After the little incident in the tunnel, the players of both teams followed the referees onto the field one by one.
A year had passed since Real Madrid and AC Milan last t in the Champions League group stage. Both sides had changed head coaches, adjusted their tactics. But thanks to Milan's favorable head-to-head record the year before, their players walked onto the pitch with confidence.
Fans around the world watching the match were visibly excited.
After all, what a sight it was—superstars from both sides erging from the tunnel in two glittering lines.
Cristiano Ronaldo, Di María, Xabi Alonso, Iker Casillas, Sergio Ramos.
Zlatan Ibrahimović, Andrea Pirlo, Gennaro Gattuso, Clarence Seedorf, Gianluca Zambrotta, Ronaldinho, Alessandro Nesta.
By na recognition alone, Milan's lineup overshadowed Madrid's entirely.
Sure, many of Milan's stars were past their peak, but old legends were still legends.
Even Filippo Inzaghi was sitting on the bench, waiting.
When it ca to historical weight and global popularity, Real Madrid couldn't quite match the stardom of AC Milan—yet.
But nas alone didn't win matches.
In terms of combat power, today's Madrid left the aging Milan far behind.
At least, that's how Mourinho saw it. The squad he had built—young, hungry, and dynamic—stood a very real chance of toppling what remained of Milan's fading dynasty.
Ti waits for no man.
No amount of technique could reverse the decline of aging legs.
Today, Mourinho had prepared a special "tactical gift" for Milan's new head coach, Massimiliano Allegri.
He didn't know whether the other side would enjoy it—but he was sure the Real Madrid faithful would.
"Both teams are using a 4-3-3 formation today.
Milan's back line from left to right: Antonini, Bonera, Nesta, Zambrotta.
The midfield trio: Seedorf on the left, Pirlo as the holding midfielder, and Gattuso on the right.
Up front, Ronaldinho, Ibrahimović, and Pato form the starting attacking line.
For Real Madrid: the back four is Marcelo, Carvalho, Pepe, and Ramos.
In midfield, the double pivot is Li Ang and Alonso, with Khedira playing further forward.
The attacking trio is Cristiano Ronaldo on the left, Higuaín at center-forward, and Di María on the right. Benzema is on the bench."
From the CCTV studio, He Wei delivered the team news with enthusiasm to Chinese viewers tuning in late at night.
His co-comntator today wasn't Zhang Lu—it was Xu Yang.
After Xu introduced the lineups, He Wei quickly resud, summarizing the recent form of these two European giants.
Real Madrid were flying—six wins and one draw in La Liga, undefeated in the Champions League group stage so far.
Milan, after a rocky start, had strung together three consecutive league wins. They also had one win and one draw in their group matches.
This truly was a battle between in-form teams. A clash worthy of the "titans et" tagline.
From the opening whistle, Milan pressed aggressively, showing their familiar boldness: "we're not afraid of Madrid."
But there were limits.
Ibrahimović and Pato closed down hard.
Ronaldinho jogged forward a few steps and waited for soone else to win the ball back.
Gattuso and Seedorf—aging, slower—gave it their all defensively, but the results were lacking.
Madrid's defenders were younger, quicker.
Their passing sharper.
Under swift short-passing sequences, Madrid repeatedly sliced through Milan's high press like it was paper.
One of the highlights ca when Li Ang shielded the ball under pressure and shrugged Seedorf aside with ease.
He wasn't even 80 kilos yet, but his core strength and wide fra made it easy to hold off the Milan veteran. A simple turn and lateral pass to Alonso reset Madrid's buildup.
Once Alonso had the ball, Madrid's devastating counterattack engine kicked in.
And of course, the first target?
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Testing Milan's flank early was a tried-and-true tactic.
Before his major knee injuries, Cristiano had the perfect mix of pace and explosiveness.
Zambrotta, seeing Ronaldo tearing down the line, imdiately called for Gattuso to help double-team.
Cristiano had faced Milan twice before in his career—and both tis, he'd lost.
Back then, he was still at Manchester United. And Milan, at their peak, had eliminated him from the Champions League.
In 2007, Kaká had humiliated United and gone on to win the Ballon d'Or.
Last season, Madrid t Milan again in the group stage—a golden chance for Ronaldo to avenge those losses.
But he'd been injured. He watched from the stands as his team failed to break Milan down.
Now, fully fit, he was facing them once more.
It was fate.
Cristiano charged down the left, facing the combined pressure of Zambrotta and Gattuso.
No hesitation.
A step-over, a sudden burst of speed—he exploded past the inward-shifting Zambrotta.
Then, just as the Milan duo lunged to close him down again, he cut inside.
His timing was perfect. Despite the pressure, he kept the ball under control and carried it to the edge of Milan's penalty area.
One breath to settle.
Then he unleashed a thunderous shot from distance.
But Milan keeper Alia was alert.
He dove and punched the ball away from the bottom-right corner at the last mont.
Bonera, barely catching his breath, smashed it clear to midfield before Higuaín could pounce.
Cristiano roared in frustration, punching the air.
At the back, Li Ang sighed, holding his head in disappointnt.
But then he sprinted with Ibrahimović toward the falling ball.
With his long legs and towering fra, Ibra didn't even acknowledge Li Ang.
He had the position. He had the plan: chest it down, flick it wide to Ronaldinho, and then break forward for the return.
But Li Ang didn't bite.
He didn't engage in a direct duel for the ball.
He wasn't stupid. Standing his ground against Ibrahimović was a losing ga.
He was giving up more than ten centiters in height. In a static aerial duel, he'd get flattened.
Instead, he asured the ball's trajectory, adjusted his steps, and tid his final burst.
Ibrahimović, caught off guard, jumped too early.
Li Ang soared at full speed.
Both reached the ball, clashing midair. Neither won it cleanly.
But it didn't matter.
Li Ang had stopped the counter.
"Shit!"
Ibra winced from the impact and rubbed his temple, glaring.
But when he turned, all he saw was Li Ang, also rubbing his own head, grimacing and jogging back into position.
"Heh… this kid…"
Ibra had been pissed.
But seeing the kid look even worse off than he was, he couldn't help but smile.
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