Iker Casillas.
In 2013, he was still the undisputed "Saint" of the Matador Army. Despite the presence of Victor Valdés and the rising threat of David De Gea, Casillas's position as the guardian of Spanish football remained unshakeable. He was the man who specialized in the impossible save.
But as the ball left Lorenzo's boot, Casillas felt a rare, icy chill. He dove, his 182cm frame stretching to its absolute limit, his fingers straining toward the blur of white and green. He actually managed to graze the leather, a testament to his superhuman reflexes but the sheer velocity of the "Batigol" template was too much to redirect. The ball deflected off his fingertips, struck the inner side netting, and snapped the twine with a sound like a pistol shot.
One second later, the Santiago Bernabéu fell into a deathly, suffocating silence.
The white stands, usually a wall of noise, were frozen in a state of collective shock. Sergio Ramos stood outside the penalty area, hands on his hips, his jaw tight as he stared at the back of the net. Pepe was furiously swinging his arms at the midfielders and Marcelo, caught too far up the pitch was being scolded by Xabi Alonso. The Madrid defense was in a state of total, visible frustration.
"He's done it! Unbelievable! The seventeen-year-old has breached the fortress!" Santiago's voice roared through the ESPN Sur broadcast, carrying all the way to the living rooms of Buenos Aires.
"Lorenzo, the boy they said wasn't ready, has just scored in his Clásico debut! Casillas touched it, but you don't save a cannonball like that!"
Inés Valdes was equally breathless. "This is the 'Wildcard' Tata Martino was hiding. He held off Pepe, he beat Ramos in the air and now he has silenced eighty thousand people. And he's only seventeen! We are witnessing history!"
Casillas sat on the turf, staring at the grass between his knees. There was a profound sense of confusion in his eyes. He had conceded goals to the greats, Ronaldinho, Eto'o, Henry but those were established titans.
He suddenly remembered Lionel Messi's first Clásico goal. Messi had been nineteen. This boy, Lorenzo, was two years younger. This evening at the Bernabéu, the "Saint" of Madrid had become the backdrop for a record that would likely stand for a century.
In the Argentinian digital forums, the explosion of activity was so intense it nearly crashed the servers.
[GOOOOOOAL! LORENZO! HE REVEALED THE TRUTH WITH HIS FEET!]
[Casillas is a legend and he still couldn't stop it. That shot power is insane.]
[Raúl was 18 when he scored his first Clásico goal. Lorenzo is 17. I think he just broke the record for the youngest scorer in the history of the Clásico!]
[Ancelotti and Ramos were smiling in the tunnel. Who's smiling now?]
On the pitch, Neymar was the first to reach Lorenzo, his flamboyant golden-tipped spikes swaying as he jumped. "Lorenzo! Why are you so calm?" Neymar laughed, slapping Lorenzo's shoulder. "This is the Bernabéu! You're supposed to be going crazy!"
Lorenzo finally let out a breath, a predatory smirk returning to his lips. "I'm saving the energy for the next one, Neymar. This is just the beginning."
Messi walked over, a look of genuine pride on his face. He didn't need to say much; a simple, firm handshake and a nod of the head conveyed everything. The "King" had found his "Protector."
"Eyes up!" Puyol roared, gathering the team as they walked back to the center circle. "Madrid is wounded. They're going to come at us with everything now. Stay goal-side and track your runners!"
On the touchline, Tata Martino made the sign of the cross, his expression one of intense, controlled delight. "Iker is a god," Martino whispered to Pautasso, "but even gods bleed.
Across the divide, Carlo Ancelotti was far from his usual serene self. He spat out his gum and immediately pulled a fresh piece from his pocket, chewing with a rhythmic aggression. He simply gestured for Ramos and Pepe to tighten the gap. 'Zero space!' he signaled with his hands. He didn't want the kid to just score; he wanted to ensure the boy felt the weight of the Bernabéu on his next touch.
Zinedine Zidane gave a wry, bitter smile. "Martino... you sly fox. You really did it."
The match restarted, and the Bernabéu responded with a roar of defiance. One goal would not break the spirit of the White Legion.
As Karim Benzema kicked off, Lorenzo felt the atmosphere shift. The gaze of the Madrid frontline, specifically Cristiano Ronaldo had changed. The Portuguese superstar, who had lost the Ballon d'Or to Messi the previous year, now had a burning, incandescent hunger in his eyes. He was a man who thrived on competition, and he wasn't about to let a teenager upstage him on his own grass.
Madrid's midfield began to orchestrate with a new, vertical urgency. Xabi Alonso, the maestro, abandoned his defensive caution and pushed five yards higher, his eyes fixed on Lorenzo as a defensive target while simultaneously searching for Bale and Ronaldo.
In the 37th minute, Madrid executed a tactical masterpiece.
Ángel Di María feinted a long throw-in near the corner flag, drawing the Barcelona defense toward the sideline. At the last second, he stepped back and let Fábio Coentrão take the throw. Coentrão launched a powerful, arching ball toward the edge of the area.
Bale received the ball effortlessly, his touch soft despite his high speed. He didn't look for the shot; he saw Cristiano Ronaldo raising a hand in the center.
"Ronaldo! Watch the far post!" Piqué screamed.
Bale tapped the ball with the inside of his left foot, threading a pass to the surging Ronaldo. Xavi tracked back, trying to cut the angle, but Ronaldo was already pivoting.
Instead of taking the shot himself, a move everyone expected Ronaldo showed the maturity of his peak years. He caught a glimpse of Benzema beating the offside trap on the weak side. Ronaldo played it across to Di María, who immediately sent a first-time through-ball into the Benzema's path.
It was a "Clinical Dissection" play. The Barcelona defense, focused entirely on Ronaldo and Bale, had left the most clinical "foil" in the world unmarked.
Benzema was one-on-one with Valdés. The French striker didn't panic. He met Valdés's desperate charge with a subtle, low shot toward the far corner, a move that deflected the pressure with the grace of a veteran.
Swish!
The ball rolled into the corner.
1-1.
The Bernabéu erupted into a frenzied, white-hot celebration. Shortly after Lorenzo's historic goal, Real Madrid's main striker had responded.
Benzema leaped into Ronaldo's arms, pointing toward the stands. The suspense of El Clásico was back on track, and as the referee prepared to whistle for halftime, the scoreline was level, but the war had only just begun.
[Status: Level (1-1).]
[System Note: Side Mission Progress - Lorenzo: 1 Goal. Benzema: 1 Goal.]
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