to every ball. Barcelona were caught in some kind of vortex, a nightmare, trapped on the page of a Where’s Wally: everywhere they looked, there was a red and white shirt.
On the left, Lookman flew past them. On the right Simeone, a neck-bulging, leg-whirring, heart-thumping Tasmanian devil of a footballer, flew past them. Atléti’s right-back Nahuel Molina, bombing in from behind, flew past them too. Left-back Matteo Ruggeri resisted the urge to run, and instead successfully denied Lamine Yamal any place to play. Koke and Marcos Llorente dominated the middle. Alvarez was ... well, Barcelona didn’t know where he was. Griezmann made it all make sense, subtle in the storm. He also scored the second after just 13 minutes.
As if to underline how complete Atlético were, the part of all of them played, the goal started with goalkeeper Juan Musso delivering a fabulous long pass to release Lookman on the left. Lookman found Alvarez, whose speared ball found the wide space on the other side. Molina slipped it in to Griezmann to steer into the net. Diego Simeone turned to the supporters, demanding they play their part and they did, never falling silent, not even when Fermín López hit the bar soon after. They were the soundtrack, the roar, the rolling thunder in a storm that kept on coming.
Griezmann might have taken more time over a chance made by Lookman and Llorente, but only 30 seconds later he and Molina made another clear opportunity for Alvarez. This time, Koundé cleared off the line. Twenty-two minutes in and it was Atlético’s sixth shot, all of them clear sights of goal. From their seventh, a couple of minutes later, Griezmann struck over. Again, Giuliano Simeone had raced free into space. From their eighth, it was 3-0. And, yes, again, Simeone flew up the right to make it happen, Griezmann opening the cage and setting him free again. From Simeone to Alvarez and on to Lookman to steer home.
Flick took off Marc Casadó soon after, pulling him close to offer an explanation. Casadó had been booked for desperately taking down Simeone who was escaping again but, besides, Barcelona had to do something, anything. But although López got in soon after, Musso saved that and Atlético went back to what they were doing, extending a lead that was already barely believable, ripping Barcelona’s left side open yet again.
This time Molina made it, the ball going all the way to the other side where Lookman laid it back. And, from the edge of the area, Alvarez hit a perfect finish that was a release too, the ball taking all his troubles with it. Under pressure and out of form of late, Alvarez had needed this. They all had. On the touchline, Diego Simeone set off on a sprint, his head in his hands. Alvarez pointed to the stands, liberated. Koke screamed. All over the place, players ran, roaring. It wasn’t over, the tie not even a quarter done, but it felt that way, the unimaginable suddenly real, faith restored.
