The 85th minute

It’s been just over 20 minutes since Cavani’s away goal killed any real hope of Barça achieving “la remontada”. The comeback.

To my right, my friend Joan is slumped in his seat. His fist over his mouth. As I look around me there are hundreds of others with the same pose.

A couple of rows down, one man has seen enough. He shakes hands with those around him and makes his way up the stairs to my left. He’s about to miss one of the craziest last 10 minutes in the history of sport.

A woman in the row in front of us has been arguing with the two guys sat to the right of Joan. She has sat near me for the last two years. She’s one of “the characters” of my block and can be pretty animated to say the least.

For the last five minutes she’s been berating the referee. She’s not alone in that. But the guys to our right are telling her to be quiet. “Que no importa ahora.” It doesn’t matter now anyway. About 10 minutes later the three of them will be hugging, kissing and taking selfies.

At this point, Barça appear to be playing with two defenders and everyone else up front. It’s a pretty dangerous strategy. Pique is the furthest forward and he’s urging on his teammates. This isn’t over yet.

And weirdly, I get the impression the crowd thinks the same. Somewhere, in the corner of their mind.

There are now only a few minutes left. Barça need to score three goals. And yet the guy who’s just left is in the minority. It occurs to me that hardly anybody is leaving. There’s just a feeling that something might happen.

Football is strange. Sometimes, just sometimes, the stars can align at the right moment and something that should be completely impossible becomes almost.. expected.

At the same venue, and attacking the very same goal in May 1999, it happened to Manchester United. There shouldn’t have been any hope at all that night. And yet if you look at the faces of those behind the goal that night, it’s as if they just knew. This is going to happen.

The 88th minute

There’s a free kick out on the left hand side of the penalty box. Neymar is over it and bends it beautifully into the top corner. It’s a great goal, but the reaction is pretty muted around me. Some fans stay in their seats and clap politely. This pisses off the woman in front of me who tells people to stand up. “Venga!” Come on!

But it’s just a consolation, isn’t it? They still need two more goals in the last minute plus whatever the referee adds on.

At this point the guy sat to my left who’s spent the last 20 minutes screaming insults at Angel Di Maria taps me on my shoulder. He reminds me that at half time he told Joan and I that the game would finish 5-0. “Pero debería haber dicho 6-1.” But I should have said 6-1. Then he turns back to the pitch.

“Venga! Vamos Barça!”

The 90th minute

Playing long ball football is often sneered at. People think about muddy English fields. Pumping it up to the big man. But it can be beautiful if done properly.

Almost immediately after Barça’s fourth goal, I look down and see Messi with the ball in the centre circle. He’s looking up towards the penalty box and sees Suarez make a run. What follows is a deliciously weighted punt into the area that’s possibly only outdone in its accuracy by Neymar a few minutes later.

I don’t really see what happens next, but Suarez is on the floor and the referee is pointing to the penalty spot.

The noise around me is something like “oooaaaahhh”. Hands rest on the shoulders of family, friends, strangers. Everybody is standing up. The woman in front of us doesn’t have to say anything this time.

Neymar is taking it. Why? I’ve seen him miss quite a few penalties and I’m wondering why Messi isn’t demanding the ball. His stuttered run-up confirms to me that this was a bad call.

But then the ball hits the net and in a second everything has changed.

At the end of the game against Celta on Saturday, banners were held up by the ultras behind the goal. Each had a different slogan but the hashtag on them all was the same.

#JoHiCrec. I believe, in Catalan.

Now, everybody around me believes.

For the next few minutes, everyone is hopping on the spot, craning their necks to ensure that they don’t miss a single second of what could happen next.

Ter Stegen, the goalkeeper, is in the box for a couple free kicks and there are some agonising moments when it looks like PSG could break up the field and be faced with an open goal. But the ball stays in the final third of the pitch.

The 95th minute

Ter Stegen is still up in the box when the ball comes back to Neymar outside the penalty area on the right hand side. There are a couple of seconds when he looks up as every player and all of the fans in the steep stands of the arena look on.

Then, like Messi earlier, he lifts the ball into a space between all the outfield players and the PSG goalkeeper in the box.

I don’t see who gets the touch. I just see the net ripple and then a blur of manic, frenzied movement all around me.

There’s a guy on the floor below me to my left, clinging onto his Barça flag, left on the seat before the game. There’s an arm around my neck from behind. Everyone in the immediate proximity has to be hugged. People rubbing the hair of complete strangers. The guy to my left is shouting at me “que te dije?!” What did I tell you?!

He was right.

The two guys to my right and the woman in the row ahead of me, arguing just a few minutes earlier, are hugging each other. There are tears in the eyes of a man behind me who is screaming “Vamos! Vamos!” Come on!

Luis Enrique and other members of the coaching staff are on the floor on the pitch. The game must have restarted but nobody notices. Then there’s another cheer that greats the referee’s final whistle, and that’s it. The hugging continues. People have their hands over their faces.

What have they just witnessed?

The party begins. The club song, Cant Del Barça, is sung with gusto and nobody wants to go home. Thousands of whatsapp messages go off on phones and people struggle to respond to them and jump up and down at the same time.

Then there are a few minutes where it seems nobody is talking at all. They’re just staring down onto the pitch or into their phone. Pleading with it to make some sense out of what has just happened.

As I finally make my way out of Camp Nou about 15 minutes later, I walk up the stairs that I saw the man disappear up about 25 minutes earlier. I pray that he managed to at least find a bar to watch the final few minutes in.

Otherwise, God help him.