The greatness of a man lies in carrying his own destiny, wrote Milan Kundera. And if there is one thing that defines Atlético Madrid, it is that they have made heart their essence, even if by the end of the match their pulses were racing at 300 beats per minute. In yet another display of resilience, the team once again clung to their two verbs—suffer and rise—to knock Barcelona down in the Champions League quarterfinals. This Atlético is the embodiment of a man whose suit fibers are sewn with epic grit, in the purest black of Simeone. A coach whose surname defines a team, a crest, a fanbase, and a way of life: the red-and-white way. Even if it cost blood and sweat, the semifinals are here.
An Atlético side that started with Musso, despite Oblak being available, alongside Le Normand and Lenglet, while the rest of Cholo’s defenders were youngsters. Flick set his team on that 26-millimeter pitch with Gavi alongside Pedri and Ferran up front. Lamine wasted no time drawing his weapon. Within a minute, he had already created the first chance, aiming to claw back the 0-2 lead Atlético held from the first leg: he slipped between the lines to fire a low shot, full of malice, which met Musso’s glove. The next time he appeared, the outcome would be different.
Atlético-Barcelona: the rojiblancos’ qualification, the goals, all in images. Simeone’s men eliminate Flick’s team 1-2 (3-2) in the Champions League quarterfinals. An extraordinary performance from Musso. The mattress-makers reach the semis after nine years.
Because the yellow card for Pubill, who was one booking away from suspension, and Hancko’s ankle sprain at the Camp Nou conditioned the return leg. Starting Lenglet backfired within four minutes. On his own half, he turned to pass to Musso without noticing Lamine lurking. Lamine first combined with Ferran and then slotted the ball between Musso’s legs. It was the fourth minute. Barcelona owned the pitch, the ball, and the air. They owned everything around Lamine, pure dribbling, trickery, and threat. A vigorous Barça against a diminished opponent, incapable even of sniffing their interior play. Because Atlético were not there. Fear numbed their muscles, every decision. Griezmann was clumsy; Julián was muted and out of position. Up front, only Lookman stood out. A lone Lookman in a team with that hole at the back: Lenglet as a Trojan horse, Lenglet as a flank. The Frenchman repeated himself in the 0-2: Ferran easily won the position after receiving from Olmo and unleashed a left-footed cross-shot that nestled into the top corner. It took Barcelona just 23 minutes to level the tie.
A minute later, Musso prevented the 0-3 after Lamine set up Fermín, who, while diving to head the ball, first cut his lip on the goalkeeper’s boot and then crashed headfirst into the turf. Blood gushing from his lip stopped play. When it resumed, Lookman charged toward Joan García to restore the Metropolitano’s voice and breath with a powerful right-footed strike. The ball had been laid at his feet by Llorente, who motored down the right flank. Please start measuring for a statue, with sunglasses if you want. He’s a player capable of being in many places at once. The move, by the way, originated from Griezmann’s foot, who spotted his run—of course—and delivered the pass. Simeone called for calm because they had regained the advantage, but the script remained the same: Pedri touched and turned, unopposed. And Ferran. And Olmo. And needless to say, Lamine. Atlético’s best player was the one in yellow: that Musso.
