Chapter 117: Equalized by a Header? We're Not Bayern Munich!
Such a brilliant start inevitably sent Real Madrid fans into euphoria.
Most people—neutral fans included—had expected Madrid to score first, but no one had imagined it would come so early.
And that early goal was a huge advantage for Madrid, because it meant Chelsea's most dangerous weapon—counterattacks—would now be much harder to execute effectively.
It was simple: Real Madrid had taken the lead, and with Mourinho on the bench, why wouldn't they now sit back and fish for counters themselves?
If Mourinho had continued to press aggressively after going ahead, people might've accused him of losing his mind or just showboating.
But he didn't give the fans a chance to question his tactics.
From the sideline, he calmly issued tactical adjustments, starting with Arbeloa, who passed the message on across the back line.
By the time Leon and his teammates jogged back to their half after celebrating, they ran straight into the instructions being passed on by their teammates.
Essien heard the message first—he was pleased, but also felt a pang of sadness.
Pleased because Mourinho knew Chelsea inside out.
Sad because he knew too well—so well, in fact, that he would leave no room for Chelsea to breathe.
Essien knew his old friends were walking into a trap.
And this time, he was on the other side.
"Real Madrid seem to be shifting formation. Mourinho's tactical response is quick—Cristiano and Di María have dropped deeper. It's a 4-2-3-1 now! Mourinho wants to hit Chelsea on the counter!"
He Wei had just shaken off his excitement enough to calmly analyze the situation again.
He noticed the shift instantly—Mourinho had flipped the switch.
Madrid's core starting eleven was flexible.
In a 4-3-3, they dominated midfield duels and applied pressure as a cohesive front three.
In a 4-2-3-1, with Leon dropping deeper beside Alonso, they had a sturdy double pivot shielding the back line.
Essien also withdrew, turning Madrid's backfield into a wall of interceptors.
With Alonso now free to launch long passes after regaining possession, Madrid could toggle between two powerful systems at will.
This versatility gave them a tactical edge no other team could match.
Meanwhile, on Chelsea's bench, Di Matteo was still debating with his assistants whether to switch to a 4-4-2 and press higher.
But Madrid had already settled in. Mourinho needed only a hand signal.
Thankfully for Chelsea, their veterans knew what to do.
After kickoff, Lampard dropped deeper to support Mikel, directing Mata and Ramires to push forward.
Lampard's football IQ was on full display—he sacrificed his own positioning to free up Ramires, who was in top form.
With more players getting into the final third, Chelsea's offense finally looked like something.
But Madrid's defense was prepared.
Drogba was strong holding the ball outside the box, but he couldn't help his teammates crack Madrid's flanks.
Marcelo and Arbeloa were too fast to beat for pace, and they had backup—Alonso and Leon were always ready to plug gaps.
Ramires and Kalou couldn't outmuscle Madrid's midfield.
Their wing play was shut down.
Madrid's defense of the half-space—the area just outside the box on either side—was surgical.
They had learned from Barcelona's mistake.
Against Barça, Chelsea had punished Busquets with quick through balls that exposed his lack of speed.
But Madrid had Essien and Leon, both fast and strong.
Add in Ramos' mobility, and there was no way Chelsea were getting through in one pass.
From the wings to the center, Madrid's defense was orderly, and every player knew their job.
More importantly, no one underestimated Chelsea.
Barça had gotten cocky. Madrid wouldn't make that mistake.
Even with the lead, they stayed focused.
After all, Barça had gone up two goals and still lost.
Madrid players knew: a 2–0 lead against Chelsea wasn't safe.
Not even close.
So when Mourinho changed tactics, Madrid locked it down—so much so that even Chelsea fans grew anxious.
"Weren't they supposed to go all-out attack?"
"Weren't they going to press us like crazy?"
"Why does it feel like we can't even breathe, and they're the ones waiting to pounce?"
Di Matteo was sweating on the touchline, wiping his brow every few seconds.
Five minutes passed. He had no answers.
Ten minutes. Still no solution.
He saw Madrid's backline force Drogba into hold-up play, then swarm him in a two-man press.
So much for long balls.
Di Matteo gave up on the aerial strategy—for now.
He couldn't outgun Madrid.
And Mourinho had crafted a nearly flawless tactical blockade.
There was only one thing left: set pieces.
Chelsea had aerial threats too.
And only on set pieces could they negate Madrid's superior individual quality.
So Di Matteo gave the order—draw fouls. Get corners. Earn free kicks.
Mata and Kalou began driving at defenders, trying to draw fouls.
Leon quickly realized what was happening and marked Mata tighter, trying to avoid contact.
But on the other flank, Alonso had no choice.
Faced with Kalou and a dropping Drogba, he committed a tactical foul.
Just once or twice—but it gave Chelsea a chance.
Mourinho wasn't surprised.
Di Matteo had learned his trade in Serie A. He knew how to build tactical traps.
Mourinho didn't claim to know Chelsea's current set-piece routines anymore—it had been years.
But he knew exactly who the danger men were.
He had drilled the team to stay alert to Drogba and Terry.
And he'd issued special instructions to watch Ivanović—that deceptively powerful fullback.
So when Chelsea prepared for a corner, Madrid pulled everyone back.
Even Benzema and Ronaldo dropped in to mark.
They gave Chelsea full respect.
Drogba got a double-team.
Every aerial threat had a shadow.
Mourinho was still slightly uneasy.
But he knew—his players were ready.
Mourinho had even prepared for the worst: if they started losing air duels during set-piece defense, he was ready to have Álbiol warm up.
The plan? Sub Álbiol on for Arbeloa, push Ramos to the right flank, and raise Madrid's aerial defense capabilities by a notch.
But soon enough, Madrid's discipline on set pieces erased all doubts.
They were sharp.
Every Madrid player contested aerial balls with total commitment.
Even if they didn't win the first ball, Chelsea's attackers were under such heavy pressure they could barely get clean contact.
Two straight Chelsea set-pieces were neutralized with this intensity, allowing Madrid fans to exhale in relief.
Drogba was frustrated.
He still had power in his legs, even at his age.
But how could he win anything when Pepe and Ramos took turns double-marking him?
And knowing this defensive trap had likely been designed by Mourinho himself only deepened Drogba's bitter smile.
Each failed attack chipped away at Chelsea's confidence.
And every time they lost the ball, Madrid's counterattacks grew sharper.
Everyone knew Ronaldo was sacrificing his usual role to play the decoy.
But when he did get the ball on a break?
Chelsea's backline panicked.
Because while most decoys are limited players forced to play supporting roles, Cristiano Ronaldo was a supernova.
If you didn't double him up instantly, he could kill you in a second.
So on multiple counters, Ronaldo drew defenders in before dishing the ball out wide.
It worked every time—Benzema and Di María each got a clear shot.
Benzema's close-range effort was blocked by Čech, and Di María's curled effort whistled just wide.
They were good chances.
Just needed a touch more luck.
But with this kind of pressure piling up, a second Madrid goal felt inevitable.
Chelsea fans watching in the stands were on edge.
So were their players.
Finally, in the 37th minute, Di Matteo committed.
He pushed Kalou forward to join Drogba, switching to a 4-4-2.
Ramires slid to the left wing, Mata stayed on the right, and Lampard and Mikel anchored the midfield.
Classic English football: one tall striker, one speedster, and a long-ball setup.
And it worked.
Because no matter how good Madrid's system was, Drogba's hold-up play was just that effective.
Leon and Essien rotated marking him, doing just enough to prevent him from turning.
But could they fully shut down his ability to dish passes?
No. Not without fouling.
And Madrid were desperate to avoid giving away free kicks.
So each time Drogba received the ball and laid it off, Leon and Essien had to sprint back to cut off the next runner.
This dropped their efficiency, and suddenly Chelsea found room on the flanks.
With Drogba pulling attention and Kalou sneaking in behind, Madrid couldn't afford to leave him unmarked.
This forced Mourinho to drop the line deeper.
In the 45th minute, with stoppage time ticking on, Lampard hit a long diagonal ball—not to Drogba this time, but out wide to Ramires.
Arbeloa rushed to meet him. Alonso tracked back.
But Ramires had already linked up with Ashley Cole on the overlap.
Don't let his age fool you—Cole's technique was still there.
He beat the line and whipped in a dangerous, curving cross.
Drogba, lurking at the back post, had drifted out of sight—then suddenly cut in hard.
Ramos was watching Kalou.
That left Pepe in a 1-on-1 with Drogba.
Big mistake.
The African Beast bullied the younger center-back and rose for a thunderous header.
It should've been a goal.
But Casillas exploded off his line, punching the shot away with lightning-fast reflexes.
The ball screamed off Drogba's head like a cannonball, but Saint Iker's gloves were solid, pain or not.
"Ashley Cole's cross! Drogba—OH!!! Casillas! SAAAAAINT IKER BLOCKS DROGBA'S BULLET HEADER!!!
Arbeloa clears it! Alonso! Madrid on the break!!"
In an instant, He Wei's voice shifted from shock to exhilaration.
Madrid launched forward like wolves.
Casillas had lit the fuse.
Alonso's long pass found Benzema, who held off Mikel and flicked it to Leon on the charge.
Leon surged forward, brushing off Mikel's desperate tug.
Then—a perfect through ball, right into the acres of space behind Ashley Cole.
Di María was already sprinting.
Faced with Terry, Di María didn't overthink it—he whipped in an early cross with his weaker foot.
Cristiano was already moving.
Cahill tracked him tightly, but Ronaldo didn't shoot.
Instead, he adjusted his body and headed the ball back into the center of the box.
Leon was there.
Just past the penalty spot.
No time to think.
Terry slid over—fast.
Leon steadied himself, took a deep breath—then struck with everything he had.
All that muscle memory from penalty drills kicked in.
Čech froze.
"He's shooting from there?!"
Every fan—Madrid, Chelsea, neutral—thought the same thing.
"He's really shooting from that spot?!"
Why not just aim for a corner?
Why risk blasting it over?
The crowd gasped.
But the Madrid bench had no doubt.
Leon didn't miss from the penalty arc anymore.
Not lately.
Out of ten?
He scored eight.
And this… this was one of them.
The ball screamed forward, smashed the underside of the bar, and rocketed into the net.
Čech reached out—but he was already too late.
Leon roared, sprinting along the baseline.
"Equalized by a header? What kind of joke is that?!
We are NOT Bayern Munich!"
We are Real Madrid!
We are the Kings of Europe!
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