Accompanied by the thunderous, earth-shaking cheers of the ten thousand fans packed into the Alfredo Di Stéfano, ti finally ticked to exactly four o'clock.
Fweet--!
The Main Referee checked his watch and blew the whistle to signal the start of the battle. This highly anticipated Segunda División El Clásico had officially begun.
In the first half, Real Madrid Castilla, playing with the absolute confidence of a ho side, kicked off first. Álvaro Morata stood in the center circle and tapped the ball back to Jesé Rodríguez. Imdiately, the white shirts of Madrid surged forward like a tidal wave, while the Barcelona B attacking line, led by Lorenzo, Munir, and Adama pushed past the halfway line to begin their press.
Lorenzo road the attacking third, his eyes moving with a predatory rhythm. After integrating the Drogba template to 75%, he could feel the newfound density in his fra. He was curious to see if this raw physicality could truly hold its own in the high-intensity, "no-quarter-given" matches of the Spanish second tier.
In this match, both sides mirrored each other with a conventional 4-3-3 formation, but the tactical soul of the teams was worlds apart. Zidane's Castilla did not utilize a traditional defensive pivot; instead, their midfield trio consisted of two central playmakers and Jesé acting as a floating attacking engine. They sacrificed defensive cover for absolute offensive saturation.
"They aren't just playing; they're hunting," Inés Valdes remarked into her microphone from the touchline. "Real Madrid is displaying a version of themselves that is terrifyingly efficient. They are using Barcelona's own possession-based philosophy to suffocate them."
From the sixth minute, the disparity in individual quality beca a visible gap.
The Castilla midfield, composed of Jesé, Isco, and Cheryshev, showcased a level of footwork that felt like a "dinsionality reduction" strike against the struggling Barça B defense. They moved the ball with a sharp, vertical aggression that allowed them to bypass the press in seconds.
"Campins! Watch your gap! Get back into the zone!" Sacristán scread from the sidelines, his voice cracking with anxiety.
Campins, who had long been considered the structural "hole" in the Barcelona B backline, was caught in a dangerous position. He was too far forward, leaving a massive chasm between himself and his center-back partner. Jesé, sensing the weakness, darted into the space. Lucas Vázquez spotted the run from the wing and delivered a laser-precise lob pass that dropped perfectly into Jesé's control area.
In a desperate attempt to rectify his error, Campins lunged. He grabbed Jesé's shoulder, pulling and dragging the Madrid star down to the grass just outside the eighteen-yard box.
Fweet--!
The referee rushed over, his hand reaching for his pocket but eventually settling for a stern verbal warning. It was a tactical foul, ugly, but necessary to prevent a one-on-one.
"Bitch! Take your hands off !" Jesé shouted as he scrambled up, shoving Campins away with a sneer of pure arrogance. He didn't care about the foul; he only cared about the opportunity. He repositioned the ball on the grass, his eyes fixed on the top corner of the net.
Real Madrid had a set-piece opportunity in the "CR7 Zone."
"Lorenzo, stay up!" Adama Traoré hissed to Lorenzo as the rest of the team retreated to form a wall. "Don't co back for this. Stay near the halfway line and wait for the clearance. If we win the ball, you're our only out!"
Lorenzo nodded, his gaze lingering on the Madrid wall. He stayed near the center circle, a lone blue figure amidst a sea of white. He wasn't frustrated by the lack of touches; he was observing the patterns of the Madrid defense, waiting for the one mont of overconfidence that would inevitably co.
In the VIP box, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. "Jesé is going to take it," Cesc Fàbregas noted. "He wants to be Cristiano so badly he can taste it."
On the pitch, Isco stood over the ball alongside Jesé. "What's the play, Jesé? You want a lay-off?"
"I'm hitting it," Jesé replied, his lip curling. "Direct."
The whistle blew. Isco faked a run, then flicked the ball toward Jesé's dominant foot. Jesé stepped into the shot, attempting a powerful knuckleball that would dip and swerve.
However, the execution lacked the legendary "God-like" dip. The ball struck the top of the wall and deflected high into the air. Jesé was about to roar in frustration, but the play wasn't over. Morata, the 1.9-ter giant, used his superior reach to head the ball down into the path of the advancing Jesé.
Morata was about to turn and shoot himself, but he was interrupted by Jesé's angry shout. "Don't ss up! Pass it here!"
Morata, plagued by the recent insecurities Lopetegui had noted in training, hesitated. He reluctantly tapped the ball horizontally to Jesé rather than taking the shot himself.
Jesé Rodríguez didn't hesitate. His footwork was a blur, a series of rapid-fire touches that took him past two staggering Barcelona defenders. Facing the goalkeeper, Banus, Jesé didn't look for the far post; he chose a low, vicious strike to the near corner.
Banus, his vision obscured by the forest of legs in the box, dived a fraction of a second too late.
Swish-!
The ball grazed the inside of the post and nestled into the net.
"GOAL! JESÉ RODRÍGUEZ!" the stadium announcer bellowed.
Only six minutes had passed, and the score was already 1-0.
A deafening burst of cheers erupted from the stands. The white jerseys of Madrid were a frenzy of celebration. "Cristiano! Cristiano!" so fans shouted, bestowing the ultimate praise on Jesé.
Jesé leaped onto Morata's back, pointing toward the Barcelona bench with a look of supre disdain. He was a Galactico-in-waiting, and today, he was making sure everyone knew it.
Behind them, the Barcelona B players stood in a circle of frustration. "Campins, this is on you!" Banus shouted, slamming the grass with his gloved fist. "How many tis do we have to tell you to stay goal-side?"
On the sidelines, Sacristán slumped back onto the bench, his head in his hands. A goal down in six minutes, and his "tactical masterpiece" was already falling apart. The "dinsionality reduction" was real, Castilla was playing at a La Liga pace, and his kids were drowning.
Not far away, Zinedine Zidane blew a cheerful, silent whistle and sat back in his seat, leaning toward Ancelotti. He was relaxed, almost bored. He knew the strength of his Castilla squad; when they gained an early advantage, they were an unstoppable force in the second tier.
But as the celebrations died down, Zidane's eyes shifted away from Jesé and toward the center circle. He looked at the number 99, Lorenzo.
The Argentinian boy hadn't moved. He stood at the halfway line, his eyes tracking the ball as the referee brought it back for the restart. He didn't look frustrated, and he didn't look afraid. He looked like a man who was simply waiting for his turn.
"Let's see what you're made of, 'Genius,'" Zidane muttered, chewing his gum with a renewed rhythm. "The ga has just begun."
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