Chapter 73: I Told You I Know How to Beat Barça—You Just Have to Trust Me!
When Real Madrid went two goals up before the 70-minute mark, Guardiola already knew—it was time to start thinking about tactics for the second leg.
As someone who had once shared an open and trusting friendship with Mourinho, he had every reason to believe—
Mourinho had at least nine different ways to protect a lead like this. Nine!
If there was a master in world football at pressing the space on the pitch to its limit and setting up a deep-block fortress, it was Mourinho.
But despite this mental calculation, Guardiola didn't wave the white flag. He didn't pull off his attackers or signal a strategic retreat.
Instead, he kept Messi, Villa, and Iniesta on the pitch.
Barcelona needed a vital away goal.
Without one, they'd go back to the Camp Nou trailing by two. And if Madrid grabbed a goal there, Barça would face an almost impossible task.
But if they could snag a single away goal now, a 1–2 defeat would be an acceptable result.
With that directive in mind, Barcelona pushed forward with all they had.
But Mourinho wasn't here to play subtle.
He immediately subbed on Coentrão and Arbeloa, replacing Marcelo and Kaká.
Madrid shifted into a no-nonsense 5-4-1 formation.
Ramos moved from right-back into central defense.
Leon and Alonso remained the double pivot in front of the defense, while Benzema and Di María dropped to the wings.
Even Ronaldo, who usually shirked defensive duties, was now tucked just ahead of Leon and Alonso, helping close down space.
Every Madrid player had made up their mind: they would protect this two-goal lead until the final whistle.
Barça might want an away goal—but Madrid?
They weren't giving them a single breath.
With energy sapped, the match entered the phase where everything came down to mental toughness.
Messi felt it the most.
Leon had clung to him all night, forcing him to expend energy early just to find space.
Now, with the clock ticking past 70 minutes, Messi felt his legs dragging. But somehow, Leon was still buzzing around—tackling, pressing, closing gaps, harassing him endlessly.
Even worse, Leon occasionally popped up just to say something snide or distracting. He was in his face, in his head.
Messi was furious.
He realized—Leon had been luring him into overexertion all game.
But it was too late now.
If he had anything left, it was five or six more minutes of bursts. He had to conserve them for the very end.
So, watching Leon dart around, breaking up rhythm and baiting plays, Messi gritted his teeth and held back.
80th minute.
Guardiola played his final card.
Piqué came on for Abidal, who looked gassed.
Guardiola wasn't just trying to cover for possible Madrid counterattacks—he wanted Piqué's aerial presence for set pieces.
A single late goal. That was the mission.
Mourinho didn't make another change, though.
Instead, he stalked the sideline, barking at every Madrid player to stay connected defensively.
In the backline, Carvalho was nearly screaming himself hoarse.
Despite his declining physicality, having Leon and Alonso covering in front gave him the confidence to fight through to the end.
This was unity like Madrid had never shown before.
Every single player was grinding, scrapping, defending as if their lives depended on it.
As the final minutes approached, and Messi and Pedro took turns trying to break through Madrid's back line, even the most iron-nerved Madridistas were on edge.
They whispered prayers—hoping luck would stay on their side just a little longer.
84th minute.
Messi slipped past Alonso with a clever sidestep and lofted a curling ball into Madrid's box.
Villa charged for the header, but Ramos beat him to it and cleared.
Xavi collected the loose ball and quickly passed back to Messi, who was already demanding it again.
Leon saw it coming and stepped forward.
He and Alonso prepared to trap Messi with a double-team—but Messi didn't fall for it.
He whipped a quick lateral pass to Iniesta, who was darting up the left.
And as soon as the pass left his foot, Messi was off—exploding toward the top of Madrid's box.
Iniesta's return through-ball came perfectly timed, a textbook one-two.
Messi was almost clear.
Just before he could break free for a shot—
Leon grabbed him.
A firm, no-nonsense pull to the turf.
Messi went down hard, and Leon didn't say a word. He stood up, walked calmly to the edge of the box.
The whistle blew, shrill and fast.
Before Barça could swarm the referee in protest, Madrid players stepped in, surrounding the official to prevent a scene.
More whistles followed. The ref raised his hand and motioned Leon forward.
Mourinho, along with the entire Bernabéu, held their breath.
The ref reached into his pocket—
And pulled out a yellow card.
The stadium erupted in relief.
"Yellow card! The referee shows a yellow to Leon! And there's no question about the call!"
Leon had sacrificed a dangerous free-kick for a professional foul—stopping a high-percentage chance for a goal.
It was a calculated risk, executed perfectly.
And it worked.
Mourinho's heart began to settle.
His plan was working.
There was no question—it was a foul. Leon knew it too. He accepted the referee's decision without protest.
Even though Barcelona's players were visibly upset, a professional, tactical foul like that—without malice or danger—hardly warranted a red card. A yellow was strict, but fair.
Leon's calculated pull had denied Messi a clear shooting chance in the final moments, but now Barça had a golden opportunity: a free kick in a dangerous area. The entire stadium held its breath.
Let's see how they handle it.
He Wei's commentary was fast, excited, and filled with nervous energy, clearly reflecting the mood in the stadium. He wanted to praise Leon for making such a smart and decisive defensive play under pressure—but held back.
At least, not until the ball was safely flying over the bar.
At the edge of Real Madrid's penalty arc, Messi and Iniesta both stood over the ball.
It wasn't the ideal range for a free kick—it was just close enough to be awkward for a full swing, but far enough to make pinpoint placement difficult. Still, at this stage in the match, it was Barça's best shot.
After a brief discussion, they took their positions.
Messi locked eyes on the goal, wiped sweat from his brow, and waited for the whistle.
It came.
Iniesta took the first few steps and ran past the ball—a dummy run.
Messi stepped up and curled a left-footed shot toward the top right corner of the goal.
Leon and the rest of the wall jumped. The ball soared just over their heads. Leon's heart leapt in his chest.
He hadn't turned around yet—but then came the roar.
A thunderous wave of celebration from the Madrid crowd.
He finally exhaled.
"Iniesta runs up—it's a dummy! Messi shoots—!!! OH!! CASILLAS!!! Casillas saves it! He punches away Messi's curling free kick!
He denies the Argentine ace once again!
Saint Iker! The captain of Real Madrid stands tall as the last line of defense!
And Madrid—Madrid keeps fighting—until the very end, for a perfect victory!"
Even the usually neutral He Wei couldn't hold back anymore.
As Casillas palmed Messi's near-perfect free kick away, his face twisted with elation, disbelief, and pride.
On CCTV-5, He Wei was known for being composed, impartial—but tonight, in the final minutes of El Clásico, even he had slipped. The excitement was too much.
Of course, few Chinese fans would complain.
After all, Leon had bled for Madrid tonight.
Supporting him was only natural—and wildly satisfying.
Back on the pitch, Casillas had barely gotten to his feet when he shouted to organize the defense for the corner.
Barça weren't going to wait.
Xavi jogged over to take the kick, while the rest of Barcelona's players pressed into the box or hovered around the edge.
Piqué, predictably, became the focus of Real's defensive attention.
Pepe stuck to him like glue, while Alonso hovered nearby, applying pressure and denying space.
Moments later, Xavi made his move—not into the box, but toward the top of the area.
It was a trick play.
All the commotion with Piqué and Keita had been a feint.
Xavi's true target? Iniesta at the edge of the box.
Iniesta received it cleanly and immediately played it square—to Messi, positioned just to the right.
Messi didn't hesitate.
He fired.
And then—he froze.
Because the moment he pulled back his foot, he saw it again:
That face. That silhouette.
Leon.
No flinch, no doubt, no wasted motion.
Hands tight at his sides, Leon threw his chest forward and blocked the shot.
The ball smashed into his ribs and dropped dead on the turf.
He collapsed instantly—flat, clean, deliberate.
There was no theatrical dive. Leon wasn't faking anything. This time, the pain was real.
"Goddamn it, that shot had some power…"
Leon groaned internally, struggling to catch his breath.
He lay there, panting, as teammates rushed over.
Half a minute passed before the pain in his chest subsided enough for him to sit up.
His breathing returned to normal. Slowly, he rose, helped up by Alonso and Kaká.
The Bernabéu erupted once more.
Applause.
Deafening. Continuous. Like rolling thunder.
Leon had played his heart out. And every Madridista in the stadium was proud.
Mourinho stood clapping, his eyes full of emotion.
This was why Leon started for Real Madrid at just twenty years old.
And after tonight, no journalist in the world could question that decision.
The match resumed. But regular time was nearly over.
Barça grew increasingly desperate. Their attacks turned into high, hopeful crosses and long-range bombs.
And that's when Mourinho played his last card:
Lassana Diarra came on for the exhausted Benzema.
With another bulldog in midfield, Madrid locked down the final minutes.
When the final whistle blew, the Bernabéu exploded.
Madrid's players hugged, high-fived, and collapsed into one another.
They were dead tired—but riding high.
They had done it.
2–0. Victory.
Over Barcelona.
There was no better way to describe how Real Madrid fans felt in that moment—it was pure, unfiltered joy.
To shut out Barcelona at home and hold a two-goal lead?
It felt f*ing amazing**.
Mourinho, though, managed to suppress his excitement. After a respectful hug with Guardiola, he let out a deep breath, then turned and walked calmly down the tunnel with his assistant, Karanka.
After all, there were only three and a half days between the two legs of the Spanish Super Cup.
The players and fans could celebrate tonight.
But for the coaches, there was no time to bask in the result. As soon as one game ended, preparation for the next had to begin.
That was true for Guardiola.
And just as true for Mourinho.
No time for frustration or elation.
Only the final whistle of the second leg would determine the true winner.
Until then, staying cool-headed was the priority.
After the post-match press conference—where Mourinho repeatedly emphasized that Real Madrid had not won anything yet and cautioned that the second leg would be even harder—he quickly left the media room.
The following afternoon, Madrid resumed recovery training.
With the Super Cup schedule so tight, the players couldn't even enjoy a full day off.
Fortunately, the sessions on the 15th and the morning of the 16th were light, focused on recovery.
The players gradually regained their physical condition.
The real tactical work began on the afternoon of August 16th.
Then, on August 18th, after their final morning training, Mourinho took the team to Barcelona.
Compared to the mood before the first leg, the squad was much more relaxed now.
Because there was no better confidence booster than victory itself.
Mourinho no longer needed to push the "us vs. them" narrative to spark fire in his players.
Their own hunger to win was enough now.
And tactically?
This time it was simple.
Just like the media predicted—Madrid would play on the counter.
At 9:00 p.m. on August 18th, under the bright lights of the Camp Nou, Real Madrid took the field with a clear mission:
Hold the center. Own the midfield.
Just like in the first leg, if Barça wanted to break through Madrid's setup, they would have to work harder and burn more energy.
And Guardiola? He was already feeling the headache come on.
Sure, Barça had no problem dismantling mid- and lower-table La Liga teams that parked the bus. Their individual skill levels were simply higher.
But Madrid was a different beast.
After a full season of tactical refinement and squad development, this Real Madrid was very, very good.
In terms of firepower, they had outscored Barça for two consecutive seasons, becoming La Liga's most dangerous attack.
Defensively, Mourinho had reshaped the squad with precision.
And with the return of Leon, the new defensive star in midfield, Barça got a firsthand taste of Mourinho's signature midfield meat grinder in the first leg.
So now, seeing Madrid drop deep and refuse to play into their hands, Guardiola had no easy solution.
All he could do was grind.
Take control of midfield, and then hope to break into Madrid's box.
Messi, bearing the hopes of millions of Barça fans, clashed with Leon once again.
And, like clockwork, the psychological warfare began.
Leon's banter and relentless tracking made Messi want to scream.
And true to his word from the first leg, Leon didn't care if Messi beat him 100 times.
He would just keep coming.
Until the final second of the match.
Even though Guardiola tried to free Messi with new tactics—screen plays, off-ball shields—Leon's sticky defense continued to limit him.
Across ninety minutes of fierce battle, Messi still managed an assist and a goal.
He assisted Pedro's opener in the first half and later broke free in the 78th minute to score with a low drive.
At first glance, it looked like Leon had failed to contain him.
But that wasn't the full story.
Leon's marking had been incredibly effective.
Because when it came to Messi's talent, just holding him to one goal and one assist was already a minor miracle.
This was Messi at the peak of his powers.
And yet, Cristiano Ronaldo was right there with him.
In the 67th minute, Ronaldo soared at the back post and headed home a crucial goal.
He nearly added an assist later, only for Benzema to butcher a clear one-on-one—leaving everyone on Madrid's bench in stunned silence.
Still, it didn't matter.
Madrid's 1-2 loss in the second leg, when added to the 2-0 first-leg win, secured a 3-2 aggregate victory.
They were Supercopa champions.
At the final whistle, Mourinho once again stood calmly on the pitch—hands in his pockets, lips curved in a confident smile.
At that moment, aside from the Madrid players celebrating on the field, he was the most dazzling figure in the stadium.
He looked like he had the previous year at the Bernabéu, standing there like a monarch, telling the world—
"I told you I knew how to beat Barça.
You just had to believe me."
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