Vicente del Bosque announced Spain's World Cup squad on a Tuesday morning from the Ciudad del Fútbol at Las Rozas.
The manager sat behind a long table, calm and grey-bearded. In his trademark gravelly monotone, he started running down the roster. There were very few shocks. The core of the squad that had won the 2010 World Cup and the 2012 European Championship remained: Iker Casillas, Pepe Reina, and David de Gea took the goalkeeping spots. Along the backline, Sergio Ramos, Gerard Piqué, Raúl Albiol, Juanfran, César Azpilicueta, and Jordi Alba were read off without hesitation.
He moved through the midfield without pausing. "Xavi Hernández, Andrés Iniesta, Xabi Alonso, Sergio Busquets, Javi Martínez, Koke, Santi Cazorla, Juan Mata, David Silva and Cesc Fàbregas." Ten world-class technicians, the same engine room that had starved opponents of oxygen for the better part of a decade.
Then he reached the attacking line, where the tone in the room shifted.
"En la delantera," Del Bosque continued, pausing to turn the page over. "Diego Costa, Fernando Torres, David Villa and Lorenzo Valentini."
A sharp rustle swept through the packed press gallery as shutters clicked in rapid bursts.
It was the first time Lorenzo had been named in a senior World Cup squad, and even though everyone had known it was coming, yet hearing the name declared aloud by the manager of La Roja made it tangible. The seventeen-year-old who had just won the treble scoring a hundred and twelve goals, and chose Spain over Argentina, was going to a World Cup.
A reporter asked the obvious question. "Vicente, how do you fit Lorenzo into a team built on possession? He is a direct striker. Your football has never used a striker like him."
Del Bosque considered the question with his usual patience.
"For six years, people have told me that our football does not need a striker," he said. "That the false nine is enough. That we pass the ball into the net. And for six years, they were right, because we had the players to do it and no striker good enough to change the philosophy." He paused. "Now we have a striker good enough to change the philosophy. So the philosophy will change. Not completely. We will still be Spain. We will still keep the ball. But at the end of all that possession, for the first time in years, we now have a genuine reference point inside the box to punish mistakes. To me, that is natural progression rather than a compromise."
"What about Xavi and Andrés, though?" another journalist pushed from the aisle. "Their entire rhythm was established around dragging defenders out of position without a fixed nine."
Del Bosque chuckled quietly into the microphone.
"Xavi and Andrés are two of the sharpest footballers to ever put on boots. Are you telling me they won't figure out how to feed a lad who scored over a hundred goals this season? They have spent fifteen years searching for teammates who make the right run at the right second. Now they have someone who converts it every time. I think the veterans will survive having a finisher at the end of their passes."
Over the next seventy-two hours, the squad trickled into the Ciudad del Fútbol.
Walking into the Las Rozas facilities was an entirely different experience for Lorenzo compared to the Ciutat Esportiva. At Barcelona, he was the heartbeat of the dressing room, the record-smashing phenom everyone looked to when a match stalled out. Here, he stepped into a room filled with senior men who had lifted the Jules Rimet trophy when he was barely kicking balls on dirt pitches.
He approached the camp with his usual quiet caution. He kept his chatter to a minimum, arrived ten minutes early to the fitness tent, and made sure his boots were polished and ready.
Naturally, the Barcelona contingent helped bridge the gap. Xavi and Iniesta made sure he was seated at their lunch table from day one, folding him into the group without needing to make a scene about it. Piqué threw a couple of teasing digs his way by tossing Lorenzo's plain canvas duffel across the carpet with a grin.
"A treble winner and what's that, a school bag?" Piqué called across the dressing room. "We get you a fat new contract and you can't even buy proper leather?"
"Don't listen to him, kid," Busquets said, already rambling as he unlaced his boots. "Gerard spent half his first United paycheck on diamond earrings he lost in a swimming pool two weeks later. At least your zipper works. Honestly, save the money. The moment you start buying those designer leather washbags, the staff thinks you've gone soft and they stop laughing at your jokes."
The Real Madrid core took a bit more time to feel him out. Casillas greeted him warmly enough with a firm handshake, acting like the consummate captain. Sergio Ramos watched him closely during warm-up laps, studying the kid's body language with the cautious gaze. In the gym, Xabi Alonso observed his strength circuits in silence, clearly intrigued by the physical mechanics that had torn through Bayern.
And then there was Diego Costa.
The Atlético striker had swapped kits with Lorenzo by the tunnel at the Vicente Calderón just a month back after falling short in the title race. Now they found themselves sharing a training pitch, both vying for the starting shirt and potentially expected to share attacking duties. When they crossed paths outside the physio room on Monday morning, they traded polite nods and a quick slap of hands, keeping things strictly professional.
During the first three days of full-contact scrimmages, the partnership was completely disjointed.
They constantly crowded each other out on the pitch. When Lorenzo dropped off to collect the ball on the half-turn, Diego made the exact same check into his path. When a cross floated into the six-yard box, both players attacked the near post, tangled their feet, and let the ball skid harmlessly wide. Neither man was accustomed to yielding space to another central attacker, and both were stubborn about holding their ground.
Del Bosque stood on the grass with his whistle hanging loose between his fingers, watching the clumsy collisions without saying anything. He had seen this friction play out plenty of times throughout his career. When two dominant forwards shared a pitch, they had to sort out the pecking order with their own boots.
That turning point would arrive soon enough on the training pitch.
For the moment, the Spanish national team remained locked in preparation at Las Rozas. Twenty-three men shoulder to shoulder, carrying the hopes of a country hungry for a repeat, with an aging golden generation, a snarling warrior, and a teenage prodigy trying to find common ground before they boarded the plane for South America.
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