The 2010 World Cup final had ended with Andrés Iniesta scoring in extra time to win Spain its first ever World Cup, in a bad-tempered match against a Netherlands side that had chosen to kick its way through the game rather than lose beautifully.
Four years later, the two teams met again in Spain's opening match of the tournament, and the Dutch camp clearly carried every bit of that grudge.
Louis van Gaal handled his pre-match press conference in Salvador with his usual combative swagger. When a Dutch reporter pressed him on the ghost of Johannesburg, he waved an dismissive hand, frowning at the lens.
"That was four years in the past," Van Gaal said, leaning into his microphone. "Different rosters, different tactical approaches. I am not running an emotional campaign for revenge. I am hunting for three points on the table." He rested his forearms on the blue sponsor board, glancing around the room.
"What I will say is that in 2010, Spain were the best team in the world and everyone knew it. In 2014, Spain are the champions, yes, but the core is four years older, and they are counting on a seventeen-year-old kid to lead their front line. We will find out on Friday whether that gamble pays off."
Asked specifically about Lorenzo, Van Gaal was more measured.
"He is the best young player I have seen in twenty years. Maybe longer. What he did this season was not normal." A pause. "But he has never played a World Cup match. He has never played in this heat, against a defence that will not give him the space La Liga gave him. Domestic form is fine. The World Cup is a different thing entirely. We will see on Friday how he copes when there is no room to breathe."
In the Spain camp, Del Bosque kept the preparation calm.
The veteran manager had won every trophy the sport could offer, and he understood that the real danger in an opening tournament fixture rarely came from the opposition. It came from the occasion itself, the suffocating hype, the stiffness that could creep into a player's calves when the whole planet was waiting for a misstep.
"We are the champions," he told his squad in their final tactical meeting. "That is a fact and if we dwell on it, it turns into a boulder on our shoulders. So we put it out of our heads. We aren't stepping out there to guard a trophy in a glass case. We are going out there to control a football match, exactly like we have done for six years. We move the ball, we find the spare man, and when the passing lane opens up front, we feed the two boys inside the box and let them punish the mistakes."
He walked them through the Dutch threats. Robben, who Lorenzo had just faced in Lisbon, the same devastating pace and the same cut inside. Robin van Persie drifting between the center-backs, ready to gamble on any ball over the top.
The Dutch setup under Van Gaal would sit in a tight 5-3-2 block, soak up Spanish possession, and spring direct balls into space the moment they turned it over.
"Robben will gamble on running behind the line," Del Bosque warned, pointing at the freeze-frame on the screen. "That is the core of their design. That means our central pairing must keep their discipline. Gerard, Sergio, you cannot afford to get caught too high up the grass. Busquets will drop between you whenever the ball turns over. We have faced Robben twenty times between us. We know his pattern. Stopping him in this heat is a different job, but knowing where he wants to go is the starting point."
Later that evening, Lorenzo lay stretched out on his hotel bed in Salvador, the ceiling fan humming softly as the system's interface materialized in the quiet room.
[Your first World Cup match.]
Yeah, I know.
[Van Gaal is right about one thing. This is not La Liga. The heat is real, the stakes are higher, and the eyes on you are different from anything in Europe.]
You're not exactly calming my nerves.
[Comforting you isn't my job. The adrenaline is useful if you use it properly. I am giving you the plain reality so you step onto the grass fully alert.] The prompt flickered briefly before continuing. [Though it is also worth remembering who you've already faced. You beat Robben and Neuer, you broke past Sergio and Pepe, and you broke down the tightest defensive block Guardiola could construct. The Dutch are aggressive and well-drilled, but they aren't more difficult than what you have already conquered. Step out there feeling the weight of the occasion, like you usually do, and then do what you do best.]
And the WC Simulation system?
[Active, as I told you it would be. During World Cup matches, when the conditions on the pitch match a famous World Cup goal, you will feel the option appear. Whether to take it is always yours. It is the one place these particular tools come alive.]
Lorenzo turned on his side, his thoughts drifting between the tactical board and the Dutch defenders.
The bedside table gave a muted buzz. He reached over, flipped his phone over, and saw three missed calls from his mom alongside a string of unread messages from Lucía.
Hey Lorenzo, why aren't you picking up the phone? her first text read. Your mom tried calling three times, and when you didn't answer, she called me.
A second bubble popped up right beneath it.
She told me to tell you that your grandfather is in Brazil. He landed in Salvador a few hours ago, and he already has a ticket in the federation section for tomorrow.
Lorenzo sat up straight on the edge of the mattress, blinking at the screen. He typed back with thumb-flying speed: Wait, he's actually here? In Salvador?
Her reply came through almost instantly.
Yes, he's there. He told your mother there was no way in hell he was going to sit at home and watch your World Cup debut on a tiny television screen.
Lorenzo stared down at the glowing glass, letting the dim silence of the hotel room settle around him.
The old man who had wept with joy when he reached a hundred goals, who had spent months listening to neighbors call his grandson a traitor for picking Spain, had traveled all this way just to see his debut.
He tapped his thumbs against the keyboard.
Then I can't afford a quiet debut, can I?
A moment later, Lucía sent back her answer.
Yeah, you definitely can't. He didn't travel two thousand miles to watch you doubt yourself, Lorenzo. Go out there and show them exactly who you are.
Lorenzo set the phone face down, took a steadying breath, and closed his eyes.
Friday afternoon arrived under a heavy, suffocating coastal sky.
The Arena Fonte Nova was bouncing with sixty thousand supporters, while hundreds of millions tuned in across the globe. The orange Dutch wall roared from the north stand, thirsty to avenge the heartbreak of Johannesburg, while the Spanish contingent made their presence felt under a canopy of yellow and red.
Lorenzo tightened his studs in the tunnel, dressed in the red kit of Spain, knowing his grandfather was watching from the tiers above and an entire continent of critics was waiting for him to fail.
He took a slow, deep breath, stepped into the daylight, and walked toward the pitch for his World Cup debut.
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