NOVPUB24 minutes, 1-1…
Game on.
In the 27th minute, PSG tried to bite back.
The Georgian magician, Kvaratskhelia took matters into his own hands again, blitzing past Kounde on the left like he was not there. He cut inside and rifled a shot that sizzled past the far post.
The cameras caught him snarling in frustration. The crowd felt it, the passion. This wasn't just a final.
It was a legacy warfare.
In the 29th minute, there was almost another twist.
Gavi intercepted a lazy pass from Fabian Ruiz and launched a counter, passing to Yamal. Lamine Yamal sprinted forward with options left and right. In the end, he made his decision easily, choosing Sam again.
As soon as Sam received the pass, he set himself up before unleashing a piledriver from 25 yards.
It flew.
It dipped.
And missed by inches!
Gasps rippled across the Allianz. The scoreboard still read 1-1, but the energy was nuclear. The first third of the match had passed, and it felt like they'd already lived through a lifetime.
The game continued.
The pace didn't slow down. It couldn't.
This wasn't just a final. It was more like a trial by fire.
Mistakes weren't punished. They were executed.
After Barca's equalizer, the match turned bitter. Gavi clattered into Vitinha; full body, full message. Dembele squared up to Inigo Martinez after a shoulder barge. Even Pedri threw in a cynical tug on Kvaratskhelia's shirt to stop a break, drawing a yellow and ironic cheers from the French end.
But under the aggression, tactics simmered.
Luis Enrique adjusted to the progressing game. He dropped Vitinha deeper, unstructed Joao Neves to screen Pedri, and gave Dembele more freedom to roam.
Suddenly, Barca were chasing ghosts. Their midfield press lost shape, and PSG seized the moment.
In the 36th minute…
GOAL! Kvicha Kvaratskhelia.
It started with a turnover. Pedri misread a ball and Vitinha pounced, laying it off quickly to Hakimi. The Moroccan flew forward like a bullet train, cut inside, and threaded a surgical pass behind Araujo.
Dembele didn't hesitate. He squared across the six-yard box, and then…
Whoosh!
Kvicha Kvaratskhelia arrived like a wrecking ball. One touch, and then, a shot, slamming it into the roof of the net.
Ter Stegen was left chasing ghosts.
2-1.
Kvaratskhelia roared as he slid toward the PSG bench, fists pounding the turf in passion. The Parisians mobbed him. It was a statement goal, not beauty, but brutality.
On the pitch, Barcelona suddenly looked rattled. For the first time, their lines staggered. Balde and Kounde started yelling at each other. The pressure was already getting to them.
PSG…, the Parisians were a level above every other opponent that FC Barcelona had played against this season.
Hansi Flick barked furiously from the touchline, demanding calm.
But PSG smelled fear.
And they almost made it worse.
In the 40th minute, Kvaratskhelia again.
He collected a long ball over the top from Marquinhos, sprinted into the box, chopped inside Kounde, and curled one toward the far post. Ter Stegen got fingertips to it. The ball kissed the outside of the post and spun out.
Barca held on. Just.
In the 43rd minute, a lifeline almost emerged. Lamine Yamal exploded to life, drifting infield and beating two PSG players with a dazzling run before clipping the ball over the top.
Sam brought it down with his chest and volleyed; off balance, off target.
"F*ck!" He cursed in frustration.
Halftime approached.
In Sam's head, frustration bubbled, fueling adrenaline, and making his mamba spirit rage.
'Win!' 'Win!' 'Win!'
The voice already started in his head.
The Allianz Arena throbbed with sound, tension, and tribal roars. The fans weren't watching history.
They were living inside it.
And then…
FWEEE!
The halftime whistle sounded. 2-1.
During halftime, both coaches had a session with their players, pouring out their hearts, passion, and emotion to motivate their players.
Whatever Hansi Flick said in the dressing room hit like a holy scripture.
Barca came out like demons in blaugrana.
FWEEE!
The second half started.
And immediately, all hell broke loose.
Passes snapped. Presses bit. Gavi and Sam led the charge with fury, chasing everything. Pedri found spaces where none existed. Raphinha tucked inside, playing between the lines.
As for Lamine Yamal?
The teenager turned into a prime Neymar, drifting in and out with the ball, turning heads and breaking ankles with his silky dribbles.
Anytime he had the ball, the PSG defense shook in trepidation, and then…
GOAL!
In the 49th minute. Raphinha.
It was direct, devastating football.
Balde sprinted down the left, beat Hakimi with raw pace, something you'll rarely see in European football and sent a low ball to the edge of the box.
There, the King stood, Sam, mounted in his nest.
With his back to goal, he received the ball and flicked it with one touch beautifully to his side.
Raphinha didn't break stride.
Half-volley. Clean. Violent. Unstoppable.
Top right corner. Donnarumma didn't even move.
Bam!
2-2.
And then…
BOOM!
Barca's bench exploded. Raphinha thumped the badge on his chest in celebration and pointed at the fans.
Game on!
Barca was back level, but Luis Enrique wasn't silent.
He gestured, reorganized, and PSG retaliated. Their press stiffened. The young menace, Joao Neves broke up everything. Dembele drifted central and drew defenders like moths to flame.
And then, in the 61st minute…
GOAL! Ousmane Dembele.
Dembele picked up the ball from 30 yards out. He stared down Inigo Martinez. A step-over, a shift, then…
Bzzz!
He was gone.
He danced between two defenders and curled one inside the post. Silken technique, deadly execution.
3.2. PSG was leading again.
Dembele didn't celebrate wildly. He just stood, arms out, soaking in the moment even as he invited an ocean of boos from the FC Barcelona fans.
He was putting out a statement display in this game, but Barca refused to die.
"VISCA BARCA!" Chants rose from the Barcelona faithfuls.
Hansi Flick made a change, taking off the impactful Gavi and introducing Dani Olmo to the game.
In the 69th minute…
Dani Olmo won back the ball before quickly passing to Lamine Yamal.
The young prodigy touched the ball once, twice. With his third touch, he beat two men down the right and whipped in a cross.
In the box, Sam rose like prophecy itself, but his header clipped the bar.
'Goddamit!'
Sam could feel his blood boiling like a furnace.
