THE SECOND STRIKER Chapter 2: The Call-Up
The phone call came three days later, just as Marc was finishing breakfast in La Masia's cafeteria.
"Marc Delgado?"
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Ramón Planes, technical secretary of FC Barcelona. Coach Koeman would like you to join the first team training squad beginning Monday. You'll be training with them regularly for the foreseeable future while maintaining your registration with Juvenil A. Can you be at the Ciudad Deportiva at eight-thirty Monday morning?"
Marc's hand tightened around the phone. Around him, the cafeteria noise faded to a distant hum. This was it. The moment that would change everything.
"Yes, señor. I'll be there."
"Good. Someone from the equipment staff will contact you about your kit and locker assignment. Welcome to the first team, Marc."
The line went dead.
Marc sat frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, his eggs growing cold on the plate in front of him. His heart hammered against his ribs. First team training. Not just a one-off evaluation session, but regular training. This was how it started—how academy players got their chance. Train well enough, impress in the right moments, and eventually, you'd get minutes.
"Marc? You okay?" Miguel's voice cut through his daze. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Marc slowly lowered the phone and looked at his friend. Miguel sat across from him with two other Juvenil A players, all of them staring at him with concern.
"That was the technical secretary," Marc said quietly. "They want me to train with the first team. Starting Monday."
The table erupted.
"¡Joder!"
"Are you serious?"
"Marc, that's incredible!"
Miguel's face went through several emotions in quick succession—shock, excitement, and then something more complicated. Pride mixed with envy, joy tinged with anxiety. They'd been competing for the same dream since they were fourteen, and now Marc was getting there first.
"Tío, that's..." Miguel swallowed hard and forced a smile. "That's amazing. You deserve it. That goal against Piqué—everyone's been talking about it."
"It's just training," Marc said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren't true. This was everything. "I haven't made the squad yet."
"But you will," one of the other players said, shaking his head in amazement. "You're going to train with Messi. Every day. Do you realize how insane that is?"
Marc did realize. Diego had spent thirty-five years dreaming of moments like this, and now Marc was living it. The weight of the opportunity settled on his shoulders like a physical thing.
The rest of Friday passed in a blur. Word spread through La Masia like wildfire—Marc Delgado had been called up to first team training. Players he barely knew congratulated him in the hallways. Coaches he'd worked with nodded approvingly. Even García Pimienta, the Juvenil A coach, pulled him aside after afternoon training.
"I heard the news," Pimienta said, his weathered face breaking into a smile. "This is a great opportunity, Marc. Don't waste it."
"I won't, míster."
"Remember, you're still registered with us. You'll continue playing with Juvenil A on weekends when the first team doesn't need you. But your priority now is showing Koeman what you can do." Pimienta paused, choosing his words carefully. "The first team is struggling. There's pressure, tension, politics. It's not like here. You need to be mentally strong."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Pimienta studied him intently. "You're eighteen years old, Marc. Some of those players have won everything there is to win. They've played in World Cup finals, Champions League finals. Don't expect them to make it easy for you just because you scored one goal in training."
Marc nodded slowly. He appreciated the honesty. In his previous life, Diego had read countless stories about young players who'd crumbled under the pressure of first team football. Talent wasn't enough. You needed mental fortitude, resilience, and the ability to handle failure.
Fortunately, Marc had something most eighteen-year-olds didn't: thirty-five years of perspective from his previous life.
That weekend, Marc tried to maintain his normal routine. He played with Juvenil A on Saturday—a 3-0 victory where he scored twice—and spent Sunday preparing mentally for Monday. He watched footage of Barcelona's recent matches, studying their tactics, their patterns of play, the spaces where a striker could find opportunities.
From Diego's memories, he knew Barcelona's current problems. They were tactically disjointed, lacking the cohesive pressing that had defined their golden era. The midfield was aging, the defense vulnerable to pace, and the attack too dependent on Messi. Koeman was trying to implement a more direct style, but the players were struggling to adapt.
Marc could see the gaps, the inefficiencies, the moments where a smart striker could exploit the chaos. The question was whether he'd get the chance.
Sunday night, he lay in bed unable to sleep. Miguel had been quieter than usual all weekend, processing his own feelings about Marc's promotion. They'd talked about it briefly—Miguel insisting he was happy for him, Marc promising to help his friend get his own chance—but there was an undeniable shift in their dynamic now.
Success, Marc was learning, changed relationships whether you wanted it to or not.
Monday morning arrived cold and gray, Barcelona's summer giving way to autumn. Marc dressed carefully in the training gear that had been delivered to his room the previous evening—crisp Barcelona training kit with his name embroidered on the chest. The professionalism of it struck him. This wasn't La Masia youth team anymore. This was real.
He arrived at the Ciudad Deportiva at eight-fifteen, giving himself extra time. The first team facility was already buzzing with activity—medical staff preparing treatment rooms, equipment managers organizing gear, media personnel setting up cameras for the daily training video that would be posted online.
"Marc Delgado?"
A tall man in his fifties approached, hand extended. "I'm Julio, head of equipment. Welcome to the first team. Come with me—I'll show you your locker and get you sorted."
Marc followed him into the famous first team dressing room. His breath caught despite his best efforts to stay cool. This room had housed legends. Cruyff had dressed here. Guardiola, Xavi, Iniesta, Ronaldinho. And now, impossibly, Marc Delgado.
"You're here," Julio said, pointing to a locker in the corner. It wasn't a premium spot—those belonged to the senior players—but it was his. His name was printed on a small placard above it: MARC DELGADO - 36.
Number 36. A high number, marking him as a fringe player. But it was a first team number nonetheless.
"Training kit in here, multiple sets," Julio explained, opening the locker. "Boots on the bottom shelf. Shower stuff, medical supplies, everything you need. If you need anything else, find me. Questions?"
"No, thank you."
"Good luck out there. Show them what you've got." Julio clapped him on the shoulder and left.
Marc stood alone in the dressing room for a moment, letting it sink in. Then he began changing methodically, pulling on his training kit, lacing his boots—Nike Mercurials, the same model he'd requested, perfectly fitted to his feet.
Other players began filtering in. First came some of the younger squad members—Riqui Puig, who gave him a friendly nod of recognition, and Ilaix Moriba from the B team, who looked as nervous as Marc felt. Then the regulars started arriving.
Frenkie de Jong walked in, earphones in, nodding to the music only he could hear. Sergiño Dest followed, chatting animatedly on his phone in English. Pedri appeared, quiet and focused, already mentally preparing for training.
And then the senior players.
Gerard Piqué strode in with the confidence of a man who'd won everything, immediately launching into a story that had Lenglet laughing. Jordi Alba followed, checking his phone with a frown. Sergio Busquets entered silently, his presence somehow commanding despite his understated demeanor.
Finally, Lionel Messi arrived, unassuming in a simple t-shirt and jeans, carrying his training bag. He made his way to his locker—central position, naturally—and began changing without fanfare.
Marc tried not to stare. Tried to act like this was normal, like he belonged here. He focused on his own preparation, pulling his socks up, adjusting his shinpads.
"You're the kid from training last week, right?"
Marc looked up to find Piqué standing nearby, studying him with curious eyes.
"Yes. Marc Delgado."
"The goal was good," Piqué said neutrally. "Nice touch, smart finish. You play striker full-time?"
"Yes."
"We need one," Piqué said bluntly. "Braithwaite tries hard, but..." He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished. "Show Koeman you can do it in real matches, not just training."
It wasn't exactly encouragement, but it wasn't dismissal either. Piqué walked away to continue dressing, and Marc released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The players filtered out toward the training pitch in small groups. Marc followed, trying to find his place in the hierarchy. He wasn't a youth player anymore, but he certainly wasn't a regular either. He existed in a liminal space, and navigating it required careful attention.
The training pitch looked different now that he was officially part of the first team. The grass seemed greener, the goals larger, the weight of expectation heavier. Koeman stood in the center circle with his coaching staff, tablet in hand, observing as players trickled out.
"Gather round," Koeman called once everyone had arrived.
The players formed a loose semicircle around him. Marc positioned himself toward the back, not wanting to presume a more prominent position.
"We have some new faces training with us," Koeman continued. "Marc Delgado from Juvenil A, and some B team players joining us as well. I want to see what they can do. For those of you in the regular squad—" his eyes swept across the established players "—remember that competition is good. No one's position is guaranteed."
A few players shifted uncomfortably. The message was clear: perform or be replaced.
"Right, let's warm up. Three laps, then dynamic stretching."
The warm-up was familiar but more intense than La Masia. The pace was faster, the standards higher. Marc pushed himself to keep up with the fittest players, not wanting to be the one lagging behind.
As they jogged, Pedri fell into step beside him. The young midfielder couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen himself—Marc's memories supplied that Pedri had only joined Barcelona's first team this summer from Las Palmas.
"First day?" Pedri asked in his soft Canarian accent.
"First official day with the team, yes."
"It's intense," Pedri said with a slight smile. "I'm still getting used to it myself. But everyone's been good to me. Well, mostly everyone."
There was a story there, but Marc didn't press. Instead, he said, "I saw you play against Villarreal. Your passing was excellent."
Pedri looked surprised that Marc had noticed. "Thanks. You scored twice for Juvenil A on Saturday, didn't you? I saw the highlights."
"You watch Juvenil A highlights?"
"I watch everything," Pedri admitted with a shrug. "I like to study how different players move, how they think. Your positioning in the box is really good. Natural striker's instinct."
Marc felt a flash of warmth toward the young midfielder. In his previous life, Diego had watched Pedri become one of the best midfielders in the world, a player of extraordinary vision and intelligence. Hearing praise from him, even at this early stage, meant something.
"Maybe we can work together sometime," Marc suggested. "Your passing, my finishing."
Pedri grinned. "I'd like that."
The training session proper began with possession work—Barcelona's bread and butter. The coaches set up a complex rondo, multiple groups working simultaneously, the ball zipping between players with hypnotic rhythm.
Marc found himself in a group with Busquets, De Jong, Pjanić, and two other midfielders. The speed of play was absurd. One touch, maybe two, constant movement to find space, communication that was half-verbal and half-telepathic.
He struggled at first, his touches a fraction slower than needed, his movements not quite synchronized with the group's rhythm. Busquets corrected him twice—not unkindly, but firmly.
"Scan before you receive," the veteran midfielder instructed. "Know where you're passing before the ball gets to you."
Marc nodded, adjusting. Diego's knowledge of the game was helpful, but there was a difference between understanding tactics intellectually and executing them at this pace. He had to trust Marc's body, let the muscle memory take over while Diego's mind processed the patterns.
Gradually, he found his rhythm. His touches became crisper, his decisions faster. By the end of the drill, he was holding his own, not standing out but not embarrassing himself either.
"Better," Busquets said simply, which felt like high praise from the taciturn legend.
Next came tactical work. Koeman was implementing a 4-2-3-1 formation, different from Barcelona's traditional 4-3-3. The two holding midfielders would be Busquets and De Jong, with Pedri as the attacking midfielder and three forwards ahead.
"Marc, you're playing as the nine today," Koeman called out. "I want to see how you link up with the midfield. Hold the ball, bring others into play, make runs in behind. Understand?"
"Yes, míster."
They ran through various attacking patterns. Ball into Marc's feet, he'd hold it, lay it off to an oncoming midfielder, then spin and look for the return pass. Or ball over the top, Marc running onto it, trying to create a shooting opportunity.
Playing with players of this quality was revelatory. When Marc held the ball up and laid it off to Pedri, the return pass came back to him perfectly weighted, exactly where he needed it. When he made a run, De Jong's through balls found him with laser precision.
But it also exposed his weaknesses. His first touch, while good for his age, wasn't quite up to first team standards yet. A couple of times, his control was just loose enough that a defender could close him down before he could turn. His finishing was clinical when he got clear chances, but creating those chances against organized defenses required sharper movement than he'd needed in youth football.
Koeman noticed everything, calling out instructions, corrections, adjustments.
"Marc, you're dropping too deep. Stay higher, pin the center-backs."
"Good run, but check your shoulder before you spin. You didn't see Lenglet coming."
"Better. That's what I want. Quick feet, quick decisions."
By the time they moved to the practice match portion of training, Marc was mentally exhausted despite his physical fitness. The tactical demands of first team football were so much more complex than youth football.
Koeman split them into two teams for the scrimmage. Marc found himself on the team with several fringe players and youngsters, facing what was essentially Barcelona's expected starting eleven. It was, once again, a test.
The scrimmage began at a frightening pace. Messi dropped deep to collect the ball, instantly creating an overload in midfield. Busquets and De Jong dominated possession, pinging passes that dissected the makeshift defense. Within three minutes, Messi had scored, casually rounding the goalkeeper after a one-two with Pedri.
Marc barely touched the ball. His team was pinned back, chasing shadows. When they did win possession, the ball rarely made it past midfield before being intercepted.
Then, in the fifteenth minute, something shifted. One of the defenders on Marc's team—a B team player named Jorge—won the ball with a crunching tackle and immediately looked up. Marc had already started his run, anticipating the turnover, sprinting into the space behind Lenglet.
The pass was decent but slightly underhit. Marc had to check his run, waiting for the ball. Lenglet closed the gap quickly, his experience showing. But Marc had Diego's knowledge of defender psychology. He knew Lenglet would expect him to try to run past him, to use his youth and speed.
Instead, Marc stopped completely.
The sudden change of pace caught Lenglet off guard. For a split second, the defender's momentum carried him past Marc's position. That split second was enough.
Marc controlled the ball with his right foot, immediately cutting back inside with his left. Lenglet scrambled to recover, but Marc had created just enough space to get his head up and assess the situation.
Piqué was closing from the center. Ter Stegen had narrowed his angle, making himself big. Marc had maybe two seconds before the chance would be gone.
He didn't shoot. Instead, he slid a pass across the face of the goal to where a teammate was making a late run. The pass was inch-perfect, timed to arrive just as the player reached it. All his teammate had to do was tap it into the empty net.
The ball hit the side netting.
"¡Joder!" his teammate cursed, hands on his head. "Sorry, Marc. Perfect pass."
Marc raised his hand in acknowledgment, hiding his frustration. The assist had been there, the decision correct, but the finish hadn't come. That was the lottery of football.
"Good vision, Marc," Koeman called from the sideline. "That's the kind of play I want to see. You could have forced the shot, but you made the right decision."
The scrimmage continued for another twenty minutes. Marc didn't create another clear chance, but he kept working, kept moving, kept making intelligent runs. By the time Koeman blew the final whistle, every player was drenched in sweat despite the cool morning air.
"Good work today," Koeman addressed the group. "We have Sevilla on Saturday. Squad list will be posted tomorrow afternoon. Those who aren't in the squad, keep working. Your time will come if you deserve it."
The players dispersed toward the dressing room. Marc walked slowly, his legs heavy, his mind racing. Had he done enough? It was impossible to know. Koeman's expression gave nothing away.
In the dressing room, players showered and changed with the efficiency of routine. Marc took his time, not wanting to rush but also not wanting to linger inappropriately. This was still new territory, still a space where he was an outsider trying to become an insider.
As he pulled on his street clothes, his phone buzzed. A message from Miguel: How was it?
Marc typed back: Intense. Really intense. Not sure if I impressed Koeman or not.
Miguel's response came immediately: You'll make the squad. I know you will.
Marc appreciated the confidence even as doubt gnawed at him. Making the squad for a La Liga match would be another level entirely. Training was one thing; actually being selected was another.
"Marc."
He looked up to find Messi standing nearby, also fully dressed now, bag slung over his shoulder.
"You played well today," Messi said quietly. "That pass across goal was good. Unselfish. A lot of strikers would have shot."
"I didn't have an angle," Marc replied honestly. "The pass was the better option."
"Exactly." Messi's expression was unreadable. "Koeman likes players who make smart decisions. Keep doing that."
Before Marc could respond, Messi was gone, heading out toward the parking lot where his car waited.
Marc finished dressing in a daze. Messi had spoken to him again. Praised his play. It felt surreal, like a dream that might evaporate if he examined it too closely.
He made his way back to La Masia, his mind churning over every moment of the training session. The tactical patterns, the speed of play, the small corrections from Busquets and Koeman, Messi's words of encouragement.
Tuesday and Wednesday followed similar patterns. Train in the morning with the first team, rest and recover in the afternoon, study footage in the evening. Marc fell into a routine, gradually feeling less like an outsider and more like he belonged.
The other players began to accept his presence. Pedri sought him out regularly, the two young players forming a natural connection. Riqui Puig offered advice on navigating the first team politics. Even some of the senior players—Piqué, Alba, Busquets—would occasionally offer a word of instruction or correction.
But it was Messi who surprised him most. The Argentine superstar, famously reserved with new players, seemed to have taken an interest in Marc's development. He'd offer small bits of advice during training, point out defensive weaknesses Marc could exploit, demonstrate how to receive the ball in tight spaces.
"You're quick, but you're not using your body well enough," Messi told him during a break on Wednesday. "Watch how Suárez used to play when he was here. He was a pit bull, impossible to push off the ball. You need that aggression in the box."
Marc absorbed every word like gospel. This was Lionel Messi, the greatest player in history, giving him personal coaching. Diego's teenage self was screaming internally.
Thursday afternoon, as promised, the squad list for Saturday's match against Sevilla was posted.
Marc stood in front of the notice board with a cluster of other fringe players, scanning the names. His heart pounded.
FIRST TEAM SQUAD - FC BARCELONA VS SEVILLALA LIGA - OCTOBER 4, 2020
The list was alphabetical by position:
Goalkeepers: Ter Stegen, Neto, Iñaki Peña
Defenders: Piqué, Lenglet, Araujo, Dest, Alba, Mingueza, Junior Firpo
Midfielders: Busquets, De Jong, Pedri, Pjanić, Riqui Puig, Aleñá
Forwards: Messi, Griezmann, Dembélé, Trincão, Braithwaite...
Marc's eyes reached the last name on the forwards list, and his breath caught:
Delgado
He'd made the squad.
For a moment, he just stared at his name printed there in official club font. Marc Delgado. First team. La Liga.
"Congratulations," Riqui Puig said beside him. He hadn't made the squad himself, and there was disappointment in his voice, but also genuine happiness for Marc. "First call-up. That's huge."
"Thanks," Marc managed. His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
He walked away from the notice board in a daze, pulling out his phone with trembling hands. He needed to tell someone. His parents—Marc's parents—they'd be thrilled. Miguel would want to know.
But first, he allowed himself a moment of private victory. In his previous life, Diego Martínez had dreamed of this moment for thirty-five years. He'd imagined what it would feel like to see his name on a Barcelona team sheet, to be selected to represent one of the greatest clubs in the world.
The reality exceeded the imagination.
Friday's training was lighter, more tactical preparation than physical work. Koeman reviewed Sevilla's recent matches, pointing out their strengths and weaknesses. Their high press could be dangerous. Their wingers liked to cut inside. Their striker, Luuk de Jong, was a handful in the air.
Marc paid close attention even though he knew he wouldn't start. The expected lineup had Messi, Griezmann, and Dembélé as the front three. Braithwaite would be first striker off the bench. Marc would be lucky to get five minutes at the end if the game was already decided.
Still, it didn't matter. He was in the squad. He'd be on the bench at Camp Nou, in an official La Liga match. It was more than most players ever achieved.
That evening, he called his parents. Marc's parents—though they were starting to feel like his parents too, as his and Marc's memories continued to merge.
"¿Sí?" His mother answered on the second ring.
"Mamá, it's me."
"¡Marc! We've been waiting for you to call. Your father has been driving me crazy checking his phone every five minutes."
Marc smiled. "Tell him I'm in the squad for tomorrow. Against Sevilla."
There was a sharp intake of breath, then his mother called out: "¡Antonio! ¡Antonio, ven! Marc's in the squad!"
He heard his father's footsteps, then his voice booming: "¡Hijo! Is it true?"
"It's true, papá. I'm on the bench for tomorrow's match."
His father's laugh was full of joy and pride. "We'll be there. Front row, wearing our Barcelona shirts. You'll see us cheering for you."
"I might not even play, papá. I'm last on the forwards list."
"Doesn't matter. You're there. You made it. Do you know how many boys dream of this? And you did it at eighteen!" His father's voice grew thick with emotion. "Your abuelo would have been so proud."
Marc felt an unexpected lump in his throat. These weren't his memories, but they felt real. Marc's grandfather had introduced him to football, taken him to his first Barcelona match, encouraged his dream of playing for the club. He'd died two years ago, never seeing Marc make the first team.
"I wish he could see this," Marc said softly.
"He sees it, hijo. I promise you, he sees it."
They talked for a few more minutes, his parents asking questions about training, about the other players, about what he should wear on match day. When he finally hung up, Marc felt a confusing mix of emotions. Joy, certainly. Pride. But also a strange guilt—these weren't his parents, not really. Diego's parents were in Madrid, and they'd never know their son had died and been reborn as a Barcelona footballer.
He pushed the thought away. There was no point dwelling on the metaphysics of his situation. He was Marc Delgado now, for better or worse. These were his parents, his life, his opportunity.
Saturday morning arrived crisp and bright. Marc woke early, too nervous to sleep past six. He went through his pre-match routine carefully—light breakfast, hydration, mental visualization. He'd read about elite athletes' preparation routines obsessively in his previous life. Now he could put that knowledge into practice.
The team bus left for Camp Nou at three o'clock. Marc boarded with his kit bag, finding a seat near the back. The veterans claimed their usual spots up front. The established starters wore expressions of focused concentration. This was just another match day for them, but for Marc it was everything.
Camp Nou loomed ahead, its massive structure dominating the Barcelona skyline. Even empty, it had a presence, a weight of history. Marc had been here dozens of times before—in Marc's memories—but never as a player. Always as a youth team member watching from the stands, or visiting with his family.
Now he was entering through the players' entrance.
The dressing room was pristine, each player's shirt hanging in their assigned spot. Marc found his locker and saw it immediately: the number 36 shirt with DELGADO printed across the back.
His shirt. His La Liga shirt.
He ran his fingers over the lettering, hardly believing it was real. Around him, players changed with practiced efficiency. Music played from someone's speaker. Piqué was giving an animated speech about something, making Busquets smile. Messi sat quietly in his corner, already in full kit, eyes closed in meditation or concentration.
The pre-match warm-up on the pitch was surreal. Marc jogged across the Camp Nou grass, the same grass where Messi had scored countless goals, where Iniesta had controlled that famous pass against Chelsea, where Ronaldinho had danced past defenders. Every blade of grass felt sacred.
The stands were filling slowly, fans trickling in three hours before kickoff. Marc spotted his parents in their section, both wearing Barcelona shirts with his number on the back. His mother waved frantically when she saw him. His father stood beside her, chest puffed out with pride.
Marc waved back, feeling that lump return to his throat.
By the time kickoff approached, Camp Nou was roaring. Seventy thousand fans—reduced capacity due to COVID restrictions, but still an ocean of noise and color. The Barcelona hymn echoed through the stadium as the teams lined up in the tunnel.
Marc stood near the back, his assigned position as last substitute. He wouldn't be starting, wouldn't even sit on the edge of the bench, but he was here. Part of the squad. Wearing the shirt.
The players walked out to a wall of sound. Marc's skin prickled with goosebumps. This was Camp Nou. This was Barcelona. This was real.
The match began at a frenetic pace. Sevilla pressed high and hard, making Barcelona work for every pass. The game was tense, physical, both teams trading chances. Messi hit the post in the twenty-third minute. Sevilla's striker forced a brilliant save from Ter Stegen just before halftime.
At the break, the score was 0-0.
Koeman was animated in the dressing room, adjusting tactics, demanding more intensity. Marc listened carefully even though the instructions weren't directed at him. He was learning, absorbing, preparing for when his chance would come.
The second half resumed with the same intensity. In the sixty-third minute, disaster struck—Busquets went down holding his thigh, clearly injured. Koeman immediately signaled for a substitution, bringing on Pjanić.
The game remained deadlocked. Seventy minutes. Seventy-five. Koeman made more changes, bringing on fresh legs, trying to find a breakthrough. Dembélé came off for Trincão. Griezmann made way for Braithwaite.
Eighty minutes. Still 0-0.
Marc had long since given up hope of playing. Late substitutions in tight matches went to experienced players, not eighteen-year-old debutants. He sat on the bench, watching, learning, trying to ignore the disappointment that he'd be just a spectator for his first squad appearance.
Then, in the eighty-seventh minute, everything changed.
Braithwaite challenged for a header and came down awkwardly, immediately clutching his ankle. The physios rushed on, and after a brief assessment, helped him off the pitch. He couldn't continue.
Koeman turned to the bench, his eyes scanning the remaining substitutes.
And then, impossibly, they landed on Marc.
"Delgado. You're on. Warm up, quickly."
Marc's brain short-circuited. He was... he was actually...
"Now, Marc!" Koeman's voice cut through his shock.
Marc jumped up, stripping off his warm-up jacket. His hands were shaking as he jogged to the touchline, adrenaline flooding his system. Around him, Camp Nou seemed to pulse with energy.
The fourth official held up the board: 36 in green, 22 in red. Marc Delgado coming on for Braithwaite.
He stepped onto the pitch.
The roar of Camp Nou hit him like a physical wave. Seventy thousand people, all watching, all expecting. His legs felt like water. His heart was trying to beat out of his chest.
Messi jogged over, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Stay calm. Do what you do in training. Don't try to be a hero—just play your game."
Marc nodded, not trusting his voice.
The referee blew his whistle to resume play. Marc took his position as the central striker, trying to remember everything—positioning, movement, decision-making. His mind was racing too fast, his thoughts scattered.
Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe.
Barcelona had possession, working the ball patiently through midfield. Marc made a run into the channel, but the pass went elsewhere. He reset, getting back into position.
Eighty-nine minutes. One minute of regular time left, plus stoppage time.
Sevilla had dropped into a deep defensive block, eleven men behind the ball, content to take the draw. Barcelona circled patiently, probing for openings that didn't exist.
Ninety minutes. The board went up: five minutes of added time.
Marc had five minutes to make an impact. Five minutes to justify Koeman's faith. Five minutes to show he belonged.
The ball worked its way out to Alba on the left wing. The veteran fullback drove forward, drawing two defenders. Marc made his move, checking away from his marker before darting toward the near post. Alba saw him and whipped in a low cross.
The ball skidded across the wet grass—it had started to drizzle during the second half—directly into Marc's path. He stretched out his right foot, trying to redirect it toward goal, but the ball was moving too fast and the angle was too tight. His touch deflected it harmlessly wide.
"Keep going!" Messi shouted from the edge of the box. "Next time!"
Ninety-two minutes.
Barcelona won a corner. Everyone pushed forward—defenders, midfielders, even Ter Stegen considered coming up but stayed back. This was the last real chance.
Messi stood over the corner, hands on his hips, surveying the crowded penalty area. Marc positioned himself at the edge of the six-yard box, between two taller defenders. He wasn't going to win a header against them, but maybe he could react faster if the ball fell loose.
Messi's delivery was perfect, whipped in with pace toward the near post. Piqué attacked it, but a Sevilla defender got there first, heading it away powerfully.
The ball flew out to the edge of the penalty area, right where Marc was making a run after his initial position.
Everything suddenly moved in slow motion.
The ball dropping from the sky.
Marc's body turning, adjusting his position.
Sevilla defenders scrambling to close him down.
Seventy thousand fans holding their breath.
Marc didn't think. He just reacted. As the ball dropped, he swiveled and struck it with his left foot—his weaker foot—hitting it on the volley before it could bounce.
The connection was imperfect, the ball struck slightly off-center. It didn't fly with the power and precision he'd wanted. Instead, it skidded low across the slick grass, spinning awkwardly, taking a path that was more accident than design.
The Sevilla goalkeeper, Bono, had been expecting a powerful shot. He'd set himself for a dive to his right, weight already shifting. But the ball's trajectory was all wrong—too low, too spinning, moving with unpredictable bounce on the wet surface.
Bono adjusted mid-dive, trying to get down quickly, but the ball skipped just under his outstretched hands. It rolled, agonizingly slowly, toward the goal line.
A Sevilla defender sprinted back, desperate to clear it.
The ball crossed the line.
By inches. Maybe centimeters.
For a frozen moment, nothing happened. The referee's whistle didn't blow. The crowd held its breath. Had it crossed?
Then the referee pointed to the center circle, and Camp Nou exploded.
GOOOOOOOOOOOOL!
The sound was deafening, primal, a wave of pure joy crashing down from every section of the stadium. Seventy thousand voices screaming as one.
Marc stood frozen, disbelieving. Had that actually...?
Then his teammates were on him. Alba crashed into him first, wrapping him in a bear hug. Pedri followed, shouting something Marc couldn't hear over the noise. Piqué lifted him off his feet. De Jong ruffled his hair.
And then Messi was there, smiling—actually smiling—and pulling Marc into an embrace.
"¡Fenómeno!" Messi shouted over the roar. "Your first touch in La Liga and you score!"
Marc's legs felt weak. His hands were shaking. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
But it was.
He'd scored on his La Liga debut. At Camp Nou. In the ninety-third minute. To win the match.
The celebration was cut short—there were still seconds left to play—and Marc jogged back to his position in a daze. Around him, his teammates were grinning, energized by the late goal. The Sevilla players looked devastated, arguing with the referee about whether the ball had crossed the line.
The referee was unmoved. Goal confirmed.
Kickoff was rushed, Sevilla desperately trying to create something in the final seconds, but Barcelona closed ranks and saw out the remaining time. When the final whistle blew—Barcelona 1, Sevilla 0—Camp Nou erupted again.
Marc sank to his knees on the grass, overwhelmed. Five minutes. He'd played five minutes. One touch. One goal.
This was insane.
Hands pulled him to his feet—his teammates, congratulating him, laughing, celebrating. The stadium announcer was saying something about his name, and the crowd was chanting.
"DELGADO! DELGADO! DELGADO!"
They were chanting his name. At Camp Nou. Marc Delgado's name.
Diego would have died all over again from happiness.
The walk back to the dressing room was a blur. Fans leaning over the barriers, shouting his name, reaching out for high-fives. Media personnel trying to get his attention for interviews. His teammates still buzzing with the adrenaline of a last-minute victory.
In the dressing room, the atmosphere was jubilant. Music blared. Players danced and sang. Koeman made his rounds, congratulating players individually, and when he reached Marc, he allowed himself a rare smile.
"That's what we needed," Koeman said simply. "A bit of luck, a bit of instinct, and a young player fearless enough to hit it. Well done, Marc."
"Thank you, míster. I just... I was in the right place."
"That's what good strikers do," Koeman replied. "They're always in the right place."
Piqué overheard and called out: "One shot, one goal! One hundred percent conversion rate! Don't fuck it up now, kid!"
The dressing room burst into laughter, and Marc found himself laughing too, the tension finally breaking.
He sat down at his locker, still in his kit, and pulled out his phone. It was already exploding with messages. Miguel had sent about fifteen texts, each more excited than the last. His parents had sent a photo of themselves in the stands, his mother crying happy tears. The Juvenil A group chat was going insane.
But it was the message from an unknown number that made his heart skip:
Congratulations on your debut goal. That takes serious balls to hit a volley with your weak foot in the 93rd minute. Keep working. You have something special. - Leo
Messi had his number. And had texted him.
Marc stared at the message, reading it three times to make sure it was real.
"Marc! Media wants you!" A club press officer poked his head into the dressing room. "Quick interview for La Liga TV. Five minutes."
Marc pulled on a Barcelona jacket and followed the press officer to the mixed zone, where journalists waited with cameras and microphones. This was all part of it—the media circus that came with being a Barcelona player.
A female journalist with La Liga TV smiled at him encouragingly. "Marc Delgado, congratulations on your debut goal! Can you tell us what that moment felt like?"
Marc took a breath, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. "Honestly, it still doesn't feel real. I've dreamed of this moment my whole life, playing for Barcelona, scoring at Camp Nou. But I never imagined it would happen like this—five minutes after coming on, in stoppage time. I'm just grateful to the coach for giving me the opportunity and to my teammates for trusting me."
"That volley with your left foot—was that instinct or did you know exactly what you were doing?"
Marc laughed. "Pure instinct. The ball came to me, I just tried to keep it down and on target. Honestly, I hit it badly—it was supposed to have more power. But sometimes in football, the imperfect shot is the one that goes in."
"You're only eighteen. Does it feel surreal to be playing alongside players like Messi, Piqué, Busquets?"
"Completely surreal," Marc admitted. "These are players I've idolized since I was a kid. Training with them, learning from them every day—it's a dream. And Leo... Messi has been incredible, really supportive. Same with the other senior players. They've made me feel welcome."
A few more questions followed—about his journey through La Masia, his ambitions, his style of play. Marc answered as honestly as he could, trying not to sound cocky but also not too humble. It was a delicate balance.
Finally, they let him go. He made his way back to the dressing room, where most players had already showered and changed. Marc quickly did the same, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, his legs still shaky from the adrenaline comedown.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was his agent—Marc had an agent, he remembered, a small-time operator named Jordi who'd represented him since he was sixteen.
We need to talk soon. That goal changes things. Well done, Marc.
Marc smiled. Yes, things were definitely changing.
The next few days were a whirlwind. Marc's goal was everywhere—sports news, social media, YouTube compilation videos. "18-year-old La Masia graduate Marc Delgado scores on debut in 93rd minute" played on loop across Spanish television.
The attention was intoxicating and overwhelming in equal measure. His Instagram following jumped from 8,000 to 150,000 overnight. Journalists were calling La Masia, trying to get interviews. Fans recognized him when he walked through Barcelona.
But the most important validation came on Monday, when the squad list for Wednesday's Champions League match against Ferencváros was posted.
Marc Delgado was on it again.
This time, though, Koeman had other plans. In the pre-match press conference, he announced that he'd be rotating the squad, giving opportunities to fringe players. When the starting eleven was revealed on match day, Marc's name was there.
Starting striker. Champions League. At eighteen years old.
The weight of it was almost crushing. This wasn't a five-minute cameo at the end of a Liga match. This was a full start in Europe's elite competition.
The night before the match, Marc couldn't sleep. He lay in his La Masia bed, staring at the ceiling, Miguel snoring across the room. His mind raced through every possible scenario. What if he played badly? What if he froze under the pressure? What if he let everyone down?
Stop, he told himself firmly. You've got this. You have Diego's knowledge and Marc's talent. Use them.
He thought about Ferencváros—the Hungarian champions, not the strongest side in the Champions League but certainly not pushovers. They'd defend deep, look for counterattacks, try to frustrate Barcelona. The key would be patience, movement, and clinical finishing when chances came.
Diego had watched thousands of Champions League matches. He knew how teams approached games at Camp Nou, knew the tactics they employed, knew the spaces that could be exploited.
Marc had the physical tools to exploit those spaces.
Together, they could do this.
Match day arrived with the same nervous energy as before, but amplified. This was the Champions League—the competition every player dreamed of. The anthem, the starball logo, the history and prestige.
In the dressing room, Marc pulled on the famous dark blue Barcelona Champions League kit. It fit perfectly, the club crest over his heart, the UEFA Champions League patches on the sleeves. He ran his fingers over the patches, hardly believing this was his life now.
"First Champions League start, eh?" Piqué appeared beside him, already in full kit. "Nervous?"
"Terrified," Marc admitted honestly.
Piqué laughed. "Good. Nerves mean you care. Just remember—it's still football. Same ball, same goals, same rules. Don't overcomplicate it."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then you mess up," Piqué shrugged. "Everyone does sometimes. Even Leo. Even me. The important thing is how you respond. You seem like a smart kid. You'll figure it out."
The veteran defender clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, leaving Marc feeling marginally more confident.
The pre-match warm-up was different for a Champions League night. The stadium lighting was dramatic, all spotlights and shadows. The UEFA anthem would play before kickoff, something Marc had only ever heard on television. The atmosphere was electric even two hours before the match.
Finally, after all the preparation, all the anticipation, it was time.
The teams lined up in the tunnel. Marc stood in the starting eleven, positioned between Pedri and Pjanić. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. His first Champions League start.
The UEFA anthem began to play, that iconic orchestral music that gave him goosebumps every time he heard it. The players walked out into Camp Nou's cauldron of noise.
"Die Meister, die Besten, les grandes équipes, the champions..."
Marc's skin prickled. This was everything he'd ever dreamed of.
The referee blew his whistle, and the match began.
Barcelona dominated possession from the first minute, as expected. Ferencváros sat deep in two banks of four, packing the penalty area, daring Barcelona to break them down. It was a common tactic against bigger teams—defend with numbers, hope to frustrate, maybe sneak a goal on the counterattack.
Marc worked tirelessly, making runs to drag defenders out of position, dropping deep to collect the ball, moving into channels to create space for others. But clear chances were hard to come by. Ferencváros' organization was impressive.
In the twenty-seventh minute, Marc finally got his first real opportunity. Pedri received the ball in midfield and immediately played it forward into Marc's feet. Marc controlled it smoothly, aware of two defenders closing in from either side.
He remembered Messi's advice: use your body better, be aggressive, be a pit bull.
As the first defender closed in, Marc leaned into him, using his strength to hold him off while shielding the ball. The defender bounced off, surprised by Marc's physicality. Marc immediately spun away from the second defender, creating just enough space to get his head up.
He spotted Trincão making a run on the right wing and played the ball into his path. Trincão drove to the byline and crossed, but his delivery was just too high. The chance was gone.
"Good holdup!" Koeman shouted from the touchline. "Keep doing that!"
The first half continued in the same pattern—Barcelona attacking, Ferencváros defending. In the forty-third minute, the breakthrough finally came, but not from Marc. Dembélé cut inside from the left and curled a beautiful shot into the top corner. 1-0.
At halftime, Koeman was relatively satisfied. "We're doing well. Keep the pressure up, keep moving them around. Marc, I want you higher in the second half. Less dropping deep. Let Pedri and Pjanić connect the play. You focus on being in the box."
The second half began with renewed intensity. Barcelona pushed forward, sensing blood. Ferencváros was tiring, their defensive shape starting to crack.
In the fifty-eighth minute, Marc got his moment.
Pedri received the ball thirty yards from goal with time and space. Marc immediately made his move, darting between the two central defenders into the channel behind them. It was a run Diego had seen Benzema make a thousand times—not straight toward goal, but angled, taking both defenders with him.
Pedri saw it instantly and played the perfect through ball, weighted to arrive just as Marc reached it.
The ball rolled into Marc's path. The goalkeeper was rushing out to narrow the angle. Marc had maybe two seconds before he'd be closed down completely.
He didn't overthink it. First touch to push the ball slightly to the right, away from the goalkeeper's dive. Second touch to slot it calmly into the empty net with his right foot.
GOAL!
Camp Nou roared its approval. Marc's first Champions League goal. At eighteen. On his first start.
His teammates mobbed him, Pedri arriving first with a huge grin. "Perfect run! I knew you'd be there!"
The celebration was brief but joyful. Marc jogged back to his position, trying to process what had just happened. Two appearances, two goals. It was a dream start beyond his wildest expectations.
The match continued, Barcelona firmly in control now. In the seventy-second minute, Koeman substituted Marc, bringing on Griezmann. As Marc jogged off, Camp Nou gave him a standing ovation. He raised his hand in acknowledgment, feeling the emotion threaten to overwhelm him.
Koeman shook his hand as he reached the touchline. "Well done. That's exactly what I wanted to see."
Marc took his place on the bench, wrapping himself in a jacket, and watched the rest of the match with a satisfied smile. Barcelona added two more goals—Griezmann and a late Pedri strike—to make it 4-0.
But Marc had made his mark. Two games, two goals. A perfect start.
The following days brought even more attention. Marc's Champions League goal was added to his growing highlight reel. Analysts were discussing his potential. Comparisons to other young Barcelona strikers were being made.
But amid all the external noise, something important was happening internally: Marc was becoming a permanent part of the first team.
Koeman began including him in regular squad rotations. Not every match—he was still young, still learning—but enough to feel like a genuine squad member rather than a hopeful trialist. Over the next few weeks, he appeared in several more matches, mostly as a substitute but occasionally starting in less crucial games.
Each appearance brought new lessons. Sometimes he played well, making smart runs and linking up effectively with his teammates. Other times he struggled, his touches heavy, his decisions slow. Football at this level was unforgiving.
But he was learning. More importantly, he was earning respect.
Messi continued to mentor him, offering advice during training, demonstrating techniques, explaining how to read defensive shapes. Busquets taught him about positional discipline. Piqué shared insights about managing pressure and expectations. Even Koeman began to trust him more, giving him important minutes in Liga matches.
By late October, Marc had made eight first-team appearances, scored three goals, and provided two assists. His performances had been inconsistent—sometimes brilliant, sometimes ineffective—but the potential was undeniable.
And Diego's knowledge of the future was proving invaluable in ways beyond just football. He knew which players to build relationships with, which staff members were influential, which agents were trustworthy. He knew that Koeman's time at Barcelona would be turbulent, that the club's financial situation would worsen before improving, that major changes were coming.
But most importantly, he knew that if he worked hard enough, if he stayed humble and hungry, if he continued to develop, he could become something special.
One evening in late October, after a particularly grueling training session, Marc sat in the La Masia common room, reviewing footage of his recent performances on his laptop. Miguel was beside him, offering commentary.
"You're dropping too deep here," Miguel pointed out during one clip. "See? You're practically in midfield. Let them bring you the ball higher up."
"I was trying to get involved in the buildup," Marc defended.
"Yeah, but you're a striker, not a midfielder. Trust your teammates to find you. You're most dangerous in the box."
Marc nodded, absorbing the feedback. Miguel might not have made the first team yet, but he had a good tactical eye. More importantly, he wasn't bitter about Marc's success. Their friendship had survived the change in circumstances.
"How's it feel?" Miguel asked suddenly. "Being part of the first team. Playing with Messi. Scoring in the Champions League. All of it."
Marc thought carefully before answering. "Surreal. Amazing. Terrifying. All at once. Every day I worry I'm going to wake up and find out it was all a dream."
"You've earned it," Miguel said firmly. "You've always been the best striker in our age group. Now you're just proving it at a higher level."
"You'll get your chance too," Marc assured him. "Keep working. I know you will."
Miguel smiled, though there was sadness behind it. "Maybe. But even if I don't, at least I can say my best friend made it to Barcelona's first team. That's pretty cool."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching more footage, analyzing, learning, growing.
Outside, Barcelona glittered in the October night. Camp Nou stood silent and majestic a few blocks away, waiting for the next match, the next moment of magic, the next chapter in its storied history.
And Marc Delgado, eighteen-year-old striker from La Masia, formerly Diego Martínez from Madrid, was writing himself into that history.
One goal at a time.
One match at a time.
One dream at a time.
His second life was well and truly underway. And it was only just beginning.
The season continued its relentless pace. November brought cold rain and important matches. Barcelona's form was inconsistent—brilliant one week, frustrating the next. Koeman was under constant pressure from media and fans demanding better results.
Marc's role evolved gradually. He was no longer the unknown youth player who'd surprised everyone. Now he was a recognized part of the squad, someone opponents scouted and planned for. The element of surprise was gone. He had to prove himself on merit alone.
In a Copa del Rey match against a third-division side, Marc started and scored a hat-trick. But it was hard to draw too many conclusions from such a mismatch. The real tests came in La Liga and Champions League.
Against Real Betis in mid-November, Marc came on as a substitute with Barcelona trailing 1-0. He played twenty-five minutes, working tirelessly but failing to create any clear chances. Betis defended intelligently, double-teaming him whenever he received the ball. Barcelona lost 1-0, and Marc felt the sting of defeat for the first time at this level.
"You can't win every match," Koeman told him afterward. "Sometimes you play well and still lose. That's football. Learn from it and move on."
But it bothered Marc more than he wanted to admit. Diego had spent thirty-five years watching football, analyzing why some players succeeded and others failed. One constant truth: consistency separated the good from the great. Anyone could have one brilliant performance. Champions delivered week after week, season after season.
He threw himself into training with renewed focus. Extra shooting practice after sessions. Video analysis every evening. Gym work to build strength. Yoga for flexibility. Nutrition optimization. Sleep hygiene. Everything he could control, he controlled obsessively.
Messi noticed. After training one day, the Argentine pulled him aside.
"You're working too hard," Messi said bluntly.
Marc blinked in surprise. "Too hard? But I want to improve—"
"Your body needs rest too. I can see it in your movements. You're tired. If you keep pushing like this, you'll either burn out or get injured. Neither helps you play better football."
"But how do I improve if I don't work harder than everyone else?"
"Work smarter, not just harder," Messi replied. "I've been doing this for seventeen years. Trust me. Recovery is as important as training. Your body is your tool. Take care of it."
It was advice Marc took to heart. He adjusted his routine, building in proper rest days, focusing on recovery strategies, learning to listen to his body. The improvement was noticeable—his training performances became sharper, his match fitness more consistent.
By December, Marc had established himself as Barcelona's second-choice striker behind Griezmann and Messi when he played centrally. He'd appeared in fifteen matches across all competitions, scored six goals, and provided four assists. Respectable numbers for an eighteen-year-old breaking into the first team.
But Diego knew this was just the beginning. The real test would come in 2021, as Barcelona's season intensified and the stakes grew higher. Could he maintain his form? Could he handle the pressure? Could he continue developing at the pace required to become truly world-class?
Only time would tell.
For now, Marc Delgado was exactly where he wanted to be: part of FC Barcelona's first team, learning from the best, chasing his dreams.
The second life was everything Diego had never dared to hope for.
And he wasn't going to waste a single moment of it.
END OF CHAPTER 2
Next Chapter: "Winter Crucible" - December brings the El Clásico against Real Madrid, where Marc faces his biggest test yet. Meanwhile, Barcelona's internal tensions grow as Messi's future remains uncertain and the club's financial crisis deepens.