Chapter 258: Stop Scoring, Man—You're Already Fourth in the Premier League Golden Boot Race
"I said it long ago—Barcelona stretched themselves too thin. If they'd just pulled out of the Copa del Rey earlier, they wouldn't be playing this nervously now.
Trying to win everything often ends with winning nothing. They don't dominate in the Champions League anymore, but their fans are still living in 2014. It's time to wake up..."
Compared to the electric, euphoric celebration when Chelsea had equalized, Mourinho barely flinched after watching Ibrahimović bury the go-ahead goal.
He leaned back on the bench, calm as ever, looking like a man who'd seen through Barça's weaknesses from the start. Speaking casually to his assistants, he dissected the game with a smug air of certainty.
Steve Holland and the rest had nothing to add—just admiration and respect for the boss.
If Li Ang were sitting on the bench right now, he'd probably be rolling his eyes.
Sure, Mourinho's game plan had worked—but come on, when they were trailing, there's no way he was this composed.
Unfortunately, Li Ang was still on the pitch.
The only ones on the bench were Lukaku, Essien, and a few young lads without the seniority to poke fun.
So the Chelsea dugout was all smiles. Laughter, high fives, a light-hearted air settling in as the tension eased.
Still, Mourinho wasn't just sitting there basking in the moment.
Once the goal celebrations wrapped up, he quickly waved over Kalas and Lampard to start warming up.
The movement on Chelsea's bench was picked up immediately by the live broadcast.
Li Ang, who had just returned to midfield, caught sight of Kalas and Lampard on the sideline. He didn't need to be told anything.
He called out to his teammates, gathered them in, and issued the tactical order: drop back and tighten the lines.
With 30 minutes left, it was a conservative decision—but in the Champions League knockout stage, playing away from home, when you've already seized the advantage, staying safe is just smart.
Last round against PSG, Chelsea had the upper hand from start to finish—they could afford to play a little more open.
But Barcelona was a different beast.
Just Messi alone was enough to make Li Ang rethink. Without his presence in the midfield line, Matić simply couldn't contain the Argentine.
Now that Li Ang had taken on the role of Chelsea's tactical brain and all-around engine, he had to think big picture.
If drawing 1–1 and stealing a crucial away goal was already considered a victory…
Then keeping the score at 2–1 until the final whistle?
That meant Chelsea had one foot firmly in the Champions League semi-finals.
Sure, Li Ang would've loved to bury Barça right here, but realistically, that wasn't likely.
Even if the coach was stubborn, Barça's players would eventually fight back. They had to.
Pushing too hard might trigger a classic Camp Nou comeback—and Chelsea would be the ones burned.
The most painful kind of defeat is slow, methodical destruction—death by a thousand cuts. That was Li Ang's specialty.
When Barcelona kicked off again, they were quick to realize: Chelsea had dropped into a full low block.
Messi carried the ball forward, only to find that every Chelsea player—aside from Ibrahimović—had dropped behind the halfway line, forming a luxury double-decker bus across their half.
All he could do was sigh silently.
Any Mourinho-coached team, no matter how big or small, knew when to park the bus.
No pride. No ego. Just pure hunger for victory.
Barcelona's players could never bring themselves to do the same.
Truthfully, Messi couldn't even appreciate this kind of football.
But at that moment, even he had to admit—Chelsea had made the right call.
Once again, Barça were being undone by counters and aerial assaults.
Chelsea weren't the best defensive side in Europe. Mourinho hadn't even had a full season to refine this squad.
That title belonged to Atlético Madrid—Barça had already felt their wrath.
In fact, Barça hadn't beaten Atleti once this season in any competition.
Chelsea's defense was probably around 80% of Atleti's level.
Their squad still had too many aging veterans. Pulling off the kind of suffocating, full-throttle pressing Atlético did for 90 minutes wasn't realistic.
But 30 minutes? That was manageable.
With everyone behind the ball, Chelsea had no shortage of bodies in the flanks and half-spaces.
And once Lampard and Kalas were subbed on, Chelsea's coverage in and around the box became impenetrable.
Lampard had the legs to defend for the remaining half hour. Kalas's agility and aggression gave Matić and Li Ang even more support in shadowing Messi.
Hazard was subbed off. The new formation? A clear and unmistakable 5-4-1.
There was no hiding Chelsea's intentions now.
Let the siege begin.
Martino, no matter how much he wanted to conserve energy for the stretch run, had no choice but to push.
Down 2–1, he had to respond.
Even if they didn't equalize, the fans deserved to see some fight.
If they went down without a fight, every sports paper in Spain would tear into him and the club.
The players weren't thinking about that anymore. They just wanted to defend their home turf.
And under pressure, Neymar stepped up.
He still hadn't proven himself in Europe with a major title.
Sure, some Barça fans had criticized his dribbling-heavy style for disrupting the team's rhythm.
But tonight, his raw one-on-one ability became their biggest weapon.
Besides Messi, Neymar was Barça's sharpest blade in attack.
When he stopped flopping and showboating and actually focused on playing, his samba footwork could break through even the tightest defenses in tight spaces.
By the 70th minute, Neymar isolated Azpilicueta on the left wing, beat him one-on-one, and forced a foul.
It was a clear tactical infraction, and it gave Barcelona a chance to reset and breathe.
It wasn't much. But for now, it was all they had.
And against this Chelsea machine—clamping, grinding, suffocating—it might just be enough to crack something open.
In just three short minutes, César Azpilicueta was forced to commit a tactical foul and was promptly shown a yellow card by the referee.
The moment that yellow was flashed, a ripple of renewed hope swept through the stands at Camp Nou—Barcelona fans could smell the equalizer.
Neymar, riding the wave of that energy, sprang to his feet and high-fived his teammates, his confidence surging. He even shouted a few words of encouragement toward Sánchez and Messi.
Iniesta stood over the ball, preparing to take the free kick from the dangerous position.
Terry stepped forward, directing his teammates as they set up to defend—but Li Ang had other ideas.
"They're not going for a high ball. Even if they do, it's only Piqué who's a real threat in the air. Captain, you stick to Piqué. David (Luiz), you take Busquets. They'll play it short. Trust me..."
Li Ang's insistence convinced Terry. He had Lampard and Kalas spread wider to guard the edge of the box rather than collapsing inward.
And just as predicted, Iniesta tapped it short.
Xavi, waiting near midfield, received the ball and quickly swung it wide to Messi on the right.
Kalas, pulled out of position by Li Ang's earlier directive, was already on him.
The close-quarters clash ended with Messi slipping past Kalas with ease.
But the moment he beat Kalas, Li Ang closed in hard, applying tight pressure. Exhausted from the earlier exertion, Messi had no choice but to shield the ball and lay it off to the overlapping Dani Alves.
Possession still belonged to Barça, but the planned set-piece attack had failed.
Messi never had enough space, and Chelsea's defensive unit had once again held firm.
Barça were left to recycle the ball, passing around the perimeter, hoping to carve out another opportunity.
With Messi marked out of the game, Xavi and Iniesta shifted the focus to Neymar.
Seeing the change, Li Ang motioned to Lampard to swap positions with him, drifting toward Chelsea's right flank.
Azpilicueta exhaled in relief.
Neymar, meanwhile, noticed the change—and his eyes narrowed.
In his next one-on-one, Neymar beat Azpilicueta again, but this time the Spanish fullback had purposely pushed up to pressure early.
That meant he was out of position.
Li Ang arrived from the side, hounding Neymar all the way to the touchline and forcing him out for nothing more than a throw-in.
Neymar, bumped and muscled off the ball, didn't seem angry.
Had it been any other Chelsea player, maybe he would've insisted on another duel to save face.
But this was Li Ang—the man who could even shut down Messi in one-on-one situations.
There was no shame in being stifled by him.
And just like that, any progress Barça had made on the left wing was extinguished.
Li Ang didn't mind rotating defensively or running a little extra.
The Barcelona fans, however, did mind.
But the louder they booed, the more pumped up Li Ang got.
If it weren't for the risk of a post-match UEFA sanction—or worse, a suspension—Mourinho might've told him to taunt the home crowd even more.
By the 80th minute, Mourinho made his third and final substitution of the night.
Ibrahimović, the go-ahead goal scorer, was brought off.
Essien came on.
It was the clearest signal yet: Mourinho wanted to close this out.
Martino, out of options, responded by throwing more forwards on the pitch.
Pedro entered for Xavi in the final ten minutes.
Alex Song and young defender Marc Bartra also came on, replacing Mascherano and Jordi Alba.
But these changes weren't made to shore up the defense. No, Martino's aim was to win headers in the Chelsea box.
He was out of choices, and this was all he had left.
But in Chelsea's box, so-called "aerial specialists" like Song and Bartra still weren't enough.
As Li Ang had explained to Terry earlier, the only real headers to worry about were Piqué and maybe half of Busquets.
Bartra and Song? Against Matić and Kalas? Forget it.
And so, in the dying minutes, the same scene repeated:
A cross into the box.
A headed clearance by Chelsea.
Another hopeful cross.
Another block or interception.
Even the Barcelona fans began to look away. They couldn't bear to watch anymore.
It seemed the referee couldn't either.
The moment the clock ticked past three minutes of stoppage time, he blew the final whistle—no hesitation.
2–1.
Chelsea had come to Camp Nou in the first leg of the Champions League quarterfinals… and beaten Barcelona.
Clean. Clinical. Brutal.
As the whistle echoed across the stadium, the broadcast camera immediately cut to Li Ang—the man who had both assisted and scored in the win.
He was beaming, exchanging high-fives with every teammate in reach.
Messi, after taking a moment to catch his breath, made his way toward Li Ang.
"You tricked me again..."
"C'mon now, the match is over. All's fair in love and war," Li Ang grinned.
"You scored first, Leo. If I didn't keep an eye on you, I'd be the one crying right now."
Messi's eye twitched.
He wanted so badly to smack that smug grin off Li Ang's face.
But with the cameras still rolling live, he had to restrain himself.
He took a deep breath. Then, without a word, pulled off his shirt.
"Let's trade. But next game, I'm making you come to me to ask for it."
A rare bit of fire from Messi.
Li Ang just laughed and took the jersey.
He wasn't about to argue. They'd won. Let Messi vent a little—it wouldn't hurt.
However, when Messi extended an invite for post-match barbecue, Li Ang had to politely decline.
The season was at a critical stage. All the top teams fighting for both league and Champions League had packed, unforgiving schedules.
Chelsea's coaching staff had already announced that the team would fly straight back to London immediately after the match.
So, barbecue would have to wait.
There was still a war to finish.
After a brief on-pitch celebration, Chelsea's players returned to the dressing room to shower, change, and board the team bus while Mourinho wrapped up the post-match press conference.
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the entire Chelsea squad arrived back in London.
At that hour, no one had the energy—or the desire—for a night out at the clubs or bars.
A quick rinse at home, maybe a glance at the news (if that), and the away-day warriors of Stamford Bridge were soon fast asleep.
By 2 p.m. on April 3rd, Chelsea's first team had begun arriving at Cobham for recovery training.
Truthfully, the rest period before the next match was woefully short.
Especially for the starters against Barcelona—they desperately needed more time to recover from such a high-intensity Champions League clash.
But time waits for no one.
On April 5th, just two days later, Chelsea would host Stoke City at home.
So Mourinho had no choice but to rotate the squad once again.
After a short but focused preparation period, Chelsea fielded a semi-rotated lineup at Stamford Bridge against a Stoke side currently sitting ninth in the league.
Earlier in the day, Manchester City had already cruised to a 4–1 win over Southampton, so Chelsea had no wiggle room.
A win was the minimum expectation. At the very least, a draw had to be secured.
Had Mourinho gone with a full-strength lineup, the outcome likely wouldn't be in doubt.
But with a half-rotated side, there was room for uncertainty.
Before kickoff, the broadcast cut to both managers. And it was clear—Mourinho looked more tense than usual.
Commentator Zhan Jun even poked fun at the contrast between the manager's stoic look and the high spirits of Chelsea fans.
After all, the Premier League title was within reach. Chelsea were ten points ahead of City.
If they won this match, even the most conservative estimate said two more league wins would guarantee them the title.
Was there pressure? Sure, a bit.
But more than anything, Chelsea's players and fans were filled with anticipation.
The Champions League? Still far away. They hadn't even clinched a semi-final berth yet.
But the Premier League? That was a dream within arm's reach.
During the final team talk before the game, Lampard rallied the squad to push all the way to the finish line.
Li Ang, too, was hungry for the title—but his demeanor was far calmer than many of the younger players.
After all, he had won league titles in each of the past three seasons.
So while he was eager, he wasn't giddy.
As the match kicked off, he took control in midfield and quickly settled the tempo, helping his teammates avoid sloppy mistakes early on.
Stoke were playing conservatively, which suited Li Ang just fine.
He methodically worked the flanks, rotating possession and waiting for a gap to open.
Neither Hazard nor De Bruyne started this game.
But Lukaku and Oscar were more than enough of a threat on the wings—certainly good enough to trouble Stoke's full-backs.
Up top, Fernando Torres was the lone striker.
Though no longer the elite forward of his peak years, Torres was still reliable as a central pivot.
Certainly more dependable than Lukaku at holding up play.
With Torres and Li Ang dragging defenders and creating space, Lampard found himself with three quality chances in the first 20 minutes alone.
Along with shots from Lukaku and Torres, Chelsea racked up six attempts—three on target—in the opening stretch.
Not bad at all.
They were testing Stoke keeper Asmir Begović, forcing him to stay on his toes.
As for Li Ang? He seemed quiet at first. Not very involved in the final third.
But in the 24th minute, after receiving a layoff from Lukaku out wide, Li Ang suddenly exploded forward.
He drove past Stoke midfielder Glenn Whelan with ease before squaring it for the advancing Lampard.
The bulk of Stoke's defense immediately shifted to cover Lampard and Torres, who had dropped back to link play.
Which left Li Ang wide open.
When Lampard returned the ball, Li Ang found himself at the edge of the left side of the penalty area.
From this spot, he could've slipped a through ball to Lukaku, who was making a diagonal run into the box.
But instead, he turned toward Stoke's central defender Ryan Shawcross—and fired a rocket with his left foot.
Li Ang was getting increasingly fond of these surprise long-range shots from the edge of the box.
Begović was tall, with impressive reach, and capable of the occasional miracle save.
But this shot? It came fast, unexpected, and brutally precise.
The ball screamed into the top far corner—unstoppable.
It didn't hit the absolute top corner, but it was close enough.
The shot was so pure that even had Begović reached it, he likely couldn't have kept it out.
Another goal to open the scoring.
Li Ang celebrated calmly, but behind him, Lukaku was going wild.
"Boss! Do you even know? You've passed Sturridge! You're fourth on the Premier League scoring chart now! God—you're only three behind Zlatan!"
Li Ang blinked, momentarily stunned.
He hadn't been keeping track of the Golden Boot race.
But the fans? Oh, they knew.
This was his 18th Premier League goal of the season.
He had officially leapfrogged Daniel Sturridge and climbed to fourth place in the league's top scorers list.
And more impressively, he was the only midfielder in the top ten.
Above him were:
Luis Suárez with 26Edinson Cavani with 24Zlatan Ibrahimović with 21
Could Li Ang catch up?
Maybe not.
But now, tens of thousands of fans across England believed—believed that in his debut Premier League season, Li Ang would reach 20 goals.
It would be a historic milestone.
The Young Lion was roaring—and this time, the whole league was listening.
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