The second half began with both teams switching sides.
Spanish commentator González analyzed:
"Throughout the first half, Real Madrid didn't exert much effort, especially in the forward line. There were very few aggressive breakthroughs. This is clearly Mourinho conserving the forwards' energy, waiting for the right moment to launch a sudden attack!"
"In the second half, Real Madrid will definitely step up their offense, especially with Suker as their strong attacking point, relentlessly charging at Arsenal's defense."
González's analysis hit the mark, though part of the reason was Mourinho's overly obvious tactics. Many could guess his intentions.
But guessing and stopping it were two different things.
Real Madrid had planned to ramp up their efforts in the second half, which was why they had adopted a more defensive posture in the first.
The camera lingered on Suker.
On screen, Suker was continuously jumping and warming up, looking like a supercar ready to launch at any moment.
The Arsenal players glanced at Real Madrid.
The atmosphere had completely changed.
In the first half, Real Madrid communicated frequently and encouraged each other.
But in the second half, hardly anyone spoke. They just silently stared at their opponents.
Under those gazes, the pressure on Arsenal was immense.
Alexandre Song swallowed hard.
Gulp!
His eyes were full of wariness as he looked at Suker.
Last game, he had failed to contain Suker. Could he really limit him this time?
Even though Wenger had entrusted him with this heavy responsibility, was he truly up to the task?
Suker wasn't the kind of player who could be easily shackled.
During the league matches, when they had faced Manchester United, Alexandre Song had also been thoroughly schooled by Ronaldo.
But the pressure Ronaldo put on him was nowhere near Suker's level.
Right now, Ronaldo mostly stood on the defensive line waiting for passes. He didn't hold the ball too much or attempt many dribbles. Even when he did, his increased muscle mass made his movements stiff—he relied more on his raw explosiveness, having lost much of his former agility.
But Suker was different!
This guy was truly an all-rounder!
The most frustrating thing was his ability to change direction rapidly while dribbling at high speed.
Many called Kaká the "ankle breaker," but that was only because they hadn't seen Suker's directional shifts. This guy could perform two touches and two direction changes with the same foot in the middle of a dribble—he was a monster!
Peep!
The whistle blew sharply.
Alexandre Song jolted and immediately sprinted forward.
As Suker pressed forward, he noticed Song maintaining a subtle distance from him—close enough to pounce at any moment.
So, another man-marking midfielder?
Suker grinned.
He was sick of these kinds of players.
They didn't even play the ball—they just marked him.
Suker tested the waters, drifting slightly toward the wing. Sure enough, Song followed.
Confirmed!
Suker shook his head in amusement.
A dedicated marker.
Professor, even you're resorting to this now?
Wenger was a purist when it came to beautiful football. Even in defeat, he wanted his team to lose with style.
Throughout his managerial career, it was only in his later years, when he was truly backed into a corner, that he ever played defensively.
But now he was deploying a man-marking midfielder and dropping the whole team deep?
Call it "solid defense while waiting for counterattacking opportunities" if you wanted to be polite.
But in reality, it was pure defensive football.
Suker glanced at Wenger.
Professor, are the pressures really that great?
Boom!
Real Madrid won the ball back in their own half, and it was played into space. Ángel Di María and Cesc Fàbregas rushed to challenge for it.
They arrived at the same time, clashing boots fiercely.
Boom!
The ball squirted out toward Arsenal's half, while both Di María and Fàbregas tumbled to the ground.
"Loose ball!" Jack Wilshere shouted.
Alexandre Song craned his neck, searching for the ball's trajectory.
On the sidelines, Wenger bellowed: "Song! Forget the ball! Mark him! Stay on Suker!"
Song snapped back to attention.
Right—his job was to mark Suker.
So… where was Suker?
Swish!
A white blur leaped in front of him, cushioning the dropping ball deftly with the sole of his boot.
Suker had beaten Song to the ball and controlled it smoothly.
But after trapping it, Suker suddenly stuck out his backside, shoving Song away and creating space to turn toward goal.
Boom!
Suker laid the ball off to Kaká, then tried to dart past Song to continue his run.
"You're not getting past me!"
Song gritted his teeth, grabbing Suker's shoulder and yanking down hard to stop his momentum.
Suker didn't fight it. Instead, he planted his feet and stopped dead.
Song, caught off guard, stumbled forward, failing to brake in time.
Seizing the moment, Suker sidestepped and left Song in the dust.
"Oh no!" Wenger's heart sank.
He got past him that easily?
By now, Suker was already charging into the left half-space, streaking toward the penalty area.
Kaká whipped in a cross.
The ball arced toward the center, where Karim Benzema met it with his forehead. But leaning back, he could only direct it toward the far post.
Benzema trusted that Suker would be there.
Sure enough, Suker lunged forward, diving into a header.
His eyes locked onto the ball—until a body crashed into him from the side, shoving him mid-air.
With no way to adjust in the air, Suker strained his core to stay balanced but couldn't generate power, sending the ball weakly out of play.
Thud!
Suker hit the ground, grass flying into his mouth.
Pfft! Pfft!
He spat it out, then raised his hand. "That's a foul! A clear foul!"
He pointed at Bacary Sagna. "He pushed me!"
The referee shook his head—he hadn't seen it.
Suker sighed and turned to glare at Sagna.
These wily veterans were the hardest to deal with.
Wenger exhaled in relief on the sidelines. That had been close—if Suker had connected cleanly, it would've been disastrous.
Sagna's nudge had been crucial!
But when Wenger checked the clock, only three minutes had passed.
He suddenly felt the game stretching endlessly before him.
Suker didn't stay down. He sprang up and retreated, flashing Benzema a thumbs-up.
Great pass!
Encouraging Benzema meant more service, and Suker wanted him to enjoy setting up goals.
Mourinho watched the game unfold.
To him, Wenger's tactics were like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
If Song couldn't contain Suker, the entire plan was pointless.
The fact that Wenger was still persisting just showed he had no other options.
This was the impact of a world-class player.
Wenger knew what Mourinho was doing, but his squad simply couldn't match up. That was the difference in quality.
Boom!
Kaká switched play with a long diagonal.
Song rushed to close Suker down, but Suker initiated contact first, holding his ground. Then, just as the ball dropped, he eased off—letting Song stumble forward—before poking the ball through his legs.
A nutmeg, followed by a wide arc to bypass Song entirely and avoid being grabbed.
Suker surged forward.
"Karim!"
"One-two!"
Benzema shouted.
Gaël Clichy stepped across to cut off the passing lane.
But instead of passing, Benzema spun and fired a first-time shot.
"No pass?"
"Wait, what?"
Both Clichy and Suker froze.
He didn't pass?!
The shot was so sudden that even Arsenal's goalkeeper, Wojciech Szczęsny, didn't react—he didn't even move.
The ball nestled into the net.
Real Madrid 2-1 Arsenal!
"Benzema scores!! A brilliant decision! He fooled everyone—we all expected a one-two with Suker, but he turned and shot instead. Szczęsny was completely caught off guard. Real Madrid lead 2-1 in the 51st minute!"
As the team celebrated, Suker stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in exasperation.
Damn it!
He'd been brilliant all game but still hadn't scored.
But there was time left.
He needed a goal—otherwise, Ronaldo might overtake him.
"Fantastic!!—"
Assistant coach Rui Faria leaped up in celebration.
Beside him, Mourinho allowed himself a smile.
Game over.
Arsenal had no way back.
Wenger slumped onto the bench, his expression resigned.
"Go ahead and sub Suker off now," Faria urged excitedly. "No need to keep pushing him—save him for more important matches."
Even without a goal, Suker had been instrumental in both strikes.
His form was impeccable, and they needed to preserve it for the Champions League.
But Mourinho showed no intention of substituting him.
"Not taking him off?" Faria asked, puzzled.
Mourinho: "You try subbing him. See if he doesn't punch you."
"Huh?" Faria blinked, then understood.
After the last game, Suker and Ronaldo were tied atop the scoring charts.
This match, Suker hadn't found the net yet. Taking him off now would infuriate him.
Logically, resting him was the right call.
But Mourinho had already balanced the locker room's delicate dynamics. Provoking Suker over something so trivial wasn't worth it.
So… let him play.
Suker stayed on, playing even harder.
He wanted that goal—because who knew if Ronaldo was busy tearing Marseille apart right now?
Suker had to score.
As he turned up the intensity, the one who suffered most was Alexandre Song.
From the start, he couldn't keep up.
Suker was too savvy in physical duels.
The Premier League loved brute-force battles, but their players often lacked nuance—they fought just for the sake of fighting.
In Italy, Suker had faced true masters of the dark arts.
Javier Zanetti, Patrick Vieira, Iván Córdoba, Fabio Grosso, Cristian Chivu, Christian Panucci—each more cunning than the last.
It wasn't just about strength; it was a mental chess match.
You needed 800 IQ points just to survive in Serie A back then.
So when Suker encountered a straightforward player like Song, he toyed with him.
Suker wanted a goal.
But Arsenal's resistance was fierce, which only pissed him off more.
Just let me score one, damn it!
The answer was no.
But it didn't matter—he'd score anyway.
In the 78th minute, midfield descended into chaos.
Maybe Arsenal's morale had shattered, because they started flying into reckless tackles. Real Madrid's players retaliated in kind.
The most aggressive? Kaká.
For all his gentlemanly looks, this guy had come up at AC Milan—where he'd been one of the biggest instigators.
Both teams chased the ball like rabid dogs, leaving Suker unmarked near the halfway line.
His instincts screamed: The chance is coming.
Sure enough, when Song slid in recklessly on Benzema, the ball popped loose to the left flank—where no one was covering.
"Here we go!"
Suker exploded into action, his blistering speed turning him into a white streak.
Sagna gave chase, but compared to Suker, he looked like he was running in quicksand.
"Suker's through!!"
Madridistas roared as Suker reached the ball first, toe-poking it past Sagna before accelerating away.
"Suker's one-on-one!"
The Bernabéu erupted.
Suker raced into the box.
Szczęsny's blood ran cold.
At this range, he couldn't rush out—or rather, hesitation had cost him.
Suker cut inside, reached the penalty spot, and lashed a right-footed shot.
"Far post!" Szczęsny guessed.
But Suker's ankle flexed at the last second, curling the ball inside the near post.
Swish!
"Goooal!! Suker!!"
"Real Madrid 3-1 Arsenal! 5-1 on aggregate—it's over, completely over! Arsenal have no hope left!"
"With this goal, Suker has killed the tie!"
Mourinho checked his watch. "Alright, now we can sub him."
In the 85th minute, Real Madrid made their final change, bringing Suker off.
Though he was done, Arsenal's spirit had long since broken.
With less than 10 minutes left, how could they possibly score four?
Especially against a Real Madrid side sitting deep in defense.
One by one, Arsenal's players slumped in despair.
The match was over.
Eight minutes later, the final whistle blew.
"Full time! Real Madrid win 5-1 on aggregate over Arsenal and advance to the Champions League quarterfinals!"
"Over these two legs, we've seen the sheer dominance of this Real Madrid side."
"Even a team as talented as Arsenal couldn't overcome them."
"What's most terrifying is their composure—apart from Pepe's one reckless challenge (which barely even counts as a mistake), they were flawless."
"As for Arsenal, their European journey ends here."
González sighed.
Wenger's charisma was undeniable, and Arsenal had won many admirers over the years.
The professor had dedicated decades to the club, achieving so much.
But European glory had always eluded him.
That remained his one regret.
——
Post-match, Suker finished his interviews and headed toward the tunnel.
There, he spotted Wenger waiting near the entrance.
"Suker," Wenger called.
Suker pointed at himself. "Me?"
Wenger smiled and extended his hand. "Congratulations on the win."
Suker blinked, then grinned. "Thanks, but it wasn't easy. Arsenal gave us a real fight—"
"You little rascal!" Wenger chuckled, shaking his head at the platitudes.
"I know how we played. No need for flattery."
He exhaled. "And congratulations again on the Ballon d'Or."
"Uh… thanks?"
Suker studied Wenger, puzzled.
The professor just smiled. "That's all. I look forward to seeing more from you."
With that, he walked away.
Suker watched him go, bemused.
The old man's back was straight as a rod—even in defeat, he carried himself with pride.
But soon, that pride would be shattered.
Suker shook his head.
Not his problem. Time to celebrate.
BANG!
He kicked the locker room door open. "Let's get this party started! Victory!"
The room erupted in cheers.
——
Later that night, the Champions League round of 16 concluded.
The quarterfinalists were set:
Real Madrid, Barcelona, Shakhtar Donetsk, Inter Milan, Schalke 04, Chelsea, Tottenham Hotspur, Manchester United.
On the team bus, Suker made a call.
"What the hell happened to you guys? You froze against Milan's shadow? Lost to Inter?"
Over two legs, Bayern Munich had drawn 3-3 with Inter—but Inter's three away goals sent them through.
On the other end, Mario Mandžukić groaned. "Who knew Inter would turn up like that? Three away goals—they wrecked us! They were terrible in the first half of the season!"
Suker rolled his eyes.
Rafael Benítez had broken Inter early on, hence their struggles.
But after his sacking, the remnants of Mourinho's treble-winning squad remained.
Bayern hadn't adjusted mentally.
No matter how bad Inter had been earlier, they were still the reigning champions.
A narrow first-leg win had made Bayern complacent.
In the second leg, Inter demolished them.
"My first Champions League campaign… over. And I only scored twice!" Mandžukić wailed.
Suker hung up without another word.