Bang!
Suker was tackled to the ground by Zanetti. After falling, he scrambled to get back up and chase the ball, but it was cleared away by the onrushing Srna.
"Damn it!"
Suker had lost count of how many times he'd cursed already.
Mourinho was really "taking care" of him.
He was basically getting locked down from every direction, every time he touched the ball, someone was right there to interfere.
And it wasn't normal defensive pressure either—it was hands-on, physical grappling.
If Suker jumped, they'd push him in the lower back. No matter how strong he was, getting shoved midair would always throw off his balance.
"Inter Milan's defense on Suker is just too tight. Real Madrid keeps trying to get the ball to him, but they can't deliver it cleanly. Worse yet, they don't have enough midfield support to help Suker hold the ball!"
—Gonzalez, gravely.
Mourinho clearly understood Real Madrid: stop Suker, and the rest of the team falls apart.
Other top-tier teams pride themselves on fair play and honorable tactics—they like to win head-on.
But Mourinho, the poster boy for pragmatic football, only cared about winning in the easiest way possible.
Forget honor or prestige—his strategy was to completely shut Suker down.
And once Suker was neutralized, Real Madrid's offense crumbled.
Even Benzema, who tried hard to link up with Suker and ease his burden, had no answer.
Yet, strangely, Mourinho didn't look satisfied on the sidelines.
He frowned, muttered under his breath, lips moving but saying nothing anyone could hear.
He was clearly displeased.
Why?
Because Real Madrid was treating Suker like a cannon.
Just like Pellegrini had done before!
Now this interim coach was doing the same.
No one seemed to understand where Suker's real strengths lay.
What a waste of talent.
Mourinho looked at Real Madrid's tactics with pure disdain.
What kind of football is this?
And then there was Ramos—clearly an unfinished product. A center-back playing with such reckless abandon?
Center-backs are supposed to be stable, yet Ramos kept charging forward.
Even worse, the other center-back, Pepe, was just as reckless.
With two unstable defenders, how could the backline ever be solid?
And on counterattacks, the wingers never cut inside—they kept hugging the touchlines. That might have stretched the field, but it ruined the passing stability.
Who the hell coached this team?
"Spread the play to the flanks! Use the full width of the pitch!"
Just then, Ledrup yelled from the sidelines.
Mourinho glanced over and muttered, "Idiot."
Meanwhile, Suker was still searching for a solution.
He had tried many approaches, but none worked. He just couldn't hold the ball under pressure.
"This can't go on."
He looked left and right—then suddenly dropped deeper.
"Suker is dropping back!"
Srna shouted in warning:
"Lucio! Follow him!"
Suker turned and yelled angrily:
"Srna! Screw you!"
Lucio immediately followed. His sole assignment was to shadow Suker wherever he went.
Mourinho had said: even if Suker runs into his own goal, follow him.
Lucio followed those orders to the letter.
Suker retreated all the way to midfield.
Looking left and right again, he slowed down—then suddenly braced himself and leaned back.
He used his body to block Lucio.
At that moment, Diarra passed the ball straight to Suker.
"It won't work."
Mourinho shook his head.
He had already planned for this kind of drop-back play.
Immediately, Inter's midfielders closed in toward the center.
They moved so quickly that by the time Suker touched the ball, Sneijder and Motta had already surrounded him, with Lucio pressing from behind.
Suker gritted his teeth.
He should have passed it immediately!
But he hadn't expected Inter's trap to close so fast.
With three defenders on him, Suker couldn't do much.
If this had been a moving play, he might have had more room to work with—but now, with so little space, he was stuck.
"Gotta gamble!"
Suker jabbed the ball with his toe—aiming it at Sneijder's shin.
He wanted a lucky deflection to get through the press.
Bang!
The ball bounced off Sneijder's leg and shot out behind them.
"It's on!"
Suker's eyes lit up as he spun around to sprint after it.
But just as he took off, Lucio yanked him back hard.
Suker lost his balance and landed on his backside.
"Ohhhh! Suker just used Sneijder's shin to try and dribble past the defense! But Lucio pulled him down at the last second—he was about to break free and face the backline one-on-one!"
WHISTLE!
The ref ran over and showed Lucio a yellow card.
Lucio didn't react much—he had expected it.
But internally, he was shaken.
Even with three defenders on Suker, the guy still found a way to nearly break free with his creativity.
If Lucio hadn't pulled him down, Suker would've been gone.
Tch tch...
Mourinho made an annoyed noise.
Three defenders, and still they had to take a yellow just to stop him.
That was not good news.
Suker, meanwhile, was fired up.
"Keep doing this—watch my position!"
He finally saw a glimmer of hope.
He wasn't sure it would work every time, but even once would be enough to wreck Inter's backline.
Inter Milan kept up the pressure, but they didn't slack off offensively either.
Sneijder controlled tempo up front, with Cambiasso as the key distributor.
Eto'o and Milito continued attacking Real Madrid's defense.
Suker still hadn't escaped their press—but Madrid's backline was already crumbling.
"Clear it! Big boot it!"
Bang!
Ramos launched it forward to relieve pressure.
But they didn't regain possession—Lucio headed it back.
Suker went for the aerial challenge, but Lucio gave him a sneaky push in the back.
The ball ended up at Milito's feet again.
He passed it wide to Sneijder, who whipped in a cross.
Ramos and Milito leapt, but neither connected.
At the far post, Eto'o rushed in for a volley—
Clang!
Off the post!
"Follow up! Clear it!"
Casillas shouted urgently.
Pepe raced forward to intercept.
Cambiasso shaped up like he would shoot—
"Take him out!"
Pepe lunged with a brutal slide tackle.
Even if he missed the ball, he was going to bring Cambiasso down.
Bang!
Cambiasso was smashed to the ground.
"HEY!!!"
Milito shouted furiously.
Pepe had gone straight for Cambiasso's supporting leg.
"AHHHHHHHH!!!"
Cambiasso screamed.
The stadium fell dead silent.
Suker's eyes widened.
"No way…"
The ref rushed over—and pulled out a red card.
BOOM!!!
The stadium exploded.
"Oh no! Pepe again! That tackle was reckless. Red card in the 13th minute—Real Madrid is down to 10 men!"
Chaos broke out on the pitch.
Ramos, Suker, and others surrounded the ref, trying to argue.
Even if it seemed hopeless, they had to try—maybe the decision could be reversed?
Pepe was stunned.
He had gone for the ball—but Cambiasso had stepped in just at the last second, and the tackle caught his supporting leg.
Worse yet, Pepe didn't keep his foot down—his studs were exposed.
No matter how you looked at it, that red card was justified.
Cambiasso sat on the ground—his sock torn, but luckily, Pepe had hit his shin guard. No major injury.
"He did it on purpose! He was aiming for me!"
Pepe was furious.
It was only his second match since returning—and such a crucial one, too.
He would never make a reckless challenge at a time like this.
But even if he was innocent—he had no way to prove it.
"Cambiasso set Pepe up!"
Suker whispered to Ramos.
This was bad.
The game was already tough enough, and now they were a man down.
Cambiasso's nickname was "The Midfield Conspirator". It described not just his play style, but also his intelligence—he knew how to exploit the rules.
Just like now—he might've invited the tackle and drawn the red card.
On the sidelines, Ledrup was frantically explaining to the fourth official:
"If Pepe had meant it, he would've gone in straight—not swept from the side. That was a tactical foul, not a red card!"
But it was no use.
Pepe was already on UEFA's and the referees' blacklist, so they gave him the harshest treatment.
Real Madrid had to play with 10 men.
Ledrup had no choice but to make a substitution:
Higuaín out. Garay in.
Defense first.
"Me again?"
Higuaín was stunned.
He'd already been benched in the league—now even in the Champions League?
So little time on the field, and already subbed out?
He cursed in frustration and even had a minor clash with Ledrup as he left.
Suker saw all this—and realized the situation was spiraling.
The match resumed.
"This is really bad. Real Madrid was already trailing from the first leg, and now they're down a man. With Pepe sent off, they've had to reshuffle the team. This game..."
Gonzalez kept shaking his head.
Real Madrid looked doomed.
Inter's attack only intensified.
With the man advantage, they kept switching flanks to stretch Madrid's defense and find an opening.
Eto'o and Milito were relentless, hammering away at the weakened backline.
Madrid's midfield had retreated almost entirely into the penalty area.
Suker had been forced back to his own half. Things looked grim.
Inter launched wave after wave of attacks.
Suker couldn't even get the ball.
He looked at Benzema.
"Karim, switch positions with me!"
Benzema heard this and immediately moved up.
Šuker, in turn, retreated.
Šuker retreated directly to near his own penalty area line.
Only then did Šuker feel the pressure.
Inter Milan directly enveloped Real Madrid in the middle, constantly applying pressure.
Crosses came in repeatedly from both sides; it was a question of how long Ramos and Garay could hold out.
Šuker even considered whether he should retreat into the penalty area to help relieve the pressure.
Just then, Eto'o crossed.
This cross was kicked too close to the goal. Casillas seized the opportunity, immediately jumped, and caught the ball with both hands.
As soon as his hands touched the ball, he collided fiercely in mid-air with Inter Milan forward Milito.
With this collision, the ball slipped from his grasp.
Marcelo saw the ball land in front of him and quickly swept his leg to clear it.
The ball was very lucky; it went right through Cambiasso's legs, rolled out of the penalty area, and happened to come right in front of Šuker.
An opportunity!
Šuker's eyes lit up.
He dribbled the ball forward slightly and immediately looked up.
The positioning of the Inter Milan players came into view; Benzema's position was also not good, with no space to pass forward.
Šuker gritted his teeth.
I'll do it myself!
Bang!
Šuker directly dribbled the ball and started to accelerate.
"Oh~~~ Is this an opportunity? Šuker is starting to accelerate and sprint from his own half."
Šuker dribbled the ball furiously, running at full speed.
At this point, any technique was irrelevant; he had to maintain this speed.
Šuker's dribbling speed was very fast; he even sacrificed stability in his dribbling to maximize his speed.
"Šuker! Go!"
"Get through!"
"Don't stop, go, go, go!"
"Šuker!!"
Real Madrid fans stood up from their seats, craning their necks to look at the field.
Šuker sprinted like lightning all the way. As he approached Lucio, Šuker, from five meters away, directly pushed the ball horizontally to create more space, then powerfully dribbled forward.
Swish!!!
Lucio strained to reach out, but still couldn't catch Šuker.
"Maicon! Srna!"
Lucio roared.
At this moment, only Maicon and Srna could keep up with Šuker.
But Srna was ahead and couldn't retreat, while Maicon started to charge towards Šuker from the side.
Maicon ran furiously; he wanted to intercept this counterattack directly on Šuker's path.
Even if it meant a foul!
Even if it meant a card!
He had to stop Šuker.
Mourinho on the sidelines frowned, also watching the field nervously.
Šuker's breakthrough was too determined; if Maicon couldn't stop him, it would be truly dangerous.
"I can make it!"
Maicon suddenly accelerated again, throwing his entire body forward in a sliding tackle.
Just as Maicon thought he could stop Šuker, Šuker, during his dribble, flicked the ball with his foot.
The ball was flicked into the air, and Šuker also suddenly jumped.
"Damn it!"
Maicon directly raised his leg.
He had to trip Šuker down, even if it meant tripping him.
Šuker was indeed grazed, which made him lose his footing upon landing, tipping forward.
But as he fell forward, Šuker propped himself up with both hands, his powerful core exploding, and with another push from his feet, he actually got back up and sprinted again with a squat-start motion.
"Oh no!"
Mourinho's heart fluttered.
Maicon didn't make it; this was truly dangerous.
Šuker sped along, nearing Inter Milan's defensive line.
Zanetti saw this and knew he couldn't retreat any further.
Just as he was about to make his move, Šuker surprisingly slowed down and began to adjust his feet.
"What does that mean?"
Bang!
Šuker unleashed a powerful shot!
As he shot, Šuker even slightly bounced, extending his right leg forward a long distance, showing the power of this shot.
"No way?"
Mourinho's eyes widened.
From this distance, a direct shot?
The ball struck Inter Milan's goal like a cannonball.
Goalkeeper Cesar took continuous small steps and flew to save it.
But the ball speed was too fast.
Ding! Swish!
The ball slammed against the crossbar and bounced into the goal.
Šuker turned to look at the goal, and the moment he confirmed the goal, he lay flat on his back on the ground.
"I'm exhausted!"
Šuker complained, but he couldn't help but smile.
The entire Bernabéu, over ninety thousand Real Madrid fans, stared at the field in astonishment.
Šuker ran at full speed from his own penalty area all the way to Inter Milan's penalty area, then scored a world-class goal with a direct shot?
What kind of monster was this!
Whoosh!!!!!!!!!!
Instantly, intense cheers surged.
Real Madrid fans couldn't suppress their excited feelings; that long-distance run made their scalps tingle.
What's more, it was a world-class goal after a long-distance run.
This time, Šuker once again displayed his extraordinary abilities to the fullest.