Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid Chapter 91 - 91

"Do you know where you lost the battle the last ti you marked him?"

"I do. His foot frequency is insane—if he goes all out, his directional changes are basically unstoppable. The mont I can't keep up, I'm just left chasing his shadow."

"But you still managed to keep him from scoring in the first leg."

"That's because I wore him down. Back then, he didn't know my defensive style well enough, so he didn't pace himself properly."

"So, this ti, can you still keep him from scoring or setting up goals?"

"I can't promise that, boss. No one can say for sure they can lock down ssi completely. But I'll do everything I can to make his ga miserable."

"The whole match?"

"The whole match."

Sitting in his office chair, Mourinho finally nodded in satisfaction after hearing Leon's response.

"Good. Your head's in the right place, that clarity is exactly what I need from you."

"I understand, sir. Don't worry. If I lose but the team wins, then I've won too."

Leon could see the concern in Mourinho's eyes despite his calm deanor, so he didn't hesitate to show his full commitnt.

Not that he had a choice, really—he was obviously the only one in Madrid's squad capable of tracking ssi.

Rely on Lass Diarra or Khedira to do it? That would just be an open invitation for ssi to dismantle the defense and score at will.

Mourinho slowly exhaled, then glanced one last ti at the scribbled tactical sketches on his notebook and chuckled quietly.

"Go do so extra drills. Make sure you get ho early and rest up. December 10th—I want you in top form."

"Understood."

With that simple reply, Leon turned and jogged out of Mourinho's office.

But three seconds later, his head popped back around the doorfra.

"Boss, you really can have more faith. Nobody in world football understands how to beat Barça better than you do. And we're not scared of them—not even a little. All the montum is on our side!"

Mourinho looked at Leon's cheeky grin peeking through the door and couldn't help but laugh. He rolled up the tactics notebook and pretended to throw it at him.

This ti, Leon took off running for real—sprinting all the way out of the building without even glancing back.

Mourinho laid the notebook back down, then, after a pause, let a smile creep across his face as he looked again at the tactical plan he had drawn.

"The Little Lion's right. The advantage is all ours—and we have to win this Clásico."

※※※

In the lead-up to El Clásico, the dia outlets affiliated with Spain's two superclubs kicked off a full-scale propaganda war.

Mundo Deportivo highlighted Barcelona's dominance over Madrid over the past three seasons.

Not to be outdone, Marca fired back by pointing out Madrid's victory in the Spanish Super Cup before the season even started.

And just to twist the knife deeper, Marca reminded everyone that Barcelona was currently trailing Real Madrid by eleven points in La Liga.

Recently, when Madrid was pursuing their 13th consecutive league win, Barcelona had suffered a shocking 0-1 away loss to Getafe.

That defeat lit up the Spanish dia like wildfire.

While Madrid kept applying pressure, Barça couldn't even manage a draw—they actually lost! Were they trying to fall further behind on purpose?

At the end of round 15, Madrid led the league table, eleven points ahead of second-place Barcelona.

This was the largest point gap between the two clubs after 15 rounds in the past ten years.

For Barcelona, who had won both La Liga and the Champions League last season, it was unthinkable. Unacceptable.

Barça fans, in particular, were fuming.

They clung desperately to the hope of beating Madrid in their head-to-head clash.

That obsession, combined with the mounting dia hype, beca a heavy psychological burden for the team.

The expectation now wasn't just to win—it had to be a convincing, cathartic victory.

What if they lost? Barça players didn't even want to imagine it.

Thankfully, their strong track record against Madrid gave them so confidence.

Piqué still had the nerve to joke and laugh with reporters during interviews, putting on a show of complete composure.

What the team really thought about Madrid, or how they were preparing behind the scenes, no one knew.

But seeing Piqué's relaxed and confident attitude eased the nerves of many Barcelona fans.

Madrid, in contrast, prepared in silence until the very end. No interviews, no bold declarations—just the usual "let's go" posts on social dia.

On the morning of December 10th, after their final training session, Mourinho gathered the team for one last talk.

No grandiose promises. No motivational speeches.

Just the cold, hard math of what this Clásico ant.

Win, and Madrid would lead Barça by 14 points. Lose, and that gap would shrink to just 8.

From Madrid's perspective, even a loss wouldn't be catastrophic—they'd still have breathing room in the league.

But for Barcelona, this was a fight between heaven and hell.

And making Barça suffer? That was Real Madrid's greatest joy.

Revenge. The league title. Taking back the La Liga throne.

Madrid's players went into this match with more confidence than in any Clásico over the past three years.

By nightfall, the Bernabéu was packed to capacity.

In the stands near the players' tunnel, a sudden wave of cheers and boos surged through the crowd.

Monts later, the entire stadium erupted—the players were entering the field for warmups.

In the live broadcast booth, comntator He Wei could barely contain his excitent.

He and his colleague Xu Yang had arrived in Madrid with the TV crew the day before.

CCTV-5 had placed great importance on this Clásico, sending them both to cover it live from the scene.

This was Leon's first Clásico appearance in the league since returning to Madrid—the viewership was guaranteed to be massive.

After the ratings boom from the Supercopa, CCTV had no issue footing the bill for an overseas broadcast crew.

The only downside was the ga ti for Chinese fans.

Sure, it was better than the 2 or 3 a.m. kickoffs for the Champions League—but a 5 a.m. start still forced most fans to sleep early the night before.

Still, waking up refreshed and full of anticipation, fans found it all strangely thrilling.

In the past, fans had to stay up all night, yawning through the early hours waiting for the match to begin. But today? They woke up refreshed, and the match was just about to kick off.

It was a pleasant experience, no doubt. If only every El Clásico were scheduled at this ti—it might actually be considered sowhat friendly for Chinese fans.

CCTV-5 started their broadcast ten minutes early, airing so pre-match footage of players warming up.

Then, He Wei and Xu Yang appeared on screen, greeting dostic viewers from their pitch-side comntary spot.

Right around that mont, the stadium DJ began announcing Real Madrid's starting players by na over the loudspeakers.

The live feed cut to the players' tunnel, and Chinese viewers clearly saw the stars of both Real Madrid and Barcelona walking out onto the field.

In that instant, countless fans around the globe focused their attention on these twenty-two footballers.

This—this was what you call star power.

In today's football world, the Spanish El Clásico between Real Madrid and Barcelona was the pinnacle—the biggest spectacle the sport had to offer.

The combined value of both squads nearly exceeded that of all the other La Liga teams put together, which is why fans often joked that only the two "Super Clubs" truly belonged to another league.

And it wasn't just a joke—it was the truth. These two clubs operated on a different level, and in their eyes, only each other could be considered rivals.

At least for now. The rest of La Liga couldn't yet reach the level required to compete.

Comntators from around the world were now in full gear, preparing their calls.

Both teams lined up for the pre-match formalities.

For most players, it was routine—they were national teammates after all, and even when shaking hands, they could afford to smile and laugh.

Even ssi and Ronaldo, the two ultimate rivals, managed to exchange polite smiles and knowing glances.

But when it was Leon and ssi's turn to shake hands, the atmosphere shifted.

Leon grinned brightly, while ssi's smile seed... strained at best.

"See you out there, Leo."

Leon dropped the line casually right after their brief handshake, but ssi, expression stiff, quickly sidestepped and moved on to the next Madrid player.

Leon didn't mind. He turned to the next Barcelona player approaching him, still smiling.

Their brief interaction went unnoticed by the broadcast caras, which were busy as He Wei and Xu Yang introduced the starting formations.

"Today, Real Madrid is starting with a balanced 4-2-3-1 formation."

"Goalkeeper: No. 1 Iker Casillas. Defense: No. 12 Marcelo, No. 4 Ramos, No. 3 Pepe, and No. 17 Arbeloa. Midfield: No. 10 Leon and No. 14 Alonso as the double pivot. No. 6 Khedira in central midfield. No. 7 Ronaldo and No. 22 Di María on the wings. No. 9 Benzema up top."

"Barcelona, as usual, have gone with their classic 4-3-3."

"Goalkeeper: No. 1 Víctor Valdés. Defense: No. 22 Abidal, No. 3 Piqué, No. 5 Puyol, and No. 2 Dani Alves. In midfield: No. 16 Busquets as holding midfielder. No. 6 Xavi and No. 8 Iniesta as central mids. Up front, No. 4 Fàbregas is again deployed in an advanced position by Guardiola, with No. 9 Sánchez and No. 10 ssi flanking him."

With Xu Yang's comntary, Chinese fans quickly visualized the lineups and tactical setups.

Guardiola once again pushed Fàbregas into a sort of false-nine role—not quite a striker, more like an advanced playmaker.

It was a formation only Guardiola could dream up—no true target man, just an emphasis on tight passing and swift movent to break teams down.

He was clearly trying to maximize the effectiveness of tiki-taka.

By comparison, Madrid's formation looked more conventional.

Two holding midfielders, a five-man midfield line, the potential for both defensive solidity and explosive wing play—and today, Leon's position ant he would once again directly face ssi.

That alone was a mouth-watering prospect, and the broadcast did not miss the mont. After a sweep over Ronaldo and ssi, the cara paused briefly on Leon, giving him a solid two seconds of solo focus.

Then, with a sharp blast of the referee's whistle, the first El Clásico of the 2011–2012 La Liga season officially kicked off!

Unlike their approach in the Super Cup, Madrid didn't rush to grab an early goal. Instead, they calmly used their midfield numbers to gain control of possession.

Barcelona, true to their style, launched high pressing from the get-go.

ssi, as always, joined in the early press, exhausting himself to pressure Madrid's ball handlers.

But sothing was different this ti.

In the past two seasons, Barça's high pressing had found particular success targeting Alonso.

Dragon Bro, as fans called him, lacked elite escape ability, and he didn't have a reliable midfield partner to share the burden. Guardiola had correctly identified him as Madrid's Achilles' heel in build-up.

But now, Guardiola saw Leon calmly receive the ball, sidestep ssi's pressure, shift it out wide, and continue his run upfield.

Guardiola turned and stared at Mourinho in astonishnt.

"He really dares to trust Leon with organizing the play in a match like this?!"

It wasn't just Guardiola. Comntators and fans across the globe were suddenly intrigued.

Those who had followed Madrid's league matches knew that Leon had beco a surprisingly capable deep-lying playmaker.

But this was El Clásico.

To trust a 20-year-old with build-up responsibilities in a match like this—it took serious guts from Madrid's coaching staff.

Organizing from the back was completely different from doing it upfield. One bad turnover here, and Barcelona would imdiately launch their trademark press-and-pounce counter.

Madrid fans knew this too. Their eyes stayed glued to Leon, nerves tight.

Thankfully, Leon didn't overdo it.

After eluding ssi's challenge, he advanced only four or five ters before neatly sliding the ball to Ronaldo, who had dropped deep to receive.

Barcelona's press hadn't worked this ti. Their attackers and midfielders were left disconnected, and Iniesta hesitated to close down Ronaldo right away.

He dropped back, waiting for Xavi to cover behind him—only then would he press, so soone could back him up.

What he didn't expect was for Ronaldo to take advantage of the hesitation and ignite one of his trademark surging runs.

Iniesta couldn't match his speed. Watching Ronaldo zip past him in just a few steps, he had no choice but to call for Alves to step up and challenge.

But right then, Ronaldo made a surprising decision—he passed the ball backwards!

Out of nowhere, a Madrid figure appeared in the right half-space of Barcelona's defensive zone, received Ronaldo's pass, and, with a swift, low short pass, redirected the ball out to the left wing—

This quick switch of play completely caught Barcelona off guard. Di María controlled the pass with a deft touch, cut inside, created an angle, and curled a shot from the edge of the penalty area!

Valdés didn't dare try to catch it. He leapt with all his might and barely managed to palm the ball out of the six-yard box. Puyol stepped up imdiately and hoofed it clear.

Di María held his head in frustration, glancing regretfully at Barça's goal, but didn't waste ti—he turned and sprinted back on defense.

At that mont, countless Barça fans broke out in cold sweat!

Only then did the broadcast cara zoom in on the Madrid player who had surged forward and made that rapid switch of possession.

It was Leon!

"Ah! That was so close! Valdés stayed alert. The pass ca from Leon! Just the first minute of the ga, and Madrid already pulled off their first dangerous shot on goal. Their attacking strategy today is clean and sharp! Busquets needs to pick up the pace—these defensive lapses can't keep happening."

Though He Wei said it critically, he was secretly hoping Busquets would make a few more positional or interception errors.

At the sa ti, Madrid's quick transition defense left Barça with no real chance to counter.

Mourinho had stacked the midfield today, even pulling Benzema back to defend near the center circle. They were determined not to let Barcelona find any rhythm in central zones.

Ronaldo had no objections to doing more defensive work today.

After all, it was Barcelona. Sure, he wanted goals—but more than that, he wanted to win.

From the wings to the center, Madrid's well-disciplined positioning and relentless running effectively smothered Barça's ball carriers.

Barça's attacking players began to feel the pressure.

No matter how they tried to drag Madrid's defensive line around, every forward movent seed to be t by more white shirts than teammates.

To force the issue in that situation would be suicide. They were forced to retreat and rebuild.

ssi, hounded by Leon, barely got on the ball early in the match. Eventually, he had no choice but to drop deeper to receive possession.

But that played right into the scenario Madrid had engineered—just like in the Supercopa.

Madrid dominated the midfield real estate, covering key areas, double-teaming aggressively without committing too early.

The result? Barça might have had more possession, but their chances to penetrate Madrid's defense were few and far between. Much of their passing was aimless, lateral movent in their own half.

ssi had to spend energy coming deep to help progress the ball.

And thus, Mourinho's grand tactical trap had sprung.

Barça had to drain ssi's stamina just to create coherent attacking movent. Once they committed numbers forward, it all depended on how well Leon could limit ssi's influence.

Mourinho exhaled, but his nerves were still taut as he turned his eyes to his team's half of the pitch.

ssi had just shaken off Khedira's marking and was accelerating through the center. Barça's front line pushed up together in sync.

Leon moved in to intercept—but halfway there, he shifted his approach, keeping a ter's distance and shadowing ssi while retreating.

To the eye, it looked hesitant. But ssi was clearly annoyed.

He had to slightly slow down his dribble, trying to think of a way to shake off this persistent nuisance.

Madrid's retreating defense moved faster than expected—faster than Barça anticipated.

ssi clenched his teeth and tried to push through. At that mont, Leon stepped in for a challenge.

But ssi's quick feet were just too fast.

Leon was cleanly bypassed again—but this ti, a sly smile ford on his face.

As ssi stumbled slightly past him, he suddenly faced Xabi Alonso flying in with a crunching slide tackle!

Even for soone of ssi's caliber, there was no way to dodge that at such short notice.

He had to jump, and the ball was swept cleanly away by Alonso—back into Madrid's central midfield.

Khedira spotted the ball but dared not dribble—Busquets was right on his heels.

Shielding the ball with his back to goal, he spotted Leon surging forward with his hand raised, and without hesitation, laid it off with a short pass.

Leon didn't even slow down. In a flash, he was past the halfway line.

Busquets couldn't match the speed. He didn't even have ti to foul—he just lowered his head and gave chase.

Leon, before Xavi could tug him back, fired a powerful through-ball down the left wing!

Di María took off like a rocket.

Guardiola was frantic, roaring at his players to get back.

But once Madrid's counterattack picked up montum, it wasn't going to be stopped easily.

Abidal barely cut off Di María's usual angle to cut inside—but that wasn't Di María's plan at all.

Near the left edge of Barça's box, Di María abruptly cut back and created just enough space.

Then, with his left foot, he curled in a wicked cross, arcing toward the Barça goal!

Piqué couldn't make it to the back post in ti, and while Puyol had positioned himself well and went up for the header—

He got bulldozed.

Ronaldo launched himself like a missile, timing the leap perfectly and thrashing his head into the ball with all his might.

Valdés flailed at it, but he got nothing—just air.

The ball grazed past his fingertips, crossed the line, and slamd into the net.

No doubt. No chance. No rcy.

WHISTLE!

The referee saw it clearly. No hesitation—he pointed straight to the center circle.

The Bernabéu erupted in thunderous cheers and screams!

"Di María with the cross! Ronaldo at the back post—WHOA—GOAL! GOAL!!! Ronaldo rises over Puyol and heads the ball into Barça's net! Real Madrid takes the lead at ho!"

He Wei's voice drowned out Xu Yang entirely as he shouted in exhilaration from the broadcast booth!

And he wasn't alone—many other comntators worldwide stood up, pumping fists in jubilation.

This was vintage Madrid—an electric, razor-sharp counterattack delivered with surgical precision and sheer power!

Less than ten seconds!

From Alonso's tackle to the goal, Madrid had covered nearly sixty ters—and did it in under ten seconds!

The Bernabéu had gone completely mad!

On the touchline, Mourinho roared and punched the air, pride and fire etched across his face.

This was his team—his Mourinho-built Madrid, finally coming into its own after more than a year of hard work.

Leon, now locked in a celebratory hug with Ronaldo and others, raised his arms and turned toward the South Stand, roaring at the fans!

Look!

That era of Barcelona's dominance in La Liga—

It's ti for it to end!

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