Barca 4 - Celta Vigo 3: The Magic of Flick’s Barcelona – An Entertaining Blur Bad for Your Heart

 

Image courtesy of FC Barcelona

Pedri! Pedri! Pedri!

So the chants went, at around the 22^nd minute mark. This has been a chant by Culers in reverence to their midfield metronome. Makes sense. The 22-year-old (22!) has been nothing short of spectacular for Barcelona this season. He has been unleashed, a titan reborn, and he has been thriving.

For the 22 minutes against the sky blues from Vigo, he had been the outstanding player for Barcelona. No, he hadn’t been spectacular by his cosmic standards. But he was present. Effective. Conducting. Stretching defenses and finding spaces with his neat body feints and spectacular passing.

It was he who found Ferran for the chance at 28 minutes with a threaded throughball that cut through Celta’s second line with the ease of a Jerryrig knife through paper. Before that, he had attempted to find Fermin running into space in the 13^th minute with a pass that scythed through all three of Celta’s pressure as do the lawnmowers that trim the grass at the Montjuic.

Here is the thing about Celta Vigo – they are a thorn on Barcelona’s foot. Their mastermind being, not Eduardo Coudet, nor Carlos Carvalhal or even Rafa Benitez, but Iago Aspas, the Liverpool flop turned Galician cult hero.

And they came this afternoon seemingly with an intent to do just that, and one would wonder if Barca players were aware of the demon they were facing.

Sitting in a 541/532 block, Celta made life hard for Barcelona’s midfield and front three. Scratch that - they also made life difficult for Barcelona’s defense too. Each time Barcelona hemmed and hawed in possession and worked it back to Cubarsi and Inigo to restart play, Celta’s front two, Iglesias and Moriba, a Barcelona graduate turned journeyman, would be upon the two like a pack of wolves pouncing on an unsuspecting prey.

And it worked.

Even after Inigo Martinez had threaded a fine pass into Ferran’s foot behind Celta’s second line for Barca’s opener, Barca were ill at ease, failing to find the spot on Giraldez’s men’s neck on which to step on - their feet kept slipping.

In many Barcelona games this season, you can always feel it, the winds of a drubbing, sounding in the air like chants of an approaching army ready to lay to waste their pesky opps.

The fluidity of their front three. The dynamism of their technically proficient midfield and the excellent water-carrier abilities of Kounde and Balde’s bold strides, all propped up by the mastery of Cubarsi and Martinez, with Szczesny marshalling the area behind them. They all always give the impression of a team out to get the job done with ruthless German efficiency dressed in Barcelona elegance.

Not in this first half though. Celta held steady in defense, their defensive block similar to the blocks Leganes, Dortmund and Betis employed, all which caused Barcelona various issues to break down.

And Celta had obviously identified Barcelona’s left, Gerrard Martin’s forte, as the main weaknesses. Pablo Duran and Moriba whet their appetite down that wing, one would imagine they were licking their lips while at it too, combining in that wing to devastating effect. In the 14^th minute, just three minutes after Ferran had fired Barca ahead, a low cross from Lago down Barca’s left, found Borja Iglesias to level the score.

Barcelona prodded and poked. Celta remained stoic and steadfast. They dared Barcelona and you could even see them taunting the league leaders with their deep build-up that attracted Barca deep into Celta’s half. Then, they would launch long to Iglesias.

Cu…Cu…Cubarsi though, managed the towering forward quite well.

Still, though this Barcelona team, like goliath’s armour, have a very specific weakness, which when fully exploited, leads to glorious chances and goals - the high line, combined with the not-that-fast defensive line. With Balde out, Gerrard Martin completed a quartet of Barcelona defenders who accelerated like a Leyland truck rolling uphill – full of torque, barely yielding ground in speed.

Time and time again, Celta targeted the area behind Gerrard Martin and it led to Vigo’s most dangerous chances.

One wonders whether Fort could be any worse. Martin no doubt has his qualities – he is very good at stopping players from crossing, his low driven crosses across the penalty box can be an effective attacking weapon and…and…and. Welp, I think that’s it.

However, one would imagine that Barcelona would need another player to back Balde, for whatever the question is, Gerrard Martin as the answer is only half right.

In the partly sunny, partly cloudy Catalonian sun, Barcelona put out a performance much better than the outing in Dortmund, but it is clear for the keen-eyed to notice that this team is limping, gasping for air as they struggle to fulfil the high demands of Flick at the business end of the season.

Second Half: Past Ghosts A-Come Knockin’

And that would be put into full display in the second half. Actually, Barca started rather well this second half.

On minute 47, Kounde floated a brilliant ball into the area, which Lewy brilliantly dummied to Ferran. Ferran laid it off first time to Lewy running into space whose shot was blocked.

On the other end, the perpetually underwhelmed, chain-smoking pensioner, Szczesny pulled of a brilliant save, pushing away Pablo Duran’s cross-cum-shot that would have landed right onto Iglesia’s foot for 2-1.

On the other end, Fermin, anonymous for much of the first half, was busy, but it is obvious that his threat has greatly diminished this season. His shooting boots, it seems, are pouting at a corner somewhere, tired from all the exertion in the 2024 Olympics.

Just six minutes into the second half, Barca would concede. A simple ball launched upfield by Celta’s keeper, Vicente Guaita. Frenkie De Jong miscontrolled. The ball fell into the path of Iglesias, who had started his run into space.

One could only wonder what was going through De Jong’s head once the ball had cleared him. I get the sense that he is a player well aware of the scrutiny on him, and this miss would certainly make him think.

With space ahead of him, and only Szczesny to beat, Iglesias couldn’t miss. An arrowed low shot across goal, beyond the fingertips of the stretching pensioner. In the Celta Vigo celebration crowd, Barca’s tormenter-in-chief, Aspas, starting on the bench, led the hugs on Iglesias.

This isn’t happening. I could feel my buttocks clench. From a 23-game unbeaten to losing two in a row! Aargh. This air had that feel to it, you know. There is always that dour, chilly feel to the air when you know your team is going to lose. It almost tastes like stale water, this rank air of defeat.

Fermin, anonymous, off, Olmo on. Ferran, who had a great start to the game but faded like a pair of knock-off jeans, went off and in came Yamal.

The 17-year-old infant now the man on whom many look at for an source of winning inspiration. It speaks of his maturity that Lamine Yamal had taken onto that burden of the people’s savior with elan and elegance, all dressed up in neat little tricks and effective output.

Let’s go! The stadium erupted. We are coming back from this.

Uhm, not so fast, because what do you know? Ten minutes later, a Barca attack breaks down, this time Olmo losing the ball and Celta breaking quickly. Moriba launches a ball over the top for Iglesias to chase. Once again, Barca’s two center backs have many qualities – chasing down forwards running in behind is not one of them. 3-1.

It hurts but such is life.

La Remontada

For all the talk of remontada throughout the previous week and a half in Madrid, life’s ironic sense of humor will certainly have each Culer sleeping in their Sunday best in reverence of God, because only he could conjure up this massive W after Arsenal impudently dumped Real Madrid out of the Champions League.

The remontanda, supposed to have landed in Madrid, drifted North East, landing four days later and making home in the Catalan capital right on Easter weekend. This, my friends, is proper divine intervention.

Barcelona, for much of the game looking all out of sorts, pulled one back through Dani Olmo after excellent combinations with Rapha, who himself was a beneficiary of a neat Lewy pass, that came from a brilliant Kounde driven pass into the heart of Celta Vigo’s channel.

Two minutes later, Pedri and Yamal combined, and the ethereal youngster, dripping gold dust and bearing the aura of an overpowered hero, fired in his trademark in-swinging cross from the right. It plopped perfectly into Rapha’s head. It was a Raphinha goal reminiscent of that goal he scored against Real Madrid in the Super Cup early in January. 3-3. Against all odds.

You never doubt this team! While many Culers, me included, always live in fear of the past ghosts arising again to steal out chains, today this team reminded me to always believe, even if the seesaw nature of their games have all of us clutching desperately at our quickly failing hearts and aching limbs.

Surely they can’t go ahead and to it, can they? Surely, not for the third, or is it fourth time this season. Let’s see - Benfica. Atletico Madrid. And. Nope. The third time. Which is honestly, three more times than any Barca team of the past three or four years could come back from.

Yet they did. Gavi headed just wide off a Rapha corner in the 83^rd minute, and Celta also did threaten, and Inigo survived a red card scare that certainly would have dissolved any chances of a miraculous Barca win into the Mediterranean Sea.

Barca’s chief opp, Aspas, got into the fray around this time and did have some moments but this was not to be his moment in the sun. Not every Barca team is Koeman’s, buddy.

But cometh the time, cometh the man. Raphinha! Rapha had had a reviving game. In the first half, he had done well, even dropping a sombrero on Carreira's head at one point, so this was a man on a serious redemption arc after a few underwhelming displays.

Olmo was tripped in the penalty box with just a minute to the end of extra time. Estadi Olimpic Lluis Companys held its breath. One would imagine that the oxygen levels inside the stadium dramatically surged as each person paused in anticipation, ready to explode into the setting Barcelona sun. Sometimes, when victory is on the line, there are much more important things in life than breathing, kid!

One also wouldn’t discount a significant increase in gluteus muscles going by the possible 50,000 plus clenched butts.

Raphinha converted the resulting penalty. 4-3 Barca win.

A brilliant game of football? For Celta Vigo, perhaps. For Culers, though? This was like sitting through a Tesla Cybertruck driving video – something just looked like it could go wrong at any minute. You will bet that many Culers, while waxing lyrical and poetic over this team's mentality, would rather the team put the winning mindset to the fore by not conceding two goals and needing to haul themselves back into the fray.

Sure, they can do it, but it is so taxing, both to their young bodies but also, our own hearts. Win fast, win big, play easy – now that’s something good for my heart

But I am not complaining. This team is Box Office.

Onto the next!

Visca Barca!