#fcbarcelona

You spent years imagining your first day at a big club. You had imagined the training facility, the players, the grass, the noise, the feeling of finally being on the other side of the screen. Those were the thoughts that kept you going, especially on days where the love of capturing almost felt like a chore, and hours of editing stretched into the early morning. Those were the dreams that you held on to, the idea that all of your hard work would eventually lead you somewhere. 

What you didn’t imagine was you lying awake in the bed of your new apartment at the god forsaken hour of 5 in the morning, questioning whether you remembered how to take a photo. You stared at the ceiling and took a deep breath. You knew how to take a photo. Of course you did. Why else would you be here? You knew your camera better than you knew yourself. You had your settings down to tee. You had your editing presets on lock. You knew exactly what you were doing. 

You had hoped. 

5:05 am is what the clock read when you switched on your phone. You had more than an hour before you actually needed to be up. 

Lovely. 

Attempting to let the darkness lull you to sleep once more, you turn over and close your eyes. That lasted about 30 seconds before you started panicking about whether you had everything packed for tomorrow. You begrudgingly left the warmth of your bed and padded over to your camera bag, which sat right in front of your door, exactly how you left it the night before.

You crouched down, laid it flat and unzipped it, running through the checklist ingrained in your mind.

Two Camera bodies? Check.

Extra batteries? Check.

Lenses? Check.

Media accreditation? Check.

Your hoard of memory cards, cables and hard drives? Check. Check and Check. 

Everything was in there, just how you packed it hours prior. You knew everything was there. Still, your eyes scanned over the bag’s contents, as if something were to materialize between the camera lenses. You reached for one of the camera bodies, feeling it in your hands. Familiar weight. Familiar buttons, Familiar dents and scratches built up from years of use. Your finger ran over the shutter. There. That felt right. Maybe you hadn’t forgotten how to do this after all.

You placed the body back in its “home” and zipped up the bag. Everything was ready, and you could finally go back to bed. You stood back up, stretched, and glanced at your phone.

5:18 am.

Right. 

Maybe sleep was still salvageable. 

You made your way back to bed, pulling the covers over yourself and resettling into the warmth you had temporarily and reluctantly abandoned. Phone discarded on the side table. Eyes shut. Nothing. No thoughts. Nada. Just you, and the dark and the hum of the air conditioner. That should have been enough to help you sleep? Right? Apparently not, because your brain had other plans. You attempted to rid your mind of the thoughts. Pushing them far enough so they would stop pestering you. It didn’t work. One thought became two, and they flurried in as if someone opened the floodgates of overthinking. Had you packed enough memory cards? Had you charged your batteries? Had you cleared your memory cards? What if you get in someone’s way? What if your settings were wrong? What if-

5:30 am

That’s the time that blared at you from the screen of your phone. Too harsh and loud for the stillness of your room. You stared at it. You hadn’t slept. Not well enough, that is.

“Fuck this” 

Giving up on the idea of sleep, you threw the covers off and reluctantly dragged yourself out of bed once more. The second you left the warmth of the bed, the air conditioner hit you, and you immediately regretted your decision. The coolness hit your skin, and you stood there, shivering slightly as the reality of being awake at 5:30 in the morning settled in.

Right.

Bathroom. And then coffee. Definitely coffee.

You shuffled towards the bathroom, the bright light doing absolutely nothing to improve your mood. A quick shower, some water on your face, and a few minutes staring at your reflection later, and you were starting to feel more human. Slightly.

By the time you made your way to the kitchen, the sky outside started to lighten, and Barcelona was beginning to wake up. The darkness that had previously filled your apartment was slowly giving way to a bluish-grey glow. You started the kettle for your cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, waiting for it to do its thing. The apartment was quiet, except for the occasional sounds drifting in from the street below. A car passing by, a storefront shutter being pulled open. Footsteps against the pavement. You took your first sip. Better. Much better.

Coffee now in hand, the next task was getting dressed. Something simple, comfortable, and presentable for a first day. Nothing too formal. Nothing too casual. Practical. That was the goal. A glance in the mirror. Good enough. 

The time on your phone read 6:18 am. Plenty of time. Almost suspiciously, plenty of time. One last sweep of the apartment followed. 

Phone.

Wallet.

Keys.

Accreditation.

Camera bag.

You paused by the door, looking at it for a moment. All that was left to do was actually leave. Hand on the door handle, you took a breath. This was it. No more imagining, no more wondering, no more day-dreaming of what your first day would feel like. It was here, and you were about to embrace it. You pulled the door open.

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The training center looked a lot different than it did in your head.

For years, you’d imagined the place from photographs and videos. You’d pictured the pitches, the buildings, the players driving through the gates. None of it had prepared you for actually standing there. Your accreditation snug in your pocket. Your camera bag hug from your shoulders. And for the first time that morning, you didn’t need to wonder whether you belonged here. You were here. Now you just needed to figure out where the hell you were going. 

You looked around. There were buildings in every direction, pathways branching off towards, who knows where, and absolutely no indication of where a photographer was supposed to be. No wonder it’s called the Ciutat Esportiva, because it’s like a mini city in itself. Except unlike an actual city, there were no bloody signs telling you where to go.

You were just about to pull out your phone and try to make sense of the directions you’d been given, when a familiar face caught your eye. Sarah. Finally. A person you’d actually recognized. You’d seen her before through the club’s media content, but seeing someone in a place this overwhelming felt like a small win. 

“Sarah?” She turned around at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, you must be-“ your name followed, accompanied by a smile of recognition.

“First day?”

“Is it that obvious?”

Her eyes briefly glanced towards your camera bag.

“A little.”

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally beginning to ease.

“I’m supposed to report to the media team office, but I’ve already managed to get lost.” 

“You’ve been here for, what, 10 minutes?”

“Less”

Sarah laughed. 

“Come on. I’ll show you where we are.”

You fell into step beside her, taking in more of the facility as you went. The further you walked, the more familiar the sounds became. A whistle in the distance. Boots against concrete. A ball being struck somewhere beyond the buildings. Voices calling to one another across the pitches. Your nerves began to settle. This part, you knew. 

Sarah led you through another set of doors and into the media team’s office. The space was far too alive for how early it was. People were already moving between desks, conversations happening over one another, keyboards clicking, screens already lit up with footage and photos from yesterday’s session. So much for being early. 

Sarah gestured towards an empty desk. “You can set up here.” You nodded, placing your camera bag down beside the chair. Another familiar ritual. Unzip the bag, check the batteries. Check the memory cards. Cameras out. There was something oddly comforting about it. The same little routine you’d countlessly followed without fail, just in a place you’d spent years imagining. Except this time around, the voices weren’t coming from a screen. They were right in front of you. 

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Sarah pulled up a chair beside you, breaking into your mental checklist you’d already started making. 

“Right, let me run you through how things work around here”

You turned your attention towards her, camera bag still open at your feet. She gave you a quick rundown of the basics. Where you could shoot from. Which areas were off limits, when you could move around the pitch, and when you needed to stay put. Oh, and who you’d be working alongside. Nothing complicated. Just enough information to make sure you didn’t accidentally wander into somewhere you absolutely weren’t supposed to.

“Training starts in about fifteen minutes,” Sarah said, glancing at the time and then back at you with a small reassuring smile. “It’s preseason, so sessions are bound to run a little bit longer than usual. They’ll probably finish with a game, so you’ll definitely want to stay on the pitch until the end.”

You nodded, making a mental note. 

Preseason. That explained the chaos in the media team office. The people rushing between desks and the constant stream of information being thrown your way. 

Fifteen minutes. 

You feel a weird twisting sensation in your stomach.

Right. 

So, this was actually happening. 

You close up your camera bag, shove it under the table, and double check the your cameras one last time before you head out. 

Time to meet the players. 

The walk from the media office to the training pitches suddenly felt a lot shorter than the way in. As you got closer, the space began to fill with movement. Staff crossing between buildings, Equipment being carried onto the pitch. The hum of conversation echoing in the stairwell. The faint clacking of boots against the concrete as they made their way outside, some eager to get into the routine, others still waking up.

One by one, they started filtering their way onto the pitch, exchanging quiet “bon dia’s” with staff as they passed. A few stopped to chat, others simply offered a nod or a quick greeting before making their way towards the rest of the team. 

You recognized almost every face. And, oddly enough, you felt a little guilty for it.

These were people you were supposed to photograph, not people you were meant to know. Faces you had memorised, after years of seeing them on screen, on match reports, and in photographs, in passing moments you were never meant to think twice about.

Except they were here. Right in front of you. In the flesh. 

Walking past you like it was the most mundane occurrence in their day. 

You had to remind yourself that you were here to do a job. To them, you were just another person with a camera. Nothing more. And that was fine. 

At least, it would be, once you stopped staring at everyone, as you’d somehow forgotten how to act around people. 

Bringing the camera up to your face and alinging you eye with the viewfinder, the world narrowed down the barrel of your lens. Everything outside the frame seemed to fade into the background. And just like that, you were working again. 

The first few shots came almost instinctively. A player stretching near the touchline. Two teammates laughing over something you couldn’t quite make out. A quick exchange between one of the coaches and a player before training officially started. 

Click.

Adjust.

Click.

Adjust.

The nerves that sat in the pit of your stomach all morning slowly started to dissipate. There was no time to register who was standing in front of you. No time to be star-struck. You were already looking for the next shot. This was familiar. This was easy.

Or, at least, that’s how it felt behind the camera. 

You shifted your position, searching for another angle, and let the viewfinder guide your eye across the field. 

A figure moved into the edge of your frame. You adjusted your focus.

Click.

Someone attempted to slide tackle in the middle of the rondo. 

You paused. 

Who the hell slides tackles in a rondo this early in the morning?

Apparently the answer was him. 

Except he was still on the floor from his first attempt when he went for the ball again. 

You blinked. Surely not. 

His foot missed. Then his other one slipped from underneath him, and suddenly he was threatening to do the splits in the middle of the rondo. 

Stifling a giggle, you stared through the viewfinder.

It wasn’t even 9 in the morning. 

The players around him burst into laughter. Your finger found the shutter.

Click.

The shutter fell silent. 

You lowered the camera for a second, attempting to compose yourself.

Professional. You were here to be professional.

That was until the corner of your mouth betrayed you. 

The player scrambled back onto his feet, brushing himself as the laughter around slowly died down. 

Whatever had just happened was apparently already forgotten. 

The ball was back in motion. You raised your camera again.

Click. Another frame. Then another.

A few minutes in, the nerves were long forgotten. The camera had done what it always did for you, something to focus on. Framing. Timing. Movement.

The moments in between. 

You followed the ball as it moved around the circle, occasionally catching glimpses of the same player out of the corner of your frame and still causing trouble. At least he was giving you plenty to photograph. 

By the time the session moved on from the rondo, the morning had settled into a rhythm. Drills. Passing exercises. Small-sided games. Coaches calling instructions from the sidelines. Whistles cutting through the chatter. The familiar back-and-forth of a training session. The kind of rhythm you could lose yourself in without even thinking. 

You moved around the pitch with the rest of the media team, changing positions when you needed to, switching lenses between shots, occasionally checking the images you’d already taken. 

A laugh between teammates. A particularly clean pass. A drive into the box. A well-timed tackle. A save from the goalkeeper. The little moments in between drills that made the session feel alive. 

As the morning progressed, the drills gradually started winding down, signalling the final part of the session. A game. Nothing too complicated, just a final competitive run-out before training wrapped up. Nothing you weren’t familiar with.

The change in pace was almost immediate. The players spread out across the pitch, the casual energy from drills replaced with a little more intensity. Even in training, there was something different about the way they moved when there was a game involved.

You once again adjusted your position along the sideline, camera already raised. 

This was going to be fun. At least, until someone inevitably tried to take a leg off

The game started fast. The ball moved across the pitch in a blur of quick passes, sudden runs and hard challenges that were probably a little more commited that neccesary. You followed the action through the viewfinder, shifting along the touchline as the play moved. 

Click. A clean pass.

Click. A tackle.

Click. A shot towards goal.

Everything happened quickly, but that was what you liked about it. No posing, no waiting for the perfect moment to happen. Just instinct, timing and being ready when it did

Another attack started on the opposite side of the pitch.

Your lens followed the movement, waiting for the play to come back into frame. 

A quick pass opened up the space. A run down the wing. Click. The shot was blocked. The ball bounce loose, getting kicked back into play almost immediately. You followed it instinctively, camera still pressed to your face. 

Another pass. Another run.

The ball was sent back across the pitch, sailing a little higher this time. You tracked it through the viewfinder. Then it disappeared from the frame. You blinked, trying to find it again. 

Until-

“¡Cuidado!”

There wasn’t enough time to lower your camera. 

Smack. 

The ball slammed onto the top of your head. You froze. 

For one glorious second, your brain seemed to forget how to process what exactly just happened. Then the pain hit. “Ow-“

Now it had been a while since you had taken a ball to the head. It was a fairly normal part of playing football, but least of all did you expect it to be here of all places. Of all the things you’d spent the morning worrying about, getting hit in the head with a football had somehow never made the list.

First came the dull ache that spread across the top of your head, the kind that instinctively made you reach up and rub the spot even though you knew it wasn’t going to help. Your eyes then immediately dropped to the camera still hanging from its strap around your neck. Still intact. Good. 

At least something had survived the impact. 

Then came the laughter. 

Not of the cruel variety. Mostly the kind that slipped out when something unexpectedly happened that nobody quite knew what else to do.

“Are you alright?” Someone called out. 

You blinked through the lingering ache, still rubbing the top of your head. 

Before you could register who was checking up on you, Szczęsny’s voice cut across the pitch. “Oi! Eric, Don’t Kill the photographer!”

The laughter only got louder. You blinked. 

Eric. 

Right. 

Eric García

The name immediately clicked with the face. You recognized Eric from years of watching Barça games, seeing him appear on your screen week after week, sometimes for ninety minutes, sometimes for only a few moments, 

Except now that familiar face was on its way over to you, looking rather sheepish after launching a football directly onto your head. 

Apparently this was how you found out what he was like before noon. Slide tackles in rondos. Accidental splits and now footballs to the head. 

Good to know. 

Eric stopped a few feet in front of you, still looking mildly horrified. “Are you okay?”

You gave him a quick nod, still rubbing the top of your head. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You managed with a dry laugh. 

Eric let out a small laugh. “Good”

Someone called his name from the pitch. He looked over his shoulder before turning back to you. 

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” 

He gave you a quick nod before jogging back towards the game. Just before he turned away, his gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary. 

You barely thought twice about it

Alright.

Back to work.

The game carried on around you, as though nothing had happened. The players slipped back into position, the ball moving back and forth between them as the final few minutes of training began to wind down. 

You stayed by the sideline, camera back against your eye, letting the familiar rhythm take over again. The shouting from the pitch had softened, replaced by the occasional call between teammates and instructions from the coach. 

The final whistle sounded, and the game broke apart immediately. 

Players slowed to a walk, some exchanging a few words with their teammates, others making their way towards the sidelines as the coaches called them in. The energy that had filled the pitch only moments before slowly gave way to the more relaxed atmosphere that only comes at the end of training. 

You lowered your camera and let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding on to. For a moment, you simply stood there, taking it all in.

Your first morning at Barça.

You’d gotten lost on the way to the media office. Almost made a fool of yourself trying not to stare at players you’d spent years watching on a screen. Spent the good part of the morning photographing a particular defender attempting to destroy himself in the rondo. 

And then, naturally, taken a football to the head. 

All before noon. 

Quite the first day. 

You rubbed the top of your head again, finding the dull ache still lingering there. 

“Cuidado”, you humorously muttered under your breath, 

You looked down at your cameras, checking them one last time before fumbling with their lens caps. Still intact. Small wins.

Around you, the players began to make their way off the pitch, disappearing back towards the stairwell in small groups. 

As you slung your cameras around your shoulders, you caught a side of Eric again. He glanced back in your direction. Just for a moment. Then he disappeared inside with the others. You barely registered it.

You followed the media team back towards the building. The morning sun warming your back as the whirr of the sprinklers quickly replaced the quiet of the pitch, the silence having lasted barely a few seconds before the familiar sounds of the training centre returned. 

First day down.