"Next, if no more goals are scored, the match will go into extra time. If extra time still ends goalless, it will be decided by a penalty shootout."
"Of course, there's still plenty of time left, and both sides could still score."
"Although Real Madrid has equalized, remember this is their home ground. Chelsea's goals are more valuable than Real Madrid's."
"To put it mathematically: if Chelsea scores X goals, then Real Madrid must score X+1 goals to advance."
"Otherwise, if both sides score the same number, Chelsea will advance due to the away goals rule!"
The balance of victory reset to zero.
But the situation still favored Chelsea.
Chelsea could defend without any pressure.
Real Madrid, on the other hand, had no choice but to push forward, leaving gaps for Chelsea's counterattacks.
After all, this was the Bernabéu. They couldn't afford to retreat into their shell in front of their own fans.
Real Madrid's tradition, Real Madrid's style, Real Madrid's pride—none of it allowed them to show a desperate, cowering defense in an even battle!
When the players celebrated, the cameras cut to the sidelines, where Mourinho and Luxemburgo stood.
Mourinho's face was grim.
The team had been in a dominant position, only to concede twice. For him, that was an unforgivable sin.
Defense was supposed to be their strength.
And yet...
Mourinho's eyes shifted to Su Hang, who was locked in a tight embrace with Zidane.
One goal, one assist.
This unassuming player had been involved in all of Real Madrid's goals.
He had suddenly become the key to breaking Chelsea down.
"Terry, Terry, mark him… stay on him!" Mourinho beckoned his captain over and pointed at Su Hang. "The moment he enters the danger area, stick to him."
"Don't give him any room to control the ball."
"His technique is poor. Keep the pressure on, and he won't even be able to keep possession."
Terry nodded, then asked, "If he drifts wide, do I still follow?"
Many strikers, when tightly marked, would pull wide to shake off their defender.
If the center back followed, it would leave holes in the defensive structure.
If not, that forward—who had been nullified—could suddenly become dangerous again from the flank.
Mourinho thought briefly, then shook his head.
"He's slow, his technique is poor. In the middle, he can at least use his body and heading to link play."
"Sometimes he can even sneak a shot."
"But out wide? He's useless. Don't follow him. Let the full-backs deal with him."
Terry accepted the order, returned to his teammates, and relayed the instructions.
They all nodded.
Meanwhile, Luxemburgo's expression was just as dark.
Which was odd—Real Madrid had just scored two in a row. As head coach, he should have been pumped with adrenaline.
But Luxemburgo was anything but excited.
The goals had nothing to do with him.
It was Su Hang who suggested bringing on Guti.
Su Hang who insisted on taking the throw-in, against Luxemburgo's wishes.
And now…
If the media asked afterward, would Su Hang ever let Luxemburgo take the credit?
Of course not.
On the surface, Su Hang looked selfless—playing the saint, sacrificing again and again for the team.
But Luxemburgo had already seen through him.
These "core players" were masters at this trick.
Ask yourself: Su Hang sacrificed so much, yet why was his status at Real Madrid climbing?
Why was his influence among fans growing stronger?
Why did his voice within the team carry more and more weight?
Call that sacrifice?
Real sacrifice brings no return.
Su Hang was cunning. And a cunning man would never let someone like Luxemburgo take the credit.
So how could Luxemburgo be happy?
...
In the 72nd minute, Guti's flaws began to show.
He instinctively drifted into his usual midfield role—far too advanced for a right back.
After receiving the ball, he tried a risky through pass.
El Mago. El Mago.
Guti's magic was just that unpredictable—uncontrollable, even by himself.
This time, Makélélé read it perfectly and intercepted.
Immediately, Chelsea launched a counterattack.
Duff picked up the ball and surged forward at pace.
Guti lunged to stop him.
But Duff shifted slightly, knocked the ball ahead, and then burst past him with pure acceleration.
Now there was nothing but open grass ahead.
Even an amateur could run wild here.
"Duff! He's through!"
"Guti completely failed to stop him."
"What will Duff do?"
"Samuel has to step up."
"Duff plays the through ball!"
"Drogba bursts into the box!"
"Oh! Drogba's down! Helguera throws his hands up, swearing innocence!"
Beep!
The referee blew hard on his whistle and rushed over.
Amid a chorus of boos from the Bernabéu, he brandished a yellow card.
Then he pointed to the spot.
A yellow card and a penalty!
"No!" Casillas stormed out of his goal. "Helguera didn't touch him! He dived! That was a dive!"
Chelsea players quickly pushed Casillas away.
The referee stood firm—penalty.
Only then did Drogba rise from the turf, clutching his face in "pain."
Yes, he had dived.
But the execution was Oscar-worthy.
Lampard stepped up to take it.
Bang!
A clean, powerful strike.
Casillas guessed right but was a fraction late.
Lampard's finishing was ice-cold.
"GOAL! Lampard scores from the spot!"
"The aggregate score is now 4-3!"
"But remember, this is an away goal for Chelsea!"
"From this point on, a draw is impossible."
"Real Madrid must score two goals to advance."
"You could say this penalty is worth two goals!"
Considering Chelsea's defensive strength and the time remaining, this penalty almost killed the match.
Luxemburgo knew the momentum had shifted. He waved his arm, sending Raúl and Owen to warm up.
Some Real Madrid fans cheered.
Substitutions meant change—at least it showed the team was still fighting.
But others shook their heads.
The strongest lineup was already on the pitch.
Who could you possibly replace?
Ronaldo? Impossible.
In a match of life and death, if he wasn't injured, Ronaldo would play the full ninety.
...
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