Semi-final night means a step toward the first RFEF. The match is scheduled to kick off at 21:30, and the atmosphere around the Vicente Friend stadium crackles with anticipation. Every detail has been measured with clinical precision, as if someone has set a stopwatch to the exact moment when tension becomes visible in the air. The air itself feels electric, thick with anticipation and the scent of cigarette smoke wafting through the corridors filled with blue and white banners that crown the building like a temporary fortress. In the adjacent room, Rico Perez stands confident, orchestrating his crew with the calm certainty of someone who has tested every variable. The people in the stands, the technicians behind the lights, all seem to form a single, inevitable circle of resolve. Silhouettes press against the glass, fans and staff alike, a living echo of legend. The crowd roars when the team is announced, and the cheers spill out past the walls as if the stadium itself might tremble from the excitement.
On the field, Enrique Ferrandez works to maintain dialogue with the supporters, trying to bridge the gap between the players and those who came from distant corners of the city. The stands are packed with a public that has endured a long journey, the kind of crowd that carries a century of memories in its arms, the kind that knows how to weather the longest waits with a stubborn hope. They arrive in waves, from the Plaza de Calvo Sotelo and beyond, bearing a patched ball and a sack of quiet dreams. The Adarve delegation moves through the throng, their presence a reminder that sport weaves families together as it tests loyalties. Gonzalez has already set up camp in the stadium, with hours ahead to prepare. Jerseys are neatly folded, shoes are shined, and every stripe of fabric catches the light as if it were a flag of battle. A rare moment of pain shakes the routine when a player reveals a damaged finger, his participation suddenly in question. A relief arrives in the form of a quick cast from a reliable healer, and the worry dissipates as the team’s rhythm resumes. The medical team, including figures like Siegfried Tailor, Y Ruiz de la Cuesta, emerges from the sideline huts to tend to the essentials. The players lean into the day, their knees already bending toward a shared, almost ceremonial request for success.
The match day scene is enriched by a keen observer who keeps a vigilant eye on warmups. Three leaders stand at the helm this time: Pepe Moreno, Charles Arsenal, and Joaquin Ferrandez. They issue practical, no-nonsense commands to friends and teammates alike, urging them not to overexert, to pace their efforts, to keep the tempo sustainable for the full ninety minutes. In the press box, Abbot and Munoz Llorens settle in with their cigars, a small ritual that marks the start of a careful, measured day. One constant detail remains: the tunnel area, a corridor of decisions and nerves, where Angel Linares talks to the arbitration panel, smoothing potential frictions and setting expectations. The stadium’s pit reappears in bursts of action as Pascual Verdu Belda goes live to brief the squad, while Vincent Crespo sits with a notepad, recording the sentiments of the moment. Sparse lines of sight crisscross the benches where Miguel Vilaplana, Joseph Rico, and Angel Garcia monitor the field, ensuring clarity, focus, and the ability to defog any ambiguity about the squad’s lineup. The arrival of Perfect Arjones on the scene signals the arrival of energy and a fresh sense of possibility as the team readies for the kickoff.
Inside the cabin, Ortega and Beautiful have written the lineup with a steady hand. Eleven names fill the page and the energy grows almost magically as the moment draws nearer. Kosimo and Expense add their own note of mischief and rotation, their presence a reminder that every bench is a universe of potential. The door access becomes a rhythm in itself as doormen, including Maca, Torregrosa, and Navarrito, manage the flow with practiced ease. A cast of characters—Pineapple, Paqui, Tormo, Ramonzuelo, Mangriñan, Spider, Ramon, Blazquez, Ayguade, and Pepe Macia—emerges in the imagination of the crowd as the supporting cast for this night of spectacle. The public address system erupts with the announcement that the women’s team, the fierce Hercules, has made a mark of their own, drawing a well-deserved round of applause for their pioneers. They move forward with quiet confidence, aware that the path behind them has already created ripples of inspiration for others who will follow.
The match itself is still to begin, yet the atmosphere feels preordained to triumph. It is a moment when every plan and prediction seems to converge, shaping a narrative where the outcome feels almost decided by the collective will of those present. If anything, the day has already produced its own small victory in the way the entire stadium has come together to witness a shared moment. Some observers feel that the true win lies not in a single goal or a final whistle, but in the unspoken connection forged between players and fans, the mutual trust developed in the quiet hours of preparation, and the belief that a difficult road can still lead to a meaningful commendation. A lingering hush settles as the Centennial Commission observes a moment of silence at ADDA, a ceremonial pause that underscores history without negating the excitement to come. A sense lingers that this is more than a game; it is a ritual of perseverance that will unfold in real time because it matters to everyone present.