Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid Chapter 288 286: Closer to the Ballon d'Or Than He Ever Imag

After Leon pounced on the rebound and sent the ball into Manchester United's net for the second ti, Van Gaal stord back to the bench, cursing, "Bullshit!" and waving his arms in frustration.

To him, that goal had nothing to do with tactical finesse. It was an unexpected blow that completely broke the rhythm of the match.

In Van Gaal's mind, the difference between his tactical setup and Mourinho's wasn't anywhere near what the scoreboard was showing.

He could accept the first goal—it was a result of Chelsea's precise, well-drilled edge-to-center play and perfect timing on the late run.

Mourinho had clearly optimized his use of Chelsea's pacey wingers and attacking overlaps.

But the second goal? That one hurt.

More than admiring Chelsea's luck or Leon's timing, Van Gaal blad his own midfield for their poor positional awareness.

Sure, Leon's awareness and movent were top-tier.

But with a proper holding midfielder or more disciplined fullbacks tucking in, Leon would've never had that opportunity to begin with.

Van Gaal couldn't accept that Chelsea were two goals ahead so quickly.

But pride wouldn't change the facts. He had to calm himself down and deal with United's dire situation.

anwhile, Leon and his teammates were still celebrating near the touchline.

He shook out his head, refocused, and pointed with a grin toward the corner of Old Trafford where the Chelsea fans were gathered.

Comntator Jian Jun's shout—"He was there to pounce!"—was spot on.

Leon himself was surprised to have already bagged a brace at Old Trafford so early in the match.

Chelsea's tactics were working flawlessly, completely stifling United's pressing and counter-attacks.

And in terms of luck? Chelsea clearly had the upper hand today.

Mourinho's initial goal for the first half had only been to get a 1–0 lead—especially since they were testing a new tactical setup.

The squad had fully prepared to "finish off" United in the second half.

But they had already exceeded expectations before the half-hour mark.

Unless Mourinho gave new instructions to change the rhythm of the ga, Chelsea would only get more comfortable from here.

No pressure. Just maintain a safe possession rate and wait for chances to counter.

Everything was falling into place, and it honestly felt like the only way Chelsea could lose was through self-sabotage.

As the match resud, United's attempt to push higher and force Chelsea into mistakes t with a stone wall.

Van Gaal, however, still had cards to play.

Unlike managers from mid-to-lower-tier clubs, Van Gaal had the tactical depth and courage to make fast adjustnts.

Three minutes later, Rooney—fresh off warm-ups—stood by the sideline.

Van Persie, who had been invisible all ga, was told to co off, his face visibly tense.

This sumr, during the World Cup, the two had shared a ntor-student bond. Now, they passed each other like strangers.

No handshake. No exchange of words. No tactical chat.

Van Gaal simply gave instructions to Rooney, ignoring Van Persie entirely.

Van Persie, now seated on the bench, covered his face with a towel.

No matter the result, tomorrow's headlines were guaranteed:

"Rift between Van Gaal and Van Persie!"

Being subbed off before halfti by his national team coach—soone who once trusted him completely—was humiliation for a player of Van Persie's stature.

But regardless of post-match drama, Rooney's presence did inject so new life into United.

He was simply too versatile.

On paper, he replaced Van Persie at striker.

In practice, Van Gaal used him to increase United's intensity in pressing from the front.

Rooney's work rate and defensive coverage were miles ahead of Van Persie's.

He played more like an attacking midfielder than a forward, charging down Chelsea's defenders relentlessly.

Chelsea's backfield possession structure wobbled under United's renewed pressure.

But Leon stepped up.

He took the ball from Matic, spun away from the press with a pair of elegant 360 turns, and stabilized Chelsea's rhythm.

Then he threaded a pass to an accelerating Ashley Cole.

United expected Cole to push up the wing—

But the experienced forr "best left-back in the Premier League" instead delivered a long diagonal pass, launching Chelsea's second wave.

Holding possession in the back, then pulling the fullbacks into midfield, and launching direct passes from deep?

That kind of layered tactical system was years ahead of its ti in 2014.

If you had to find a prototype, it would be how Guardiola once used Dani Alves at Barcelona.

But Cole—at his peak—was even more balanced across offense and defense.

While Alves was more aggressive in attack, Cole's reading of the ga and long-ball timing were borderline magical. The older he got, the craftier he beca.

And on the right wing, Salah had already torched Luke Shaw again.

But this ti, Van Gaal couldn't even bla Shaw.

Rooney's entry had co with tactical instructions: push Shaw higher and have him support the press.

Shaw couldn't recover in ti, and Di María was left isolated.

United's left flank had been a key outlet—now it, too, was shut down.

Salah sprinted down the wing, cutting toward United's backline with purpose.

Ibrahimović didn't charge forward imdiately—he peeled away, pulling defenders with him.

His movent distracted Marcos Rojo and forced Carrick to shift his attention.

After all, it was Ibrahimović. If you ignored his off-ball runs, you'd pay for it.

Carrick's mistake was inevitable. He hesitated and failed to cut off Salah early.

He was aging—his acceleration had dropped off.

Against a speedster like Salah, losing that first step was fatal.

Salah shifted past Carrick with ease, cut inside to the right edge of the box, switched the ball to his left foot, and curled in a cross.

And no, he wasn't aiming for Ibrahimović.

Reading the flight of the ball, Ibrahimović subtly ducked away—he was just bait.

Chris Smalling hesitated, then realized—too late—that the ball was headed to the back post.

There, in mid-air, rose the hulking figure of Rolu Lukaku.

He t the ball cleanly with a powerful header—but the angle was too straight.

De Gea, world-class as ever, made the reflex save.

But before United fans could even cheer,

a blur darted into the box, lunging forward with a knee-first finish.

De Gea had just landed. No chance for a second save.

And when the crowd saw who it was—who had slamd ho the rebound—they groaned in unison.

"LEON! Leon follows up! That's his second! TEN goals in the league! He's now the sole leader of the Premier League scoring charts!!!"

Jian Jun's voice cracked with excitent. He and Zhang Lu practically jumped out of their seats in the broadcast studio.

Last season, Leon scored plenty—but he never stood alone at the top of the scoring table.

Now, just the second season since his transformation into a true attacker,

Leon—a midfielder—was topping the charts ahead of all the elite strikers in the Premier League.

Even if it was only temporary, it was enough to make Chinese fans and football insiders everywhere burst with pride.

At that exact mont, football stat apps across the globe updated the Premier League scoring table:

Leon – 10 goals.

He had officially overtaken Cavani.

Alone at the top.

By now, even the slowest Manchester United fans could see it clearly—

Chelsea didn't co to Old Trafford today just to win. They ca to experint.

Aside from preserving their core players' fitness, they were using United as tactical lab rats.

There was simply no other explanation for how drastically different Chelsea's approach was between the first and second halves.

It was a tough pill to swallow. The mood in the stands could be sumd up in one word: fury.

But after the rage ca sothing even worse—

Deep frustration and despair over how little fight their own players showed on the pitch.

The rest of the second half descended into a dull, fractured pace.

Chelsea had United completely in their grasp.

The blueprint? Easy. Lock down Rooney and Di María, cut their connections to the rest of the team,

and Manchester United's offensive threat vanished.

Fellaini's height advantage on set pieces?

Nullified once Maguire marked him one-on-one.

Smalling? Marked tightly by Matic.

Both of United's aerial targets were completely boxed out—long ball attacks were dead on arrival.

In the 61st minute, Leon launched a long pass to Salah on the break,

but Salah sprinted too quickly and found himself isolated in United's final third, unable to wait for Ibra or Lukaku to catch up.

He took a shot anyway—more of a warm-up for De Gea—but it still rattled the ho crowd.

Even the Sky Sports comntators began showing sympathy for United.

And among the neutral Premier League fans watching, many sighed.

They'd seen this kind of Chelsea before—a suffocating, pragmatic monster.

Get the lead, bait the opponent out, then counterattack with surgical precision.

And what made it worse was that Chelsea were so damn efficient at it.

Only Chelsea supporters found this football enjoyable.

To everyone else, it was suffocating—unless, of course, you hated the team on the receiving end.

And let's be honest: few neutrals had sympathy for United.

After their dominant years in the Premier League, most fans from rival clubs had no love for the Red Devils.

Liverpool, City, Arsenal fans—they were all delighting in United's suffering.

Watching them get picked apart by Chelsea was cathartic, almost therapeutic.

Even if it was just 45 minutes, it was enough to make them feel avenged.

When the final whistle blew, Leon dropped his serious deanor and jogged over to Di María.

Though they had stayed in touch regularly, this was their first in-person eting since Di María's move to United.

Their schedules hadn't lined up—Leon didn't travel during international breaks, and Di María was always off playing in South Arica.

Now, finally, they could say a few words face-to-face—

But given the circumstances, there was no mood for long talks.

They exchanged shirts, hugged briefly, and parted ways quickly.

After all, United had just lost at ho.

As one of their players, Di María had to at least appear professional.

But the dia didn't miss a beat.

The two were spotted later that evening at a South Arican BBQ restaurant in Manchester,

and afterward, at a private café.

There wasn't much gossip to report—just two old friends catching up.

So the next day, British tabloids turned to a new hook:

photos of Leon grimacing as he tried mate for the second ti, pulled into it again by Di María.

That one shot—Leon frowning in bitter agony—instantly beca a .

And finally, so United fans felt a tiny bit of comfort.

anwhile, across the sea in Spain, Real Madrid fans who saw the headlines couldn't help but smile.

Their Angel and their Little Lion were reunited again—now in the Premier League.

Photos of them laughing and chatting transported Madridistas back to the golden sumrs of 2012 and 2013…

Back to the glory days of Mourinho's Real Madrid.

But it was all mories now.

That legendary team was no longer.

Kaká, El Capitán, Pipita, the Little Lion, the Angel...

And now that Xabi Alonso had announced his upcoming departure, it only deepened the lancholy.

It wasn't that Ancelotti wasn't good enough.

It wasn't that Jas Rodríguez, the new midfield nucleus, lacked star power.

It was just… sadness.

Sadness that the team they loved, that batch of players they adored,

didn't stay together for five or six more years to give them more unforgettable monts—like the great dynasties had.

The regret wasn't devastating, but it lingered.

And it wouldn't go away.

To Madrid fans, Leon was the one they missed the most—"their own."

But Leon, in this mont, wasn't dwelling on the past.

He was beaming—because ndes had just brought him news of a different kind.

"I seriously have a chance at second in the Ballon d'Or voting this year?"

"Very likely! Damn it, if Bayern hadn't won the Champions League last season,

I could've secured that Ballon d'Or for you! Atlético let us down..."

Back ho in his villa, Leon watched ndes, half-joking, half-mourning, and just smiled.

Honestly, he wasn't bitter.

Bayern's Champions League win had been well deserved.

And if Ribéry, as their attacking core, ended up taking the Ballon d'Or, Leon had no complaints.

What mattered more to him now was that—

He'd reached a point where his stats and reputation could rival ssi and Ronaldo.

He wasn't just dreaming about the Ballon d'Or anymore.

He could see it—right there on the horizon.

"I'm close. Really close…"

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