In the packed stands of the Mestalla, a group of Valencia fans was huddled together, their voices rising above the hum of the crowd during a brief pause in play.
Among them was a man in his late 30s, dressed in a classic orange and white Valencia scarf and a jacket that had seen many seasons of football.
His name was Mateo, a diehard supporter who had lived and breathed Valencia since childhood.
"You know," Mateo began, leaning over to his friend Carlos, "I can't lie—I'm relieved we're holding Barcelona to a draw right now.
These guys are like machines, man." He gestured toward the pitch where Pedri and Lewandowski were orchestrating another intricate attack.
"But a win… oh, that would be something else."
Carlos nodded, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. "You think we've got it in us? I mean, that kid Izan—he's special, no doubt—but Barcelona? They're relentless."
