The euphoria of beating Barcelona was a potent, short-lived drug. By the next morning, the hangover of reality had set in. They had scaled one peak, only to find a higher, more daunting one directly in their path. The celebration was over. The music in the locker room had been silenced, replaced by the grim, focused quiet of a military camp on the eve of battle.
Their opponent in the final was CSKA Moscow. The Russian giants had outlasted Olympiacos in a brutal, physical semifinal. They were a mirror image of Madrid in many ways: disciplined, deep, and steeped in a tradition of winning. They had no single, flashy superstar. They were a collective of hardened veterans and skilled professionals, a machine that grinded opponents into dust.
