Chapter 71: Stick, Pull, Harass—Messi, Don't Run, I'm Your Fan!
"Whoa—Leon just took the ball straight from Messi's feet! Messi's directional change was sharp, but Leon's reaction and timing were just as fast!
He sends the ball back to midfield—such a decisive defensive choice. My God!
Leon is an absolute defensive genius! He's only twenty, and at twenty years old, he's just broken up Messi's solo drive one-on-one!"
The Movistar La Liga commentator roared with praise, his voice echoing with genuine excitement.
From the moment the ball was lost, to the instant he chased back, closed off Messi's cutting lanes, and executed the tackle—Leon had done it all in under thirty seconds.
And in that half-minute, he became the central figure for Real Madrid, dominating the spotlight.
Forget just Movistar—no commentator covering the game could resist praising Leon after that.
But while the broadcast team marveled at his poise, Leon himself felt his heart hammering in his chest.
Going up against Messi in that moment hadn't been as comfortable as he made it look.
For one, despite appearances, Messi wasn't frail at all.
The moment they collided shoulder-to-shoulder, Leon could feel just how solid Messi was—built like a tank, all low center of gravity and raw power.
And then there was the footwork. Leon thought he'd reached out fast enough, but even that had nearly not been enough. Messi had almost slipped past.
"His step frequency is fking insane!"**
Leon cursed inwardly but kept his expression calm.
Then he raised a hand to his temple and gestured at Di María, signaling that he needed to be more alert defensively.
Against world-class attackers, Leon could still use his athletic edge to disrupt them with relentless pressing.
But Messi?
No.
One-on-one showdowns like that were too risky. Not because Leon lacked confidence, but because he understood the consequences. One mistake against Messi could lead to a goal. And in a game like this, one goal was everything.
He needed backup.
If Di María could help track back and cover some ground, it might give Leon that extra second he needed to contain Messi's next run.
Seeing Leon's rare seriousness, Di María nodded sincerely. There was no frustration—just acknowledgment.
After all, they'd been teammates in the Argentine national team for years.
He knew Messi's strengths and how dangerous he was.
If Leon needed help, he'd give it. This was El Clásico. Friendship had no place here. Maybe after the match, they'd joke about Messi destroying him on a run.
But right now? He was playing for Madrid. Alongside Ronaldo, Alonso, and Leon.
This was war.
"That kid's defending is brutal. Did he hit you with a dirty tackle?"
After Thiago broke up Madrid's latest attack and the ball went out for a throw, Iniesta used the lull to check on Messi.
Messi, who had been thinking about Leon's tackle, shook his head after some thought.
"No. He got the ball clean. No studs, no extra contact."
"Huh, that's weird."
Iniesta frowned in confusion. Messi chuckled and waved it off.
"Forget it."
"You want to drop deeper to receive?"
"No need. Once we weather this wave of pressure, it'll be our turn to strike. I'll save my stamina for that."
"Alright."
Madrid finally got the throw-in underway, and Iniesta quickly motioned to Thiago to track back with him.
On the left, Di María passed back to Ronaldo, who started a sharp run forward.
After scanning the field, Di María sent a brave horizontal pass that just slipped past Keita's outstretched foot.
Leon, now upfield, didn't hesitate. Without stopping the ball, he sent a crisp pass straight ahead—to Kaká.
The timing was perfect. Kaká turned smoothly, already surveying his options.
Benzema and Ronaldo were both surging toward the top of Barça's box.
Adriano stepped in to press, but Kaká wasn't interested in engaging.
One touch, a step forward, and then he curled a cross toward the back post.
Benzema's near-post run dragged Abidal and Keita out of position.
And now—Ronaldo, sprinting at full speed, squared up against Mascherano.
"Kaká looks ready to whip it in—at the far post, Ronaldo—!!"
He Wei's voice climbed in pitch as Ronaldo launched himself into the air.
It looked like a certain goal.
But just before the ball crossed the line, Valdés flung out an arm and just barely tipped it wide!
The roar from Madrid fans turned into groans of frustration.
Valdés, dazed and stunned, found himself being mobbed by his teammates.
He had no idea how he stopped that. His body had simply reacted, arms outstretched. Ronaldo's header had been just close enough for a fingertip save.
For Barça's defenders, it didn't matter how lucky it was—Valdés was in the zone, and it gave them belief that they could keep Madrid out.
Ronaldo, meanwhile, kicked the turf in frustration, muttering angrily to himself.
His competitiveness was in full view.
Madrid's players shared in his frustration.
Only Mourinho, after his initial outburst, recovered his focus.
"Push up! Set pieces are our best chance! Pepe, Sergio—Leon! Get in their box!"
Leon, who had scored multiple headers last season at Milan, was now a proud member of Madrid's "aerial force."
In training, he'd already worked on set-piece routines with Ronaldo, Ramos, and Pepe.
So now, following Ramos closely, Leon surged into Barça's box, adding more pressure to their already scrambling defense.
Mourinho was right—this was a huge opportunity.
Barça hadn't started Piqué, so their tallest defender on the pitch was Abidal at 1.86 meters.
Only Keita, at 1.83, was close.
The rest of the team? All under 1.80. Against Madrid's towering lineup, they were physically overmatched.
Guardiola, watching nervously, stepped to the edge of the technical area.
He waved to his players, signaling them to close gaps and deny Madrid's leaping threats space to jump.
Everyone knew what was coming.
A storm in the box.
To put it simply, the best way to neutralize Real Madrid's aerial threat was to break their momentum before the ball ever left the ground.
If Barcelona had to go head-to-head against Madrid's set-piece monsters at peak elevation?
They might as well be asking for trouble.
Di María raised his right arm to signal the play, then jogged a few steps before curling the ball toward the far post of Barça's box.
Cristiano Ronaldo at the near post and Pepe near the center both leaped—but missed the ball.
Further back, Leon and Ramos had already broken through the joint marking of Keita and Dani Alves, using every ounce of strength to leap high.
Leon had the better position—just slightly ahead of Ramos. As he rose, he realized he had a clean shot at the ball. No hesitation.
Ramos might have better heading technique, but in midair, there's no such thing as "deference."
Who could guarantee Ramos would make clean contact if he let it go?
Tightening his core, making a quick judgment, Leon opted for the most reliable move—a redirect header.
But not toward the air in front of goal.
He went lower.
He drove the ball downward—a bounce header, the kind defenders hate most. Harder to read, harder to block.
The ball slammed into the grass inside Barça's six-yard box. It didn't ricochet off a defender like Leon had hoped, but instead bounced up again and headed toward the near post.
Valdés scrambled.
Ronaldo was tangled up with Abidal. Pepe was too far from the post to catch it.
But just then—an all-but-forgotten figure in white stormed into frame, perfectly timed, arriving at the near-post spot—
"BENZEMA!!"
The Movistar commentator roared with passion.
Karim Benzema barely had to leave the ground. He rose slightly and flicked a simple, clean header into the half-empty Barça net.
The ball hit home.
Santiago Bernabéu exploded.
The tension that had suffocated the crowd vanished in an instant, replaced by a thunderous release of pure emotion.
Real Madrid fans roared—not just in celebration of the goal, but in defiance of the pressure, of the expectations, of the ghost of recent Barça dominance.
Mourinho, surprisingly, wasn't swept up in the frenzy.
He didn't jump or pump his fist like when Leon blocked Messi earlier.
In front of the raucous Madrid bench, he was the calmest man there.
He held back the urge to run, to celebrate, to shout.
Instead, he pressed his lips into a line and motioned downward with both hands—settle down.
But the players didn't see it.
Benzema dropped to his knees in a slide by the corner flag, only to be mobbed by his teammates seconds later.
Leon didn't make it into the first wave of celebration, so he turned to Kaká and Xabi Alonso instead, sharing hugs and smiles with the two midfield generals.
When the excitement began to fade, Leon finally caught up to Benzema, exchanging a high five and hug.
"That was perfect, man! Great header! Thanks for the assist, Little Lion!"
Benzema was beaming.
Scoring in a Clásico was ten times more satisfying than netting a hat-trick against anyone else.
Leon grinned and patted his back.
Had he been positioned a little farther forward, he might've gone for goal himself. But it was fine—he'd bagged the assist, and more importantly, Madrid had the lead.
This opening couldn't have gone better.
"Hey! Focus! Calm down—forget the goal!"
Mourinho's shout carried across the field.
Leon looked over to see him tapping his temple, signaling the team to stay sharp.
The message was received.
Barcelona's attack was no joke. One goal wasn't enough. At any moment, they could explode and flip the match.
Madrid players slowly caught their breath and calmed down.
After all, they'd suffered too many humiliating defeats to Barça in recent years. Nobody dared celebrate too soon.
Once the match restarted, Madrid pressed hard for two or three more minutes, but then—on Mourinho's command—they began to drop back.
They'd burned a lot of energy in the opening onslaught. The forwards needed time to recover.
But falling back didn't mean parking the bus.
Mourinho's defense was layered and targeted.
First priority: cut off Iniesta. Don't let him cross half field and dictate the tempo.
Second: double-team Messi. One marker, two in support—no more solo duels. Messi could not be allowed to tear open the defense again.
Third: flood the central and half-space zones. Barça's strength was their interior combinations. Madrid had to deny them that luxury.
This wasn't new. Mourinho had used a similar strategy at Inter to choke out Barça.
And now, with a more talented, younger, and fitter Madrid team, the execution could be even better.
To protect the lead, Mourinho even pulled Benzema back.
Madrid fell into a 4-2-3-1 shape on defense:
Leon and Alonso as a deep pivot.
Di María on the left, Kaká on the right.
Benzema dropped into the central midfield line.
Only Cristiano remained high, spared from defensive duty.
The result?
Barça struggled.
They were forced to expend far more energy trying to penetrate.
And Messi, pinned on Madrid's left channel, was starting to feel the heat.
Because Leon—again—was shadowing him.
But not in the typical way.
Leon stayed about a meter away, not pressing too close. Relaxed, calm.
And while hovering nearby, he started chatting.
"I heard you didn't enjoy playing with Zlatan a few seasons ago. I never asked him about it at Milan—so tell me, were those rumors true?"
"What's Barça's training system really like? People say the academy and the first team all follow the same philosophy. Is it really that uniform?"
"Is it true Wenger almost signed you? If he had just offered more, would Barça have let you go?"
"C'mon, talk to me. My Spanish is decent. Or I can use Italian, if you prefer."
Messi was stunned—and annoyed.
Leon wasn't being aggressive or insulting. He wasn't talking trash.
He was just... annoyingly curious.
And he asked all the wrong questions. Sensitive questions. Questions Messi instinctively wanted to deny or avoid.
Leon wasn't just sticking to Messi.
He was harassing him.
At first, Messi had tried to keep his distance. But when it became clear that Leon had no intention of backing off, and instead was dead set on sticking to him like glue, he finally lost it.
"Stop talking nonsense! Those rumors are all fake! You're a professional player—don't you know how these media people twist everything?!"
"Oh? I thought you weren't going to say anything. But now you seem kind of flustered. If they're fake, why get so worked up?"
"I'm not!"
"You are. Look at you—getting angry already."
"…"
Realizing his emotions were slipping, Messi decided it wasn't worth the verbal sparring anymore. He spun away and dropped deeper, signaling Thiago, who had the ball on the flank, to pass it to him.
Taking the ball from the right wing near midfield, Messi started pushing forward. Leon instantly dropped the chatter and locked in, hugging the Argentine's inside cutting lane as he tracked him all the way back.
Di María, who had been called over by Leon, was almost in position to help when Messi finally made his move.
He didn't want to get boxed in again.
He had to break past this nagging pest—now.
With a dip of his shoulder, Messi faked an inside move. Leon didn't take the bait.
In the next instant, Messi cut outside along the touchline and surged forward with one of his signature bursts.
Leon wasn't nearly as explosive, but he had left just enough space—waiting for this exact move.
Using his positional awareness, he adjusted at the last second and once again managed to stick to Messi's side before completely losing ground.
Messi had barely started his acceleration when Leon's body closed in again. It was awkward. Tight. And frustrating.
And that's when Leon started the real "dirty work."
He tugged on Messi's shirt once—quickly and lightly—just enough to throw off rhythm without attracting attention.
As Messi tried to regain momentum, another pull, and then a swift release.
Pepe, who had read the play well, stepped in and booted the ball away to midfield—clearance complete.
Neither the referee nor the linesman made any indication. Play continued.
Messi angrily slapped Leon's hand away from his waist and muttered a few angry words, but didn't bother appealing to the ref.
He glared at Leon, but there was no point in complaining.
Leon just grinned back at him, all bright teeth and zero guilt.
"Hey, stay and chat a bit! Why are you running, Leo? I'm your fan!"
Leon had successfully disgusted Messi.
Even though his tackles had been clean—not dirty, no studs, no dangerous fouls. At most, he was using some classic midfield tricks—shirt tugs, body positioning.
Compared to the violent tackles Messi had endured in La Liga, Leon's antics were practically gentle.
Still, Messi found himself wishing Leon would foul him—at least then, he might get a warning or a break.
Because Leon was relentless.
Chirpy. Sticky. Infuriating.
Messi couldn't remember the last time a match had left him this mentally drained.
Worse still, he couldn't even ask Guardiola to switch his position.
How would that look? "I want to switch sides because I can't handle Leon's mouth and antics."
If Leon heard that?
Messi didn't even want to imagine the smug look he'd wear next time they met.
Sigh.
Frustrated and unsettled, Messi clenched his jaw.
He had to beat Leon. Clean. Decisive. He needed it for his own peace of mind.
Three minutes later, Barça recycled possession and pushed again.
Keita slotted a diagonal ball through the lines, finding Thiago, who was making a forward run.
With the forwards already in motion, Thiago instinctively looked for Messi—but hesitated—and sent it anyway.
Leon saw Messi's aggressive approach, full of intent, and didn't hesitate.
"Xabi! Come on! Double-team!" he shouted, signaling Alonso to join him.
Messi, seeing Leon already calling for backup, cursed in his head.
Rather than force the issue, he cut the ball horizontally to David Villa, who had slipped into a more open position on the weak side.
Leon felt no shame.
One-on-one? Why bother? If you could outnumber someone, always outnumber them.
Messi could do nothing now. And even if it gave Villa a look at goal, it was worth it.
Because—
He could still track back!
"Villa's in! One-on-one with Carvalho! This is a dangerous chance for Barça! Villa—he's opened up space for a shot!!"
He Wei's commentary ramped up with urgency.
Despite Villa's goal tally dropping since moving to Barcelona, he still knew how to strike when it counted.
Now, he feinted left, created a pocket of space against the aging Carvalho, and aimed for the top-right corner.
Just as his foot made contact, Leon came flying into the frame.
He threw himself into the shot path, lifted his right leg as high as he could, and blocked the shot—full stretch.
The ball slammed into Leon's thigh, and his entire body crashed into the turf.
The impact startled He Wei, who almost cracked his voice.
The shot deflected away from danger. Kaká was the first to recover, booting it out for a throw-in.
But every fan in the stadium was holding their breath, watching Leon lying flat on the grass.
A second later—he rolled over, winced, rubbed his thigh, and stood up.
"Are you out of your mind?! Did you get hurt?! Your back or your lower spine—are you feeling anything?!"
Alonso was the first to reach him, visibly shaken.
Kaká rushed over, concern etched into his face.
Leon had practically flown into that block, going nearly horizontal in mid-air. If he'd landed wrong, his back could've been wrecked.
Leon waved them off.
"Huh? Just a cramp, and that ball stung a bit. I'm good, see? I'm standing."
Seeing Alonso's grim look, Leon quickly clarified. If he'd actually hurt his spine, he'd still be screaming on the turf.
But he wasn't.
He'd won the duel.
And in doing so, he'd denied Barcelona again.
The man behind the stars?
He was still standing.
Even David Villa jogged over behind Alonso, his face filled with concern, asking if Leon was okay.
Once he confirmed that Leon truly was unharmed, he let out a relieved sigh and patted him on the arm before jogging off.
He'd been startled by the scene himself—though it was a shame his shot was blocked by Leon's diving challenge, the safety of the players always came first.
Madrid fans, who had been watching with their hearts in their throats, burst into loud cheers and applause the moment Leon got up from the ground.
But Mourinho wasn't clapping. He wasn't relieved.
He stomped to the sideline and started yelling at Leon, gesturing furiously.
After a few harsh words, he pointed at his eyes, then jabbed a finger toward Leon, making his message crystal clear:
"I'm watching you! One more risky tackle like that, and you can expect a 'chat' after the match!"
Leon scratched the back of his head guiltily. He didn't dare feel wronged or offer any excuses.
Yeah… even thinking back on that dive, he had to admit it was reckless. The urgency of the moment had clouded his judgment.
Watching Leon lower his head and accept the scolding so honestly, Mourinho's frustration softened a little.
This kid… stubborn as hell. He'd insisted on that loan to Milan last year, then came back and pushed himself with brutal off-season training that had Mourinho anxiously checking his medical reports every day.
And now, he was throwing himself into dangerous tackles on the field. Always giving his all, always making Mourinho worry.
Still, at least Leon listened when it mattered.
Back on the pitch, Barcelona took the throw-in and resumed play.
Madrid's players remained aggressive, continuing their pressing, forcing Barça to accelerate their passing rhythm.
And if there was one thing Barcelona excelled at, it was fast, precise ball movement.
Despite Madrid's tight defense, Barça's elite coordination couldn't be completely stifled. It was just going to take more patience, and more time.
And sure enough, with Messi frequently double-marked, other Barça attackers—Villa, Sánchez, and Iniesta—started seeing more of the ball.
In a ten-minute surge, Barça rattled off four shots on goal.
Now, that might not sound like much, but they weren't wild shots. Every attempt came from an actual opportunity.
In other words, Madrid's perimeter defense was starting to crack under pressure.
This wasn't surprising.
Even last season, when Inter played the best anti-Barça game imaginable, they didn't lock down midfield forever.
They retreated in layers, absorbing pressure, breaking Barcelona's stamina bit by bit before parking the bus in front of goal.
This was when Madrid needed two things: a little luck—and a lot of defensive focus and resilience.
But compared to last year's Inter, this Real Madrid had one major advantage:
They had Leon.
The Messi stopper. The gum on your boot. The whisper in your ear.
Inter never had someone like Leon—who could not only disrupt Messi's game physically, but also get inside his head.
Barça could feel it.
Especially Iniesta and Messi.
From Chelsea to Inter, now to Madrid—Mourinho always dragged this suffocating style with him.
Once, they'd hated playing against Chelsea.
Last year, Inter had left psychological scars.
And now?
Madrid was starting to feel just like those teams.
It was infuriating.
Mourinho just wouldn't leave them alone.
Guardiola rubbed his bald head and looked toward Mourinho with a trace of helplessness.
He knew exactly what the man was doing.
But down a goal, what choice did he have?
Fix the midfield balance?
Only after they equalized.
Both teams pushed harder. The battle surged into Madrid's half, then toward the top of the box.
But Madrid didn't buckle.
They bent, and then slowly pushed Barça back again.
Even Barcelona's attackers had to rest. After that burst of offensive intensity, they needed to catch their breath.
Then, out of nowhere, Alonso broke up a pass and lofted a brilliant long ball—right into space behind Barça's line.
Cristiano Ronaldo burst forward, ready to chase it down.
Only Mascherano's perfect recovery and quick clearance prevented a one-on-one with Valdés.
That counter nearly gave Barcelona fans a collective heart attack.
They'd been so hyped by their own team's pressure that they'd forgotten—Madrid thrived on counters.
And this wasn't just any counterattack. This was a system tailor-made for Madrid's current squad.
Realizing the danger, Barça players redoubled their focus on Ronaldo.
As the tempo dipped again, Madrid's defenders, mentally and physically spent, surged one more time—pushing Barça's possession line back toward midfield.
A few minutes later, the referee finally blew for halftime.
At that moment, from the fans to the players to the coaching staff, all of Madrid felt a surge of confidence.
They hadn't just scored first—they'd held firm.
They'd weathered Barcelona's storm. Controlled the tempo at both ends.
It was a rare sight in any Clásico.
And Leon?
With help from Xabi Alonso and Di María, he'd done a masterful job on Messi.
In the pre-match talks, Mourinho had chosen Leon, not Xabi, to shadow Messi—and many Madrid players had doubts.
Sure, Alonso was slower these days, but his defensive instincts were miles ahead of Leon's.
Leon had never marked Messi before. Was he really up to it?
By the end of the first half, every last one of them was convinced.
Mourinho's judgment was once again uncannily accurate.
Leon's quick reactions and smart positioning consistently cut off Messi's trademark dribbles.
His stickiness, his ability to anticipate, made Messi visibly uncomfortable.
It was simple: Leon for Messi.
And that one-for-one trade-off massively reduced Barça's offensive firepower.
It was a game-changer for Madrid.
Even with the team patting him on the back, Leon couldn't escape Mourinho's half-time hairdryer.
Two minutes of scolding—shoulders hunched, eyes down.
Only after the blast did Mourinho soften a bit, offering a few words of encouragement.
Then, during tactical briefing, he fired up the squad, urging them to look for Barcelona's transition gaps in the second half.
Yes, they had a one-goal lead.
But that didn't mean parking the bus.
No.
They were going to flip the script again. Attack the transitions. Hit Barça before they could react.
)
"When they push forward and commit their backline, that's our moment—long balls behind them, straight at their defense! Ángel, Karim, you two need to run. Stretch their backline, draw their defenders, and then—Cristiano—I need you to finish them off. One shot. Kill the game!"
Mourinho poured all his hopes into one final play, putting the entire burden of the finishing blow on Ronaldo's shoulders. And Leon clearly saw the fire in Ronaldo's eyes ignite even more fiercely than before, blazing with pure hunger for the kill.
As the second half began, Barcelona did exactly as expected—they pushed higher, committing even more players forward.
Without even making substitutions, both of their fullbacks advanced up to near midfield. Sánchez and Villa drifted into Madrid's penalty area. At the top of the box, Messi and Iniesta began combining, hammering at the edges, looking for cracks.
This was the moment Leon truly understood just how terrifying Messi was in his prime.
He had picked up some of Messi's habits in the first half—but Messi had also figured out Leon's tendencies.
And now, without worrying about stamina, Messi turned up the tempo, unleashing his unparalleled footwork.
But Leon's mental resilience was something Messi hadn't expected.
Even when he got beat, Leon never gave up. No frustration, no hesitation—he just chased, fought, adjusted, and always came back with another smart challenge.
Of course, Messi had gotten his shots off. Several times he nearly breezed past Leon, carving out spaces to shoot before Leon could recover.
But every one of those shots came from poor angles, rushed windows—none of them truly clean.
They threatened Casillas, but never broke him.
"You can beat me today, Leo. But the winner tonight will still be Madrid. And I'll be right there—hounding you to the very last second."
After forcing Messi into yet another lateral pass, Leon, panting heavily, dropped the grin and spoke with steely resolve for the first time all night.
He didn't care about honor or showmanship. If he couldn't contain Messi with footwork, then he'd do it with effort, with persistence.
Messi's stamina, even in his prime, was never his strongest suit. Leon was going to grind him down, drain his energy in every non-threatening zone.
Even if it meant burning twice—no, three times the energy himself, Leon didn't care.
And Messi felt it.
After 60 minutes of relentless pressure, with Leon still sticking to him like a second shadow, he was mentally and physically worn down.
Then, in the 62nd minute, Guardiola made his move—double substitution.
Xavi and Pedro came on to ramp up the attack even further.
By the 67th minute, Pedro had already made an impact, beating Ramos down the right and whipping a dangerous cross to the back post!
Villa made a brilliant run, slipping between Pepe and the goal—but under pressure, he could only glance his header off the post!
Guardiola, already rising in anticipation, clutched his head in disbelief!
Outside the box, Messi and Iniesta both covered their faces in frustration.
The rebound came straight to Leon, who had hustled back inside the box.
Without a second thought, he cleared the ball to the left wing—a pure safety-first choice.
But then—Marcelo caught up to it before it went out!
Di María and Benzema, legs aching, still forced themselves to sprint forward.
Marcelo turned, saw the opening, and unleashed a curling counterattack long ball with his strong foot!
Xavi shouted orders, calling everyone back.
But it was too late.
Benzema had already set himself near the halfway line, muscling against Keita.
Instead of nodding the ball toward Di María, he redirected it to Kaká, who was charging down the center.
"Pass it!"
Mourinho screamed from the sideline, arms flailing.
Leon also saw it.
A lane—a golden, open route between Kaká and Ronaldo, with only Mascherano scrambling to cover.
If Kaká played it fast and hard enough...
Kaká didn't disappoint.
In perfect rhythm, he sent a low, slicing through-ball across the turf.
Mascherano lunged—but missed.
The ball zipped straight to Ronaldo.
And in that instant, he shook off Abidal.
One touch. Alone with Valdés.
No panic.
He calmly settled, adjusted his angle...
Valdés came charging.
Ronaldo—left footed—side-footed toward the far post.
The ball skimmed the grass, just past Valdés's outstretched leg—
And smashed off the inside of the far post, into the net.
GOAL!!!
The Bernabéu erupted.
Cheers roared like waves crashing from the stands, shaking the stadium, shaking the world.
Ronaldo ripped off his jersey and sprinted along the baseline, screaming with primal triumph.
Tens of thousands of Madrid fans screamed with him, losing all control, all restraint.
Mourinho still tried to stay composed, hands clenched, jaw tight.
But his sparkling eyes gave him away.
And back in Madrid's half, as the celebrating white shirts surged forward—
One figure ran past Messi with a calmer step.
Leon.
Still elated, but more measured, he passed the still, frustrated Messi and leaned in:
"See you next leg, Leo~"
Messi stood rooted in place, hands on his hips, face twisted in disbelief.
And in his heart, a silent scream echoed.
"Next leg? Hell no—
I NEVER want to see you again!"
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