With the sensational promotional broadcast still echoing across the country, the reality of the season finally arrived.
The 2012/2013 La Liga campaign was officially underway.
The curtain-raiser took place at the Estadio Balaídos, with Celta Vigo hosting Málaga.
Despite the heavy interest from top clubs, Málaga had successfully retained their midfield prodigy, Isco. Securing Champions League football via a miraculous final-day coback against Valencia last season gave them the leverage to keep their core intact.
The match was expected to be a one-sided slaughter. However, Celta Vigo proved incredibly resilient on their ho turf.
It took until the eighty-seventh minute for the deadlock to break. Isco unleashed a sensational long-range strike, allowing Málaga to escape with a narrow 1-0 victory and open their account.
Following the opener, the first matchweek exploded into action.
Less than an hour later, Real Madrid kicked off at the Santiago Bernabéu against Valencia.
Having lost out on Champions League qualification, Valencia hadn't made any marquee signings. Following Unai Ery's departure, they appointed Mauricio Pellegrino to steady the ship.
Perhaps it was the new-manager bounce, but Valencia put on a defiant display, holding the defending champions to a shocking 1-1 draw in the capital.
The reigning kings had stumbled out of the blocks.
It felt like an ominous sign. José Mourinho's notorious "third-season syndro" at Real Madrid might not be entirely a myth.
The morning papers heavily amplified Real Madrid's failure. The Catalan press, in particular, ruthlessly mocked their eternal rivals.
Barcelona played their opening fixture the following afternoon at Camp Nou.
While Atlético Madrid was boarding the team bus outside their hotel to head to the Vicente Calderón, the final score from Catalonia filtered through the squad.
Barcelona 5, Real Sociedad 1.
"Barca is terrifying right now," Antoine Griezmann muttered, staring at his phone.
As a product of the Real Sociedad academy, seeing his forr club dismantled so viciously left a heavy feeling in his chest.
Diego Sione's face darkened slightly. Barcelona's sheer devastating form was impossible to ignore.
"A hat-trick for Lionel ssi on matchday one," Diego Godín whispered, exchanging a nervous glance with Miranda.
Facing an unleashed ssi was a paralyzing thought for any center-back.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Shane Carter suddenly clapped his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the anxious murmurs of the bus.
"Boys, our opponent today is not Barcelona. It is Athletic Bilbao."
The squad instantly snapped to attention. He was right. Looking ahead to the Catalan giants when they had a war to fight tonight was a fatal mistake.
Germán Burgos exchanged a aningful look with Sione.
"I told you the kid was mature," Sione muttered.
"He's not just a prodigy. He is a dictator," Burgos chuckled, patting his massive stomach. The towering assistant coach suddenly recalled that warm, fateful afternoon when he had waited outside the Real Madrid academy gates to steal the boy away.
The engine roared to life.
Atlético Madrid rolled toward the stadium.
By the ti the players walked out for their warm-ups, the Vicente Calderón was already packed to the rafters.
The Atleti ultras were in full voice, cycling through their entire arsenal of deafening chants. When the squad finally retreated to the dressing room, the atmosphere was at a boiling point.
The Calderón was always a fortress of noise, but tonight felt distinctly unhinged.
"Before the season began, Shane Carter publicly declared that Atlético Madrid's objective is the La Liga title. The dia might laugh, but the fans in this stadium absolutely believe him!"
Up in the Spanish comntary gantry, lead broadcaster Mario took a deep breath.
He was flanked by two pundits: Atlético Madrid legend Kiko, and forr Athletic Bilbao goalkeeper Juan Carlos.
"A league title... when Mourinho's Real Madrid and Tito Vilanova's Barcelona are operating at their absolute historical peaks?" Juan Carlos shook his head in disbelief.
As a Spanish football veteran, he knew the ruthless reality of the duopoly. If neither of the super-clubs imploded internally, the rest of the league existed rely to make up the numbers.
Last season, Real Madrid had finally broken Barcelona's monopoly, but both squads remained terrifyingly loaded with world-class talent.
For any other club to challenge their absolute hegemony felt like pure science fiction.
Kiko laughed out loud. "The season literally just started! Who knows what the landscape will look like in May? Let's focus on the pitch. This is a massive fixture."
Mario nodded. "Indeed. Athletic Bilbao views tonight as a pure revenge mission. They haven't forgotten the brutal defeat Atlético handed them in the Europa League Final last season."
Inside the ho dressing room.
Sione swept his intense gaze over his squad.
"Boys, we have bled through a grueling six-week tactical camp. You know exactly what kind of football we are going to play this year."
"I am completely satisfied with your physical conditioning. Tonight, Bilbao gets the honor of testing our new engine."
Sione pulled the tactical whiteboard forward.
The base formation was a disciplined 4-4-2.
However, in practice, it was built to fluidly morph into a 4-1-4-1 or a 4-3-1-2 in transition. The entire structural integrity depended entirely on Shane Carter's positioning.
In this new blueprint, Atlético would utilize a suffocating, high-intensity press. Whether operating in the defensive block or the attacking third, the entire team would orbit around Shane.
He was the absolute, undisputed core.
"This is step one of the empire," Sione said, his voice dropping to a gravelly register. "I don't want to talk about titles or dreams right now. I just want absolute violence on the pitch tonight."
Sione threw the dressing room door open.
"To war, boys!"
"We lost a final last year."
Marcelo Bielsa paced the away dressing room.
'El Loco' had not compromised an inch on his tactical philosophy. In his eyes, Athletic Bilbao would play his brand of football, or they wouldn't play at all. Tactical purity was more important than the final result.
But to ignite the fire in his n, Bielsa deliberately ripped open an old wound.
"I won't call this revenge," Bielsa continued. "But we all know this is not a standard fixture. This is a chance for absolute redemption. Let us finally close the book on Bucharest tonight!"
He needed a team of absolute madn on the pitch.
Up in the global broadcast gantry, the English comntators were already debating the narrative.
Last season, Atlético had stord the Europa League, crushing Bilbao 3-0 in the final. But the architect of that victory, Radal Falcao, was gone. The Colombian had bagged 17 goals in that European campaign alone.
Could they replicate that dominance without the ultimate apex predator?
"With Shane in the midfield, Falcao's departure is neutralized," one journalist argued in the press box.
"Are you insane? You can't just wave away a 30-goal-a-season striker!" another fired back. "Diego Costa is a bruiser, not a pure finisher! Griezmann is a winger! Where are the goals coming from?"
The debate was cut short as the teams lined up in the tunnel.
The television caras instantly locked onto the towering figure of Shane Carter. The iconic Number 10 rested heavily on his broad shoulders.
"The players are erging from the tunnel! Shane Carter officially dons the legendary Number 10 for Atlético Madrid. A shirt that imdiately signals absolute authority!"
Inside the global broadcast studio, legendary comntator Peter Drury leaned into his microphone.
"Atlético's campaign begins at the Calderón. Diego Sione has completely remodeled his attacking spearhead!"
"With Falcao departing for Monaco, and Adrián dropping to the bench, the strike partnership tonight consists of the physical Diego Costa and the rcurial Antoine Griezmann!"
"Across the rest of the pitch, Raúl García slots into the right flank to replace the departed Arda Turan. Koke operates on the left. The midfield engine room is manned by captain Gabi and the architect, Shane Carter. A defensive wall of Filipe Luís, Godín, Miranda, and Juanfran protects Thibaut Courtois!"
The official tactical graphic flashed across the screen.
"Just look at that spine," co-comntator Jim Beglin marveled. "That is a squad built with enough steel to look Real Madrid and Barcelona directly in the eye."
"If they can replicate their giant-killing form from last season, whilst finding consistency against the lower-table sides..." Beglin paused. "Why shouldn't they demand the title?"
"Does La Liga belong exclusively to Madrid or Barcelona?" Drury asked, his voice rising in dramatic cadence.
He shook his head.
"Do kings possess a divine right to rule? No. Crowns are not inherited. They are ant to be taken by force!"
As Drury's poetic declaration echoed across millions of televisions, the players poured out of the tunnel and onto the pristine grass.
Atlético Madrid was ready to take its first step.
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