From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness Chapter 53 53: I’M BACK, BABY

[THREAD: Who has seen this Mateo King vs literal 12-year-olds 😭😭😭]

@BallControlEra

Yo, Barca really said "you embarrassed yourself against Getafe? Go terrorize so school children 😭😭😭"

📹 [Video Clip Attached]

Mateo King bullying U12 defenders like he's in a Nike ad

@Footy4Real:

Barça after that Getafe stinker:

"Go back to developntal mode, champ."

I'm actually crying.

@SlickTikiTaka:

Lmaooo man got sent to the Youth Squad like it was a punishnt. "Go regain your confidence, son." 💀💀

@Kurokofan99:

No lie though, those U19 matches were cinema.

5 goals a ga?

The chemistry?

It felt scripted — like the Generation of Miracles arc from Kuroko's Basketball.

Mateo = Aomine with vision 😂

@TacticsGod:

Golden Generation. That's the word. That's EXACTLY the word.

We've wasted so much on the market in recent years: Dembele, Coutinho…

And the whole ti?

We had everything in-house.

Mateo, Fermin, Gavi, Casado, and Balde.

ESPECIALLY Balde.

Forget Mateo — Balde was my player of the tournant. Absolute monster.

@BarcaNumbers:

If we just took all that wasted transfer money and poured it into La Masia instead... man.

Just imagine.

Imagine if the €300M from Dembele/Coutinho had gone to developnt, analytics, scholarships, dorms, coach salaries.

We'd be undisputed.

@StrikerWatch:

It's not just the U19s either.

Did y'all see Marc Guiu from the U18 squad?

He gives Diego Costa vibes — rugged, hungry, pure no. 9 energy.

Different profile from Mateo.

Mateo's all-rounded — touch, movent, link-up.

Guiu? Just violence and goals.

@ScoutingXavi:

But the REAL goldmine?

U15s.

Lamine Yamal.

Mark. My. Words.

That kid is winning the Ballon d'Or one day.

He's that good. No exaggeration. He's not normal.

@PivotPlease:

Y'all are hyping flair again while ignoring the real issue.

When Busquets leaves, we're screwed.

We need a replacent or we'll collapse tactically.

The only one who fits the bill is Marc Bernal.

He's an actual carbon copy of Busquets. It's ridiculous. Reads the ga like he's 35.

@ManUtdPropaganda:

Here y'all go again, praising your little academy wizards.

anwhile, in Manchester…

Garnacho is worth all this hype and more.

Just wait till he fully debuts.

Mateo is only gassed because he's 17 and tapping in cutbacks. Be real.

...

As the internet bickered, fud, laughed, and dissected the intra-squad match clips from a few days ago—

"Mateo King vs literal children 💀💀"

"La Masia sent him to go farm XP like it's FIFA Career Mode"

"Bro got humbled by Getafe and now he's back stat-padding against teenagers 😭"—

Mateo himself, the center of yet another social dia storm, wasn't even looking at his phone.

Instead, he was staring into a screen only he could see.

Well—more accurately, into his mind's screen. The interface glowed silently within his vision, waiting.

[Lucky Charm Found]

(According to readings, host has multiple lucky charms active)

— Lucky charm: having family mbers in the stands

— Lucky charm: playing alongside friends

— Lucky charm: playing alongside a La Masia student in the team

He blinked at it, arms folded on his lap, back sunk into the background.

To be honest, he enjoyed reading it. The first two made imdiate sense.

His parents and uncle had shown up for the intra matches, cheering like lunatics. That warm high he felt? That extra fire? Yeah. That was real.

Playing with friends too—Gavi, Casado, Balde, Fermin—they weren't just teammates. They were his boys. His people. It mattered.

But that third one?

"Playing alongside a La Masia student in the team."

Mateo squinted at it, exhaling slowly.

"How fucking vague is this shit," he muttered.

He tilted his head back, eyes tracing the ceiling, thinking it through.

He understood why he'd gotten the charm during the intra matches—those gas had felt different. That suffocating weight he carried during the Getafe match wasn't there. He'd played sharp. Free.

At first, he thought it was because the matches didn't count. No pressure. No screaming fans. No TV caras or tactical drills.

But now, seeing the system's analysis, he realized—there had been a trigger. A "lucky charm."

Still, the system's timing bugged him.

Why wait until after all three matches were over to reveal it?

It used to be consistent—dropping data the mont he stepped on the pitch, or when the ref blew the whistle, or when he made his first pass. Small intervals. Logical updates.

Now? It had jumped across entire matches. He'd played three 45-minute halves across three matches before anything ca through. But honestly? He wasn't even angry about it.

Even if the system never gave him another stat again, he wouldn't complain.

He'd already been gifted more than most players ever dread of.

And he'd made a promise to himself after Getafe.

No more shortcuts. No more leaning on system gifts like a crutch.

It was work now. Discipline. Sweat. Grit.

He didn't need the system.

Still…

After all that effort, to get this as a reward?

"Playing alongside a La Masia student"? Really?

What did that even an?

At first, he assud it ant players who were still currently in La Masia, still technically academy kids. That tracked with the intra squad match—most of his teammates were still there.

But he quickly discarded that idea. He was a pro now. He wouldn't be playing with academy players in official matches anymore. It made no sense.

So maybe—just maybe—it referred to anyone who had passed through La Masia.

Any graduate.

That was… more plausible.

He was in Barcelona, after all.

And since 1999, not a single professional Barça ga had been played without at least one La Masia product on the field.

More than 1,600 gas and counting.

The tradition was unbroken.

Hell, there were at least four La Masia graduates in the current squad alone.

So yeah—if that was the requirent, then Mateo was covered.

Still… the wording bothered him.

Would a bench player count?

Was just being on the matchday list enough to activate the charm?

Did they need to be subbed on? Start? Or just be present?

His thoughts spiraled deeper.

What if he transferred to Man City soday?

Guardiola was La Masia, sure—but he wasn't a player anymore.

Would that count? Or would the charm deactivate unless one of his teammates had been a La Masia graduate?

And what even counts as the team?

Is it the starting eleven?

The full 23-man squad?

The guys on the bench?

The ones listed on the roster but not dressed?

It all felt so ambiguous.

So ssy.

A "lucky charm" was supposed to be sothing mystical but clear—sothing you knew when you had it.

This?

This felt more like a legal loophole wrapped in spiritual vagueness.

And La Masia itself…

It wasn't so rare institution also.

They produced top-tier pros like a factory.

It was normal to share a team with a La Masia graduate.

So how was that even special?

Not that he was thinking of leaving Barça anyway.

But even if he ever did—

What then?

Would the system still consider him lucky?

Or would that charm vanish into technicalities?

This was why he kept coming back to the sa word:

Vague.

As Mateo sat on the bench, lost in the swirling fog of his thoughts, a familiar voice cut through the haze—routine by now, like the tone of a morning alarm clock you didn't hate.

"Mateo. Mateo!"

He blinked, looked up, and there was Pedri—jogging lightly in place, lacing up his boots, half-smiling as usual, but with that sa quiet urgency in his voice.

"Dude," Pedri called, nodding toward the tunnel. "Let's get ready. The match is starting soon."

Mateo gave a small nod, eyes still carrying the residue of the system ssage from earlier. Lucky charm found. Vague. Frustrating. Pointless—or maybe not. It was a riddle wrapped in a matchday, and now wasn't the ti to solve it.

"Let's start putting so answers to this," he muttered to himself as he stood up, voice low enough only the grass under his feet could hear. He really hoped the charm wasn't as specific as he feared—not so absurd requirent that one of his La Masia teammates had to be on the pitch with him at all tis. Because the truth was, the world didn't slow down for anyone. And football, least of all.

Just a few days after the intra-squad match at the training grounds, he now found himself in a completely different city, in a new stadium, surrounded by the hum of another ga day. New stadium slls—cut grass, drying sweat, the faint hint of chalk and mud—and a new test.

He shook his head, almost in defiance of his own spiraling thoughts. Forget it. Focus on the match. The whole "lucky charm" thing—whether real or fabricated, divine or digital—was starting to feel like a joke. Or worse, like a carefully scripted plot to keep him emotionally invested. A ga behind the ga. And Mateo… well, he was grateful to the system. Whatever it was. It had helped him climb. Had kept him going. But this last charm? This thing about playing with a La Masia graduate?

It felt like an asspull.

But now wasn't the ti to rage about it. Now it was ti for the ga.

Because today, Barcelona were facing one of La Liga's most respected and traditional sides—Athletic Bilbao.

Bilbao: a club bound by legacy and a unique, almost mythical, self-imposed rule known across Europe—the Basque-only policy. For over a century, they had refused to sign players who weren't born, raised, or developed in the Basque region. No big-money signings from Brazil. No wonderkids from France. No quick-fix transfers. Just pure Basque blood.

It was a rule that earned them legendary respect, but also chained them. The peaks were glorious—rising generations, fierce cup finals, iconic nas like Aduriz, Andoni Zubizarreta, and Julen Guerrero—but the valleys? Brutal. When the talent pool in the region thinned, the team suffered. Their refusal to bend often ant seasons of average results.

And in the 2020/21 season, that was exactly their curse. Apart from their world-class goalkeeper, Unai Simón, and their fiery attacking duo—Inaki Williams and his younger brother, Nico—Bilbao were painfully mid-table. Nico, just 18, was raw but electric. A blur on the wings. He had been touted as one of Spain's next great hopes, and so fans even dared whisper his na in the sa breath as Pedri's or Mateo's when talking about the La Liga Young Player of the Season award.

But let's be honest: Nico's shout for the award was more hopeful than serious. It was always going to Pedri—at least that was what was said until now.

Until Mateo.

The sharp, teoric rise of Barcelona's newest phenonon had shaken what was once a unanimous decision. Pedri had the consistency. The class. But Mateo? Mateo had the storm. He had co out of nowhere, and he'd co swinging.

So, for Bilbao, facing a reawakened Lionel ssi and a hungry Mateo King, this wasn't just a difficult ga.

This was a storm they never had a roof for.

And the truth?

The ga had been sealed before the first whistle blew.

Football is said to be an unpredictable ga where anyone can beat anyone but at teh end of the day they were a lot of things that are predictable in football. This was one of them

There was a slow, building roar around San Mamés as the whistle blew. Athletic Bilbao's red-and-white stripes bounced with energy, their backline ready, legs braced, eyes narrowed. This was their cathedral. This was their pride. But across from them stood Barcelona — a team reborn. A team with ssi smiling again. A team with a new, electric No. 9. A teenager. Mateo King.

It started even. Just like the intra-match final from days ago. Bilbao's intensity was real — they pressed early, they chased, they snapped at heels. In the opening five minutes, Dani García slamd into Pedri, reminding the youngster where he was. Yeray Álvarez body-checked Mateo the first ti he tried to turn. This wasn't the youth league anymore. And this wasn't friendly La Masia training.

But then — it happened.

11th minute.

Barcelona recycled the ball patiently in midfield. Busquets to De Jong. De Jong to ssi. Bilbao's block was tight, compact — until ssi dropped deeper, collected the ball, and casually looked up.

A long ball. No, a laser disguised as a lob — diagonal and curling, arcing over the backline toward the right channel.

Mateo King had already gone.

Before Unai Núñez could even read the flight, the teenager had exploded off the shoulder. That speed — it wasn't normal. In five strides he was clear. The ball fell perfectly, kissed the turf once — Mateo touched it forward, split-second balance check, then fired low with his left across goal—

GOAL.

Bottom corner. Unai Simón barely flinched.

1–0, Barcelona.

And already, the murmurs had started again. "Who the hell is this kid?"

The Comntator's voice would've called it poetic: "The Lions brought steel... but they forgot about lightning."

Bilbao tried to respond. They pushed wide through Iker Muniain, their captain dancing along the left flank, curling crosses toward Iñaki Williams. The elder Williams brother gave Lenglet a problem or two — turning quickly, dragging him out of position. But Ter Stegen was calm. When Raúl García tried one from distance in the 24th, Ter Stegen pald it wide with ease.

Still, for all their fight, Bilbao looked like they were chasing shadows. Barcelona were no longer just technical. They were sharp. Direct. Dangerous.

Halfti: 1–0.

The second half began with Nico Williams — the exciting 18-year-old — entering for De Marcos. A bit of speed for speed. Fire for fire. But the gap between promise and polish was wide, and Nico found himself drowned in the flow of a Barcelona team that was now humming.

52nd minute.

Pedri received a short pass near the halfway line, under pressure from Dani García. He spun away gracefully, dipped his shoulder, and pinged a long ball — not wide, but vertical, central — like a knife through the backline.

And again — Mateo King was gone.

His acceleration this ti was even faster. Yeray couldn't even foul him. He was past him before the thought ca.

The ball skidded toward the edge of the box. Mateo took one touch, then another — this ti he let the goalkeeper commit, then coolly rolled it past him into the net.

2–0.

Cue the cara cutting to a smiling Pedri, hands on hips, shaking his head. "This guy…" The Barca tiktok editors finsing their latest edit material.

Bilbao's shape began to fracture. Barcelona slled blood.

56th minute.

ssi dropped deep to collect again. But this ti, he didn't pass.

He turned.

He ran.

Left-footed control. Quick touch past Dani García. Burst past Unai Vencedor. A shimmy left, a chop right. He ghosted past three red-and-white shirts like water slipping through cracks in stone. By the ti he entered the box, the defenders had retreated in panic — but ssi found Griezmann wide.

Griezmann, unselfish, square ball.

De Jong t it first-ti — but instead of driving it, he looped it.

From just outside the box, he looped a strike with the outside of his right boot — curling, dipping, wicked—

GOAL.

It clipped the underside of the bar.

3–0, Barcelona.

A goal to silence the cathedral.

63rd minute.

Mateo had given his all. Two goals. Countless sprints. He was breathing harder now, his touches growing heavy.

Koeman called his number.

As he jogged off, the away fans behind the bench rose. Even so Bilbao fans applauded. Because they knew. That kid… wasn't normal.

Mateo clapped back, nodded at ssi, who gave him a soft pat on the back as he passed. His day was done. But his na would be in every headline again.

The rest of the match? Clinical.

Nico Williams tried. A few nice runs. A good cross in the 75th minute that nearly found Iñaki. But the Barça backline was alert. Piqué organized. Alba still had legs. Busquets intercepted everything.

Bilbao pressed. They fought. But Barcelona never looked like they'd give it away. The rhythm was theirs. The control was theirs. The final third was a playground — ssi toying, Pedri smiling, De Jong dancing.

FULL TI: Athletic Bilbao 0–3 Barcelona

Three goals. Three statents. And one teenage striker who was running away with hearts, goals, and maybe — just maybe — the Liga's Young Player of the Year award.

And in the post-match buzz, as reporters scrambled for headlines, one question reigned louder than the rest:

"Is this the ssi & Mateo era? Is LA Liga Sealed?"

In the aftermath of the 3–0 demolition, whispers beca waves.

Clips of Mateo's two goals circled the globe within minutes. The long balls. The speed. The cold-blooded finishes. Headlines scread his na. Fans rejoiced, rivals panicked. And the haters? They hit the internet fast, clinging to new agendas, desperate to spin a storm that already felt inevitable.

"Easy opponent."

"Just a phase."

"Wait till he faces a real defence."

But deep down, in corners of Madrid and Seville, in offices in Paris and Manchester, they all felt the sa thing crawl up their spines.

Barcelona were coming back.

Not just with tiki-taka. Not just with ssi's magic. But with sothing new. Sharp. Ruthless. Hungry.

In the away dressing room at San Mamés, music blared. Boots scraped tile. Laughter echoed off the walls. ssi sat calmly, ice on his knee, quietly nodding along.

And in the center of it all, shirt off, grin wide, sweat still gleaming on his brow — Mateo King stood on the bench, arms raised like a gladiator, voice cracking with adrenaline as he roared:

"I'M BACK, BABY!"

And this ti… the world heard him.

A/N

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