"What the hell are you guys doing?! Focus up, concentrate! This is the Bernabéu! How can we let them waltz so easily into our defensive third? Where's the central interception? Why isn't anyone fouling on the flanks?! We're playing like absolute garbage! Get your heads in the ga!"
Amid the thunderous roar of celebration, Carles Puyol—having just been outjumped and outmuscled by Ronaldo for the goal—was furiously berating his Barcelona teammates.
Sure, he would take full responsibility for the goal later to shield his teammates, but that was for after the match.
Right now, he needed to wake up the dazed faces in front of him.
Maybe it really was because they'd won too many trophies in the past few seasons. Maybe they'd grown complacent.
From the very beginning of the match, their defensive line had been falling apart.
Puyol couldn't understand how Busquets allowed Madrid to break past the midfield line twice so easily.
Nor could he understand why Alves and Abidal didn't just commit fouls to stop Madrid's transitions.
Did they really think Mourinho's Madrid, after a full season of tactical refinent, was still the sa unbalanced squad that just stacked superstars and played reckless attacking football?
"Forget the past results! Wake the hell up! We lost the Supercopa just a few months ago—have you forgotten?! Anyone who keeps sleepwalking out there can ask to be subbed off! Barcelona can't afford this embarrassnt! Buckle up and fight! Fight to the end!"
Puyol's dressing-down left Barça's backline stunned, no one daring to breathe.
Even Piqué, who'd looked the most relaxed before the match, awkwardly turned his face away.
Talk back?
No chance. One wrong word, and Puyol might show him what "iron-blooded captain" really ant.
Further upfield, Busquets was getting an earful from Xavi.
Xavi was livid—if only his legs were just a bit longer, he might've stopped Leon's run himself.
The fact that he had to be the one considering a tactical foul said everything about how slack the midfield had been.
But thanks to the scolding from two of Barça's defensive generals, the players finally seed to snap out of their stupor.
Harsh words, sure, but completely necessary.
Better to be chewed out by your own leaders than hear the "friendly greetings" from fans after the match.
"Down 0-1? There's still ti. As long as we stop making mistakes!"
That's what many Barça players were telling themselves now, hoping to wrest control of the ga and find an equalizer.
But was it really going to be that simple?
Guardiola, watching from the sidelines, saw the signs. And they didn't look good.
The match was slipping out of his grasp.
Compared to a few months ago, Mourinho had added several tactical nuances—especially when it ca to neutralizing Barça's midfield and ssi.
When play resud, Barça—revitalized after Puyol's outburst—expected to break into Madrid's half with greater ease.
But the mont they slamd into Madrid's compact midfield line again, they realized they'd been too optimistic.
Madrid's aggressive press-and-cover system could instantly overload any side of the pitch, completely suffocating Barcelona's usual flow.
If Barça tried team play, Madrid simply crowded the midfield, locked down the space, and refused to over-commit—giving them no chance to slip through the lines.
If Barça tried individual play, ssi was the only true threat left. Sánchez, still new to La Liga, didn't bring enough firepower.
Barça fans, watching as Leon continued to match up one-on-one with ssi along the flank, couldn't hide their frustration.
Marcelo pushed high to the midfield line to assist Ronaldo with containing Alves and Iniesta.
Leon might not shut ssi down every ti, but his harassnt bought Marcelo enough ti to retreat and cover the flanks.
Or more directly—if ssi managed to receive and drive forward, Leon would shadow him inside, and Marcelo would co crashing back from behind for the double-team.
With every Madrid attacker and midfielder eager to track back, the mont Leon left his position, Khedira or Alonso filled in without hesitation.
As for the concern that repeated double-teaming and fouls on ssi might give Barça set-piece opportunities?
Unless the foul was close enough for a direct shot, Madrid didn't mind.
Defending set pieces was one of Madrid's strengths. If Barça were banking on Piqué and Puyol to bail them out from dead balls, Madrid would gladly take their chances.
To be honest, Mourinho and his players feared only one thing—ssi going supernova.
Because ssi could do it all—dribble, pass, shoot. Any space in Madrid's final third, and he beca a massive threat.
There was no sha in admitting it. If anything, it showed just how seriously Madrid was taking ssi now.
That's why Madrid had been able to dictate the tempo so far.
Barça had clearly underestimated Madrid's counterattack threat—and Ronaldo's terrifying ability to finish.
They were blindsided early on.
This was Mourinho's tactical triumph—and a psychological and emotional victory for the entire Madrid squad.
Madrid had delivered a massive shock to Barcelona. And it was now clear—Barça hadn't prepared enough.
They were still relying on the sa old tactics they thought would punish Madrid.
Complacency.
Still, ssi's fighting spirit was never in question.
He could sense sothing was off with the team. But being a man of few words, he chose to lead with action rather than speeches.
And it worked—because ssi, right now, was in his physical and technical pri.
He had earned the right to bend tactics in his favor.
And his teammates? They still believed in their superstar.
Once again, it was Leon who had to suffer the consequences.
Being passed by like a training cone twice within ten minutes was not a pleasant experience.
But even if he had to be a cone, he'd be the toughest, most stubborn, and most irritating roadblock out there!
Little fouls, jockeying, getting beaten, recovering with help from teammates, taking shortcuts to get in ssi's way again—Leon did it all.
Madrid fans could see Leon was struggling against a turbo-charged ssi.
But his relentless, sticky, "chewing gum" defense was sohow working!
It didn't always succeed, but as long as Leon could make ssi uncomfortable for most of the ga, Madrid fans were more than satisfied!
"Good lad!"
Karanka watched Leon once again manage to stall ssi long enough for help to arrive, forcing the Argentine to lay the ball off to a teammate.
Karanka couldn't hold it in any longer—he punched the seat in front of him and shouted his praise.
Mourinho, watching from the sidelines, had a flicker of sympathy in his eyes.
To have Leon, under the eyes of millions, repeatedly embarrassed by ssi—it was cruel.
For a young player, that kind of humiliation could crush your confidence.
But Mourinho had no choice. He needed Leon to play this sacrificial role, to neutralize ssi at any cost. Neutralize ssi, win the match.
In that mont, Leon's words before the ga echoed clearly in Mourinho's mind:
"Don't worry, boss. I get it. If I lose, but the team wins—then I've won too."
That sentence, loaded with awareness and a willingness to sacrifice, stirred Mourinho's heart.
He felt at ease. Very much so.
He knew Leon didn't bla him. More importantly, he knew Leon understood him.
"Little Lion, hold him! Hold the best player in the world—we have to win this together!"
※※※
"Aren't you tired? You look sharp today, but I can tell you're forcing it. You're gonna wear out eventually."
ssi wiped sweat from his forehead, watching as Iniesta recycled possession again. He pursed his lips and casually walked back into position.
As for the chatter buzzing around his ears like muttered monologue—he was used to it by now.
"Leo, show so rcy, man. You've already embarrassed enough tonight. Don't you feel bad making look like a fool in front of the entire football world?"
That finally got a reaction. ssi rolled his eyes and snapped back.
"No. I actually quite enjoy it."
"Then tell —what can I do to make you go a little easier on ?"
ssi didn't answer. After a beat of silence, he threw a sentence over his shoulder:
"Go mark Sánchez instead."
"Damn, you're cold to your own teammate? No way. I'm sticking with you. Pick a different condition."
"…"
ssi couldn't help but laugh in exasperation. He shoved Leon aside and jogged back to collect the ball.
Leon joked a lot, but as he said—he was locked onto ssi today, with all his focus fixed on that No. 10 shirt.
Seeing ssi drop back past the halfway line, Leon paused and flashed a aningful smile at him.
Iniesta, playing deep in the build-up, was tired just watching. From the Supercopa to now, Leon had shadowed ssi for two and a half full matches.
And they were approaching the 35th minute of this one.
Was this guy not human?
ssi was too annoyed to speak. He took the ball and, without hesitation, charged straight through the middle.
Fàbregas, seeing this, rotated out to the right wing, clearing space for ssi to operate centrally.
Leon followed him step for step, staying just behind. If ssi didn't make a move, neither would he.
But just as they were about to enter Madrid's defensive third, ssi finally acted.
He shifted the ball with his left foot, then quickly executed a right-footed chop, making a sudden change of direction!
But in that exact instant, ssi's eyes widened in disbelief.
Leon had read the move and launched into a full-blooded slide tackle ahead of ti—cutting straight across ssi's path with fearless precision!
No hesitation. No restraint.
Leon had decided to go all in, just as ssi had danced around him multiple tis earlier.
No second chances for ssi this ti.
ssi's right foot caught Leon's shin as he tumbled forward, losing the ball.
Leon, already springing to his feet, didn't wait for the referee's reaction. He imdiately laid off a diagonal pass to the advancing Alonso.
Iniesta and Fàbregas both threw up their arms and shouted for a foul.
But the referee was right on top of the play—he saw everything.
Leon had won the ball cleanly. There were no follow-through fouls, no studs up.
It was a textbook tackle. Beautiful. Legal.
Play on!
As the referee signaled for the ga to continue, Alonso took the ball and launched one of his trademark driven long passes.
Barely two seconds later, the ball had flown across half the pitch and found Ronaldo racing down the left.
For Ronaldo, controlling a pass like that was child's play. His first touch was flawless.
Almost in a single motion, he brought the ball down and blew past Dani Alves.
Still at top speed, he whipped in a massive curling cross toward the center of Barça's penalty area!
Benzema, slightly ahead of the ideal pace on his run, felt a flicker of doubt.
He could try to win the header, but he'd have to wait for the ball—and might not get enough power.
Then, inspiration struck.
He planted himself in front of Piqué, using his body to block him from getting a clean jump.
At the last mont, Benzema leapt—not to score, but to flick a sideways header across the goalmouth!
The brilliance of the move caught Barça's defenders completely off guard.
Khedira, charging forward, didn't go for the shot.
Because he saw another blur arriving even faster.
Di María reached the perfect spot at the perfect ti.
He cushioned the ball with his right foot, pushing it gently toward the middle of the box.
The ball obeyed, staying within his control—perfectly placed, perfectly tid…
Taking a deep breath, Di María didn't hesitate for a second. He ran up and curled another right-footed shot from the right edge of Barcelona's penalty area!
The angle was nearly identical to the one he attempted in the opening minutes, but this ti he was closer to the goal, struck it with more power, and had much more confidence.
Valdés's vision was briefly obstructed by Piqué and Benzema, but his anticipation was correct—the shot was aid for the far top corner.
But this ti, he couldn't stop it.
The spinning ball kissed the intersection of the post and crossbar and buried itself into the top corner of the net!
It was, without a doubt, a perfect "ten-point" goal.
Forget Valdés—even a pri Buffon couldn't have saved that one!
"AAAAAAAHHHHH—!!!!"
As soon as the ball hit the net, Di María opened his mouth wide and roared, sprinting straight toward the corner flag!
Khedira was the first to catch up, yelling as he hugged him. Then ca Benzema, Ronaldo, Arbeloa—
The Bernabéu exploded!
All of Real Madrid's supporters leapt in the stands, embracing wildly in an eruption of pure passion!
Words beca aningless—just wave after wave of deafening sound rolled through the entire stadium.
Mourinho and the players on the bench sprinted out together, charging toward the corner flag where the starters were celebrating in a frenzy!
Who could hold back at a ti like this?!
Nobody!
Forget the Spanish Super Cup that Barça fans refused to acknowledge—
This was La Liga. This was the Bernabéu!
And Real Madrid was leading Barcelona 2-0 at halfti!
Fueled by adrenaline, Mourinho jumped straight onto the back of one of his starting players.
And as the fans ca down from their high, they suddenly noticed the figure of Leon carrying Mourinho on his back, both roaring toward the south stand with fists pumping!
He Wei and Xu Yang, laughing after their impassioned comntary, couldn't help but chuckle at the scene.
That synchronized celebration between ntor and disciple would no doubt dominate headlines the next day.
But for Madrid fans, it was a mont to love—a symbolic gesture t with even louder cheers in return!
Morale was sky-high, confidence even higher!
Up 2-0 at the break, Madrid had completely crushed Barça in terms of montum and spirit.
Even though they spent the rest of the half retreating and defending deep, it was clear—they had disrupted Barcelona's rhythm entirely.
After the halfti break, Mourinho had countless tactical options available. With a two-goal lead, he could control the ga from both an attacking and defensive standpoint.
Barcelona, on the other hand, had no choice. They had to attack. Relentlessly.
At the start of the second half, Mourinho swapped in Lassana Diarra for Khedira, clearly signaling an even more defensive midfield strategy.
Barça fans were disgusted by Madrid's substitution—like they'd just swallowed a fly.
But what could they do? They were the ones trailing. By two goals, no less!
They'd buckled under pressure and were nearly broken by halfti. Now they had no choice but to push back hard.
The tone of the second half was clear: Madrid would look to capitalize on any opening with lethal counterattacks, while Barça pushed forward without regard for the holes in their defense, choosing to attack to defend.
The pace was electric, the tension palpable—neutrals couldn't get enough!
In the 76th minute, ssi lured defenders with a dummy run before threading a diagonal through-ball to substitute David Villa, who finally broke through for a one-on-one and slotted it ho.
Barça had pulled one back!
Their fans, reenergized, roared with life, pushing their team to keep the pressure on.
But just when it mattered most, Leon and Alonso combined to strip the ball from a visibly fatigued ssi once again.
As Barça's front players sward forward to try and stop the counterattack, Leon didn't try to dribble—he simply laid it off safely.
Ramos, with space and ti, launched a stunning long ball that sailed across nearly the entire pitch.
Benzema, retreating to receive it, perfectly played the role of the front-line anchor. Just before Busquets could foul him, he knocked the ball out wide to the right.
Di María ran a cover route to block Alves, giving Arbeloa the space he needed to break down the flank.
After getting past Abidal, Arbeloa sent in a low, driven cross into the box.
At the far post, Ronaldo sprinted past Puyol and t it with a ruthless near-post finish—ga over!
That second goal lit a fire in Ronaldo's eyes.
He ripped off his jersey, stood at the baseline with hands on hips, and roared with all his might—releasing years of frustration from countless defeats to Barcelona.
Guardiola covered his face in anguish.
From tactics to ntality, he had been beaten—thoroughly and completely.
Mourinho, anwhile, felt transported back a year and a half.
Sa Bernabéu. Sa sideline. And now, that sa triumphant smile returned to his face as he looked up at the scoreboard.
Leon took a deep breath, then finally smiled with relief.
The rest of the Madrid players dropped their cautious focus and began embracing, high-fiving, and celebrating a victory that had been long overdue.
Three years.
Three whole years without beating Barcelona in a La Liga match.
But today, they had done it—defeating their greatest rival head-on.
And with this win, they sent a clear ssage to the world:
Iberia—your old king has returned!
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