"Messi should be on the Ballon d'Or shortlist! He's been far better than Su Hang! Look—Su Hang's match stats are all zeros!"
"Uh... as a neutral fan, I just want to point out—maybe Su Hang's zero stats are because... he didn't actually play?"
"If he didn't play, that just proves he's not good enough! The ones who make it onto the pitch are stronger than those who don't. And even these so-called stronger players still can't match Messi. So how could someone who didn't even play measure up?"
"Exactly! Relying on two washed-up old men like Zidane and Figo, plus a half-crippled Ronaldo—that's all Real Madrid has left!"
At halftime, Real Madrid carefully analyzed the situation.
Barcelona's defense was airtight.
The only dangerous moments for Madrid had come from Figo breaking through.
This Barcelona side was especially skilled at shutting down "slow" teams like Real Madrid.
The only way to hurt them was with speed, forward runs, and direct dribbling.
So Madrid prepared to take a gamble—around the 70th minute, they would throw on fresh substitutes to launch an all-out assault.
But until then, they couldn't afford to concede again.
Defensive discipline was crucial.
Luxemburgo scoffed at the tactics devised by Simon and Su Hang.
In his view, Zidane shouldn't have started—Robinho should have been out there instead.
And Raúl was proving ineffective too. He believed Baptista, with his power, was the right man to batter Barça's back line.
But Luxemburgo didn't stop to consider: if those players were thrown on, Madrid might indeed gain the firepower to counterattack—but who would actually organize the counter?
...
In the 52nd minute, Luxemburgo allowed himself a brief smile—then quickly hid it.
Barcelona had scored again.
Van Bronckhorst, after receiving a pass from Deco, cut the ball back in a reverse triangle to Ronaldinho.
Ronaldinho shaped to shoot, but instead burst past Sergio Ramos, charging into the left side of the box. Then, with a curling strike, he unleashed a stunning world-class goal.
Two-nil!
Barcelona doubled their lead.
And Real Madrid's tactical plan had collapsed.
Simon grew uneasy. He turned to Su Hang, asking if they should make the substitution earlier.
Su Hang shook his head—telling him to wait.
Barcelona's stamina was still holding up. If Madrid threw on their "trump card" too early, the element of surprise would be wasted. Without a late physical advantage, there would be no decisive impact.
They had to hold out.
Robinho's planned introduction around the 70th minute could not be rushed.
But disaster struck again.
In the 56th minute, Raúl dropped deep for a one-two with Figo.
Figo broke into the edge of the penalty arc—
but before he could shoot, Deco came sliding in from behind and chopped him down.
It was a clash between the Portuguese national team's old and new kings.
Deco had been everywhere this match, and it was hard to deny his intensity was sharpened by facing Figo.
Once a Brazilian, Deco had switched allegiance after being overlooked by Brazil, becoming one of Portugal's most successful naturalized players.
With Figo, he helped Portugal reach the Euro 2004 final, finishing runners-up.
That same year, Deco placed second in the Ballon d'Or voting—just one step from the summit of world football.
But before Deco's naturalization, Portugal's golden generation—led by Figo—had fiercely opposed the policy, treating Deco with cold indifference when he first joined.
So beyond the generational succession, there was bad blood.
And this tackle carried more than a hint of personal edge.
Had Deco shown deference to his veteran teammate, perhaps he wouldn't have gone in so hard.
The result? Figo couldn't continue.
His ankle was finished.
Boos rang out across the Camp Nou.
Barcelona fans cheered his injury—the "traitor" had finally been punished on their turf.
They chanted Deco's name, calling the yellow card worth every bit and hailing him as a hero.
Deco himself looked uneasy.
Yes, he had intended the tackle—but not to injure Figo.
After all, Figo was still a vital player for Portugal.
If the injury proved serious, their World Cup hopes next year would take a heavy blow.
And in Portugal, Figo's status was untouchable—something Deco could never match.
He knew this challenge would likely spark a backlash at home.
Such is the burden of a naturalized player.
Even if you bring glory to the team, true acceptance is always harder to earn.
...
"Oh! Figo's off injured—and Su Hang is warming up for Madrid."
"Looks like Su Hang is about to come on."
"He'll go up front, which means Raúl will drop back into the attacking midfield role."
"Raúl played plenty of games there over the last two seasons and did okay, but nowhere near Figo's level."
"As an attacking midfielder, Raúl is more of a shadow striker—making runs or laying the ball off. He's not really suited to orchestrating play or driving forward on the dribble."
"He's good, close to elite, but with Figo and Zidane in that role, we're talking world-class."
The commentators were right.
Raúl moved back into attacking midfield.
...
59th minute.
Zidane slid a through ball down the flank.
At first, everyone thought it was a mistake.
Because the forward on that side now was Su Hang.
Ronaldo, who had been on the left, had shifted over to the right.
The strike pairings had their logic.
When Ronaldo and Raúl were paired, Raúl was the link man, feeding Ronaldo.
Or Zidane could send a direct through ball for Ronaldo to chase—he could finish himself, or square for Raúl.
The system revolved around Ronaldo.
Now, with Su Hang and Ronaldo together, Su Hang was expected to fill Raúl's role:
dropping deep to collect the ball.
And he had one more weapon—
to contest aerials, then feed Ronaldo.
Or connect with Beckham's crosses for headers himself.
But this pass... Zidane had clearly mistaken Su Hang for Ronaldo.
The ball skidded toward the byline.
How could Su Hang possibly catch that?
Would he even bother chasing it?
Whoosh!
Just as Puyol was about to shake his head at Zidane's "mistake," Su Hang burst past him at full sprint.
Whoa!
Great awareness. He actually chased it.
Puyol grinned, turning to race after him.
He was half a step behind, but confident—his recovery pace and inside line would let him box Su Hang out, then watch the ball roll harmlessly over the line...
What?
He kicked into top gear, but the gap didn't shrink.
It stayed half a body length.
And he was already running flat out.
This...
No!
It wasn't that the gap wasn't closing.
It was opening!
The gap was widening before his very eyes.
Su Hang was pulling away from Puyol!
...
(35 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser