On March 30, the entire Bordeaux team arrived in Madrid, Spain, to prepare for the first leg of the UEFA Champions League quarter-finals.
This was their first time reaching the quarter-finals of the Champions League, and their hearts were filled with excitement and anticipation.
To fight their way into the final eight of the Champions League was a completely new experience for a club like Bordeaux, which lacks significant historical pedigree.
Just like their head coach had said—every step Bordeaux takes is a step into history.
"Yes! I still stand by my words, and I'll prove them in the game."
Bordeaux's top striker, Chamakh, looked directly into the media cameras, slightly lifting his chin with an air of arrogance.
Ever since Chamakh actively stirred up talk about challenging Suker, the buzz around his statements and his fame had both clearly grown.
He really enjoyed being in the spotlight.
If they could defeat Real Madrid in the Champions League quarter-finals, Chamakh's name would become even bigger, and a move to a true football giant wouldn't be out of the question.
Because of that, Chamakh wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste. He was going to hype the match as much as possible, using Suker's popularity to boost his own.
After his interview, Chamakh walked onto the team bus looking very pleased with himself.
"Hey, guys! Ready to beat Real Madrid?"
Chamakh shouted cheerfully on the bus, and a small group of players quickly responded with excited cheers.
Everyone seemed pumped up.
Partly because they were about to play at the Bernabéu.
And partly because Real Madrid no longer seemed as intimidating as before—they believed they had a shot at beating them.
That made the team even more hyped.
At the very back of the bus, Bordeaux's two captains sat together.
Chalmers looked at the excited teammates up front, feeling they were being a little too optimistic.
"Do you think Chamakh's actions are the right move?"
he asked Ciani, sitting next to him.
Ciani paused and said:
"I don't know. So far, Real Madrid and Suker haven't responded to Chamakh's provocations."
"Yeah, but they definitely know about it."
"I just don't know if Real Madrid—or Suker—are affected mentally by this. What worries me is that they might suddenly go all out in the match."
Chalmers sighed.
"Honestly, Chamakh's provocation shows a real lack of respect for Suker."
Suker was without doubt the strongest player in world football at the moment—and also the most decorated.
When facing a player like that, Chamakh's provocation—was it confidence or self-delusion?
The match would tell.
If Suker exploded during the match and led to Bordeaux's defeat, the media backlash would be fierce.
Right now, the media was just using Chamakh as a tool.
They knew exactly how to stir up headlines, and they were eager to see if Suker would show weakness in the game.
So they kept amplifying Chamakh's words, sometimes even exaggerating them.
But if Bordeaux lost, Chamakh would be abandoned like yesterday's news. The media wouldn't defend him—they'd throw him under the bus.
Bordeaux's reputation could take a hit too.
So, from Chalmers' point of view, this was a very risky move.
Suker wasn't someone to be trifled with.
Sure, provoking Suker could bring a lot of attention.
But it also carried enormous danger.
If Bordeaux lost, the media would immediately turn and stand behind Suker.
This was the concern shared by players like Chalmers.
But now that the provocation had already happened, there was no turning back. They'd have to face the consequences head-on.
By noon, they had checked into their hotel—and from there, they could see the Bernabéu stadium.
Many players couldn't help but stare, their eyes filled with desire.
No player could resist the temptation of the Bernabéu.
Chamakh was no exception.
His eyes burned with determination—if he could rise to stardom with just one goal, everything would depend on tomorrow's match.
The next day, Madrid was buzzing.
With the Champions League in town, the entire city was alive with energy.
Bordeaux arrived early at the Bernabéu for their pre-match walkthrough. Many of them were visibly excited.
After all—this was the Bernabéu.
And they were about to face Real Madrid here.
"Hey, idiot! What gives you the right to provoke Suker?!"
"Look at your pathetic goal stats—Suker's never scored less than 13 goals in a season!"
"Suker isn't ignoring you—he just doesn't know who you are, clown!"
"You'll see why Suker plays at the Bernabéu, and you play for Bordeaux!"
"Show some respect, you damn clown! Suker was the top scorer in his first Champions League season! What have you done?!"
As the Bordeaux team bus pulled up to the Bernabéu, Real Madrid fans on both sides let loose with a wave of furious insults aimed at Chamakh.
Suker may have stayed silent, but the fans weren't going to let the insults slide.
Suker was their pride.
Suker was their superstar.
They weren't about to let some nobody talk trash about the man who brought them glory.
Walking toward the stadium entrance, Chamakh kept his head down, his ears filled with angry roars from the crowd.
He knew he wouldn't be welcomed here—but the hostility was far worse than expected.
The other Bordeaux players glanced at each other awkwardly.
They now clearly understood how much the Real Madrid fans hated Chamakh.
This was the price of provoking a team's star player—especially when that player was Suker, and the provoker had openly supported Messi and Barcelona.
During warmups, the booing against Chamakh was relentless.
The deafening noise of 90,000 fans overwhelmed him, and he began making frequent mistakes during the warm-up.
Every time Chamakh fumbled, the crowd exploded into mock cheers and clapping, mocking him further.
Suker noticed.
Watching Chamakh fail basic ball control, Suker had a strange expression on his face.
"That kind of mental toughness—and you want to provoke people?"
"Don't take on jobs you're not equipped for."
If you succeed in provoking someone, you're a badass.
If you fail—you're just a fool.
Even at his most arrogant, Suker never went out of his way to provoke top stars—he always gave them the respect they deserved.
Chamakh's behavior might earn him short-term popularity, but it would soon come back to bite him.
Suker shook his head—he no longer cared about this guy.
Anyone who couldn't even handle the pressure wasn't worth his attention.
The warm-up ended, and the teams returned to the locker rooms.
Chamakh walked through the players' tunnel, face like thunder. On his way, he saw Suker.
But Suker was deep in conversation with Benzema, and didn't even look at him.
As if he wasn't worth a glance.
This made Chamakh even more frustrated.
After final tactical instructions, both teams lined up in the tunnel.
Starting lineups:
Real Madrid (4-3-3):Goalkeeper: CasillasDefenders: Arbeloa, Garay, Ramos, MarceloMidfielders: Diarra, Gago, AlonsoForwards: Higuaín, Benzema, Suker
Bordeaux (4-4-2):Goalkeeper: CarrassoDefenders: Sané, Chalmers, Trémoulinas, CianiMidfielders: Wendel, Gourcuff, Fernando, PlasilForwards: Gouffran, Chamakh
During the handshake routine—
Chamakh stood with his hands behind his back, refusing to move.
Real Madrid players gave him a glance. Big ego for someone with no name.
They ignored him and moved on to shake hands with the rest of the Bordeaux team.
Only Ramos reached out and forced Chamakh to shake hands, slapping his palm hard before walking off satisfied.
Suker caught the whole scene and smirked.
Chamakh had been marked by Ramos.
And Ramos had a bad temper—now that Chamakh had been marked, the match was going to be painful for him.
The cameras caught it all.
Spanish commentator González frowned:
"Chamakh's behavior is very unpleasant. Refusing to shake hands crosses the line of provocation—it's a sign of disrespect for the club of Real Madrid and its long history."
His voice was heavy with frustration.
He now hoped Real Madrid would crush Bordeaux.
But Bordeaux couldn't be underestimated either.
Soon, the players took their positions.
"That Frenchman is mine. I'll shut him up completely."
Ramos told his teammates right before kickoff.
"Careful," Suker warned, "don't get booked."
"Relax, I've got this."
Everyone exchanged nervous glances.
You? Have control?
The most unpredictable guys on the team were Pepe and Ramos.
Still, with the situation as it was—they needed someone ruthless to shut Chamakh up.
Coin toss complete.
Bordeaux kicked off the first half.
"This is the 2009/2010 UEFA Champions League quarter-final first leg. Real Madrid hosts Ligue 1's Bordeaux at the Bernabéu."
"This is Madrid's first quarter-final appearance in five seasons—they've finally broken their curse. How far can they go this time?"
"Meanwhile, Bordeaux striker Chamakh has repeatedly provoked Suker and Real Madrid in the media, even refusing to shake hands before kickoff."
"Let's hope he has the skill to back up his arrogance—otherwise, Madrid will show him why they're a superpower!"
As Chamakh stood over the ball in the center circle...
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!
Deafening boos erupted across the stadium.
Over 90,000 Real Madrid fans were all booing Chamakh.
The pressure was enormous.
Chamakh took a deep breath and tried to hype himself up.
The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
Chamakh passed the ball and ran straight toward Madrid's half.
As he approached the back line, Ramos closed in tight.
He looked forward but was watching Chamakh out of the corner of his eye.
Suddenly—Bordeaux launched a long ball.
"Chance!"
Chamakh sprinted toward it, perfectly timing his run.
As he reached the drop point—he heard a terrifying sound of cleats scraping the grass.
He looked over—and jumped in panic.
Ramos flew in with a vicious sliding tackle, aiming to take him out.
Chamakh leapt just in time to avoid the contact.
Ramos smoothly won the ball and passed it out wide to Marcelo.
"Coward," Ramos muttered as he got up.
Chamakh was rattled.
He noticed that Ramos had tilted his foot up slightly—not a clean tackle.
If he'd been hit, he might've gotten injured.
His face turned grim—this match wouldn't be pretty.
Meanwhile, Madrid transitioned smoothly into attack.
And as long as the defense held, Suker knew—
It was time to go on the offensive.