Then..
Before he ever knew what it meant to wear a crest, Lorenzo Piatelli knew what it meant to hear one.
The Mestalla — when it really came alive — didn't just cheer.
It thundered.
It rumbled through bone.
It made your chest feel too small for your breath.
And that night, from the very top of the east stand, nine-year-old Lorenzo sat in a folding plastic seat, cradling a hot bocadillo, and watched a miracle wearing number 10.
Messi.
Barcelona's Messi.
Argentina's Messi.
His Messi.
Valencia were already two down but it didn't matter.
Because Messi picked up the ball on the right touchline — and then he was gone.
One defender, then another.
A feint, a shimmy, a nutmeg so clean it could've belonged in a ballet.
And then the shot — low, venomous, far post, grazing the paintwork as it whipped past Diego Alves.
The stadium erupted, the away fans outroaring the Mestalla faithful but could they really be blamed?
