Chapter 158: Guardiola in Meltdown—Is Barça in Trouble?
December 16th, 2012, marked the grand finale of the footballing year.
Calling this the "Year of Real Madrid" would not be an exaggeration in the slightest.
With six major trophies under their belt, every Real Madrid player could rightfully call themselves a winner in life.
For players like Alonso, Ramos, Casillas, and Arbeloa—key members of both Madrid and the Spanish national team—it was perhaps the most complete, fulfilling year of their entire careers.
Every competition they participated in, be it club or international, ended with a title.
It was, undeniably, their personal peak.
But in East Asia, Li Ang was the one commanding all the attention from fans and media alike.
If Park Ji-sung once set the bar for Asian players in Europe, proving they could succeed on the continent's biggest stages, then Li Ang had now completely smashed that ceiling.
A sextuple in a single calendar year—as a starter, no less, and a key player in multiple finals.
That wasn't just extraordinary—it was historic.
Asian sports media across the board agreed: there was no need to wait until Li Ang's retirement to compare him with Asia's footballing legends.
Cha Bum-kun, Park Ji-sung, Hidetoshi Nakata—they'd been surpassed.
After this sextuple, comparisons were obsolete.
Li Ang was now Asia's undisputed number one.
No filler appearances, no riding the bench.
Real contributions, real trophies—every accolade fully earned.
Even South Korean media, usually guarded, didn't challenge his status as Asia's current top player.
Their only attempt to save face was pointing out that Cha Bum-kun and Park Ji-sung still had the edge in career goals and total trophies—for now.
But before Chinese outlets could even clap back, Japanese media had already responded.
"What's wrong with just admitting the facts? Or does Korean media truly believe Li Ang won't surpass Park Ji-sung's career trophy count at Real Madrid?
And comparing a midfielder's goal tally to a forward's? That's as disingenuous as it gets."
Naturally, such remarks sparked another online war between Korean and Japanese fans, leaving Chinese media somewhat baffled.
"Wait a second... He's our player. Why are you two arguing?"
So while Japan and Korea went at it, China's media happily focused on praising Li Ang.
Champions League final: goal and assist.
Copa del Rey final: first to step up in penalties—scored calmly.
UEFA Super Cup: second-leg goal.
Club World Cup: scored in both matches.
You'd be hard-pressed to find any flaw in that résumé.
Li Ang's consistent brilliance in big games earned him the nickname "Mr. Big Game."
And the name was well-deserved.
He was someone you could justifiably hype up.
For football purists and tacticians, his two-way impact—defensive anchoring and reliable passing—made him irreplaceable.
His incredible work rate and availability alone were enough to make him essential.
For newer fans and "stat-chasers," it was even easier.
Big games? Goals.
Key moments? Assists.
Heroic numbers? Delivered.
Fans love clutch players.
Li Ang, who preferred team victories and group cohesion, didn't focus on stats.
But fans and media didn't care.
They loved comparing individuals.
They wanted narrative.
So they crowned him a hero—the hero.
By the time he left Japan, Li Ang had already experienced the full brunt of that adoration.
Before the glow of Madrid's sixth title could even fade, he had to face the fans who had fallen head over heels for him during the tournament.
At a short fan meet-and-greet held with Cristiano Ronaldo, the two were easily the most popular players in attendance.
Photos, signatures, hugs—the whole nine yards.
Li Ang handled it professionally, following club protocol.
But go above and beyond? Smile more? Act extra friendly?
Not likely.
If this event had been in China? Sure. He'd have stayed four hours if needed.
But here? Japanese fans were getting politeness—and that was enough.
No hard feelings.
He wasn't here for business, endorsements, or marketing.
No need to pretend.
He didn't bother with a few basic phrases of Japanese like some teammates had.
The club's international PR staff noticed and didn't push him, respectful of his comfort.
Ironically, Japanese media and fans still gave him glowing reviews—calling him "polite and well-mannered."
After one final meal in Japan on the afternoon of the 17th, the squad boarded their flight back to Madrid.
Another 12-hour haul.
By the time they landed, most players were fighting off sleep.
But it was still only 4 p.m. local time in Madrid—sunny and bright, even in winter.
Hundreds of fans were waiting at the airport.
After a brief celebration—trophy raised, chants sung—they boarded buses for Cibeles Square.
Waiting on the buses?
The other five trophies.
Seeing them all together brought huge smiles to every player's face.
It wasn't an end-of-season celebration, so the setup was modest.
A single elevated stage.
Thousands of fans.
Dozens of flashing cameras.
Madrid's first-team players walked out to roaring cheers, followed by Mourinho, Karanka, Rui Faria, and fitness coach Pintus.
Then came President Florentino Pérez, delivering brief but heartfelt congratulations.
The crowd's energy hit its peak.
All six trophies lined up at the front of the stage.
In front of them, a row of kneeling players.
Behind them, a line of standing players.
Coaches flanked either side.
But just as the media were ready to take the official photos, Li Ang and a few teammates exchanged a glance—
Then, with perfect timing, they each pulled out a small plush doll from behind their backs and placed them at their feet.
Reporters squinted, zoomed in—then burst into laughter and awe.
Each doll bore the face of a former Real Madrid player.
Kaká.
Khedira.
Gago.
Granero.
Lass Diarra.
Even almost-forgotten names like Altintop and Sahin.
All players who had left during the Mourinho era.
Clearly, this had been planned internally—Florentino and Mourinho were caught completely off guard.
But moments later, both understood.
And began to clap.
The crowd erupted.
The world says Real Madrid has no soul, no sentimentality.
But in that moment?
They proved otherwise.
From certain transfer dealings, it's not hard to see why some people say Real Madrid lacks sentimentality.
But at least today, this group of Real Madrid players showed the world that they do have heart—that they are united, and they don't forget their own.
This sextuple belonged to them.
But they didn't forget the brothers who had left.
No matter how big or small their contributions were, this historic achievement had their fingerprints on it too.
For the first time ever, the full Mourinho-era Real Madrid squad, past and present, stood united in front of the media's lenses.
The moment was both historic and deeply moving, tugging at the heartstrings of everyone present.
Mourinho himself felt emotional.
He had thought about those who had left—some because they didn't fit his system, yes, but he still appreciated all of them.
Every player who departed under his tenure had been given chances.
Sure, some left with bitterness, but with time, that resentment had faded into understanding—and respect.
To see them symbolically return to the celebration through those small player dolls brought Mourinho a sense of closure.
Florentino Pérez, standing beside director Sánchez, leaned in to whisper something.
Whatever it was, judging by Sánchez's delighted smile, it was clearly good news for Real Madrid.
The evening celebration came to a close in a wave of fanfare and emotion.
The players were happy, of course, but utterly drained.
After the event, Li Ang was driven home by his assistant—and the moment he stepped through the door, he collapsed straight into bed.
From 10 p.m. that night to nearly 11:30 a.m. the next morning, he slept like a rock.
And, of course, their gesture from the night before—those little dolls and the six glittering trophies—made headlines all across Europe.
The trophies themselves drew eyes, but the plushies of former teammates stole the spotlight.
Upon hearing about the tribute, former Mourinho-era Madrid players were all deeply touched.
Li Ang even received thank-you messages from Kaka and "Face Brother" (Granero).
After replying, he finally got out of bed and cleaned up.
His personal nutritionist had already prepared lunch.
It was an off day—training wouldn't resume until the morning of December 19th.
But Li Ang only needed half a day to recharge. After his hearty pre-training meal, he drove himself to Valdebebas.
His long-pass stat had quietly broken through the 84 threshold after the Betis match.
He felt like his progress had picked up pace lately, and couldn't sit still—he wanted to push his long-passing skill to 85 during the winter break.
That was his current milestone. Once achieved, he'd shift focus to the next technical area.
Having clear targets kept him grounded.
Seeing Li Ang show up at the training ground as promised brought a sense of reassurance to Mourinho.
The next match? A clash against fourth-placed Málaga, who had just advanced to the Champions League knockout stage.
Before the Club World Cup, Mourinho wouldn't have worried.
Even away from home, a full-strength Madrid could take care of Málaga.
But now? After a long trip, jet lag, and physical fatigue?
Mourinho couldn't guarantee a smooth win anymore.
Luckily, Li Ang was back to his usual dependable form. As long as he held the midfield defensively, Madrid would have a sturdy foundation.
The whole coaching staff breathed a sigh of relief.
Over the next four days, the regular starters gradually returned to rhythm.
But Mourinho wasn't completely satisfied.
Di María and Arbeloa were dealing with light muscle strains.
Alonso, suffering from fatigue, was advised by the medical team to sit out the next match entirely.
That complicated things.
Still, as long as Cristiano Ronaldo, Li Ang, Pepe, and Ramos were fit, Mourinho could work around it.
All eyes across Spain were locked on La Liga's final round before the Christmas break.
Málaga vs. Real Madrid, Valencia vs. Getafe, Valladolid vs. Barcelona—these fixtures were drawing massive attention.
But on the eve of these matches, AS dropped a bombshell.
They reported that Guardiola had clashed with Barça's higher-ups after multiple meetings, resulting in a full-blown fallout.
The article claimed that Guardiola had also brought tensions with certain players out into the open.
Some players, emboldened by their ties to the board, were ignoring Pep's disciplinary warnings.
At first, few Madrid fans took it seriously.
Even the players at training had no idea what was brewing.
But by afternoon, when every major media outlet had picked up the story, the La Liga world was stunned.
Barça released an official statement denying the rumors.
And yet—just hours later—Guardiola posted on his personal social media:
"There's nothing mysterious here. I've felt mentally drained, so I submitted my resignation.
It has nothing to do with the players."
He didn't name names.
Didn't point fingers.
He even emphasized that it wasn't about the squad.
But in the firestorm of speculation already raging, no one cared about those nuances.
Barça fans were devastated.
Many were crying out, "It's over!"
Last year, when Guardiola extended his contract for two more years, they'd celebrated like mad.
Now? Their despair was equally intense.
Li Ang, upon seeing the news, wasn't surprised at all.
In his memories of the "original timeline," Pep had already wanted out the previous year.
Because this version of Barcelona was no longer his to control.
Whether it was the board no longer backing his squad-building vision, or players refusing to obey him—it didn't matter.
Either one alone would've driven him out.
But both?
There was no way Guardiola would stay.
Li Ang had guessed back then that Pep was simply enduring—hoping to lead Messi, Iniesta, and the others to one last push.
Maybe he just didn't want to leave with Madrid reigning unopposed.
But in the end?
Guardiola was still Guardiola.
Don't be fooled by his calm, elegant demeanor on the sidelines.
In the locker room and on the training ground, he was a dictator.
A football tyrant.
As iron-fisted as they come.
At his core, he wasn't that different from Mourinho.
Both were obsessive.
Both were uncompromising idealists.
Both were tactical purists to the point of madness.
And when faced with betrayal—no matter how much they pretended to tolerate it—
That flame of stubbornness inside them would never let it go.
So yes, this was the end.
Barcelona had just lost the greatest manager in their history.
And this time, they wouldn't get him back.
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