Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

There was still time left in the match—over fifteen minutes counting stoppage time.

But given the current scoreline, most of Bayern’s players could no longer muster the drive to keep fighting.

Mentality, willpower—those intangible, emotional concepts that some fans always downplayed.

They thought matches were purely contests of ability, and that talk of ”spirit” or ”mentality” was just fluff.

But now, every Bayern supporter watching in the stadium or at home could only hope their team would somehow rekindle that spark.

Because if it ended like this—three goals down, shut out at home—then their Champions League dreams were as good as over.

Heynckes understood that too.

He made his final substitution: Tymoshchuk in for the exhausted Gustavo.

From the touchline, he shouted with everything he had, urging his players not to give up, to fight to the end—for Bayern’s honor.

And Lahm?

Lahm didn’t collapse—not physically, not mentally.

The small-framed captain stood tall, yelling until his voice went hoarse, trying to fire up his teammates.

Journalists captured the moment through their lenses, and to the Bayern faithful, Lahm became a hero in that instant.

In a movie or manga, this would be the moment when the underdog team, pushed to the brink, would make a desperate comeback.

Lahm would lead his brothers on a bloodied charge against the villainous Real Madrid.

But this was reality.

For the last three seasons, Madrid had been ridiculed, doubted, dismissed.

And now, they wanted it more.

They had bled for it, suffered for it, earned it—no less than Bayern had.

And Mourinho?

He wasn’t some fool of a villain who gave his enemies a second chance.

He was the cold-blooded warlord of tactics. If he saw an opportunity to crush you, he would.

So as Heynckes made his final move, Mourinho waved over three substitutes to start warming up:

Higuaín, Callejón, Khedira.

That’s right—Mourinho was going to finish the match his way.

He’d said before the game he wasn’t going to park the bus. And he meant it.

Bayern wanted to press for a consolation?

Fine.

One goal for one goal.

Fair trade.

Duan Xuan watched the Madrid substitutes warm up and shuddered.

It was ruthless. Pure Mourinho.

He was a Bayern fan, and while he felt joy for Leon, he couldn’t help but feel the sting of watching his team fall apart.

But Coach Zhang had no such burden.

Milan was already out—eliminated by Chelsea. So he was free to cheer for whoever he wanted.

And there was no question—he was all-in for Real Madrid and Leon.

”Mourinho’s not giving them an inch,” Coach Zhang said, almost gleeful.

”You push, I punch. Even if it ends 3–1 or 4–2, Madrid won’t mind. These are all away goals!”

After both teams completed their substitutions and play resumed, the game unfolded exactly as Mourinho had envisioned.

Madrid didn’t let up. Not even a little.

Their defense wasn’t just meant to stop Bayern’s attacks—it was the springboard for more counters.

Bayern, desperate now, threw caution to the wind.

Scoring became an obsession.

But the fresh legs of Higuaín and Callejón wreaked havoc on the counter. Their speed was lethal.

And Khedira?

He came on like a man possessed—like a switch had flipped.

Tymoshchuk, older and clumsier, couldn’t cope.

And Khedira? He loved bullying a weak link.

Leon, now running low on gas, stayed back and focused on holding the line.

Khedira took over the forward duties, surging up the pitch.

Mourinho probably didn’t expect that substitution to work out so well.

Khedira was everywhere.

He’d drop deep to disrupt Bayern’s buildup, then spring forward again.

And he didn’t hold back, even against his own national teammates.

In the 87th minute, Khedira drove through Tymoshchuk and Badstuber like they weren’t there, then laid it off to Ronaldo on the left.

Ronaldo was exhausted—he didn’t have the legs to take on Boateng again.

But he still had the strength to pass.

He delivered a sharp, low cross into the box.

And there was Higuaín, charging in, battling Alaba.

A powerful header!

It looked destined to be Madrid’s fourth—

But Neuer—again—somehow saved it. A god-tier stop.

The ball bounced out to the top of the six-yard box.

Boateng and Badstuber both rushed for it.

But before either could reach it, a towering figure in white smashed through—

Khedira!

Volley!

”KHEDIRA! FOLLOW-UP STRIKE—!!!”

The German commentator’s voice cracked in despair as the ball bulged the back of the net.

Neuer was finally beaten.

Khedira, arms wide open, sprinted across the field with the biggest grin of his life.

He wasn’t great at breaking deadlocks.

But when it came to burying teams?

Khedira was a specialist.

Bayern fans clutched their heads.

Some screamed. Some cried.

Even the German broadcasters called it what it was:

A slaughter.

England’s Sky Sports:

”This might be the season Real Madrid reclaims the European throne!”

Italy’s Sky Sport:

”The reign of Spain’s big two continues—what dominance!”

Nobody cared about the second leg anymore.

All eyes were already turning toward Real Madrid vs. Barcelona in the Champions League final.

El Clásico in Europe.

The match of a generation.

Even though in the very last minute of added time Thomas Müller finally managed to pull one back for Bayern with a near-post finish off a Gómez screen, no one—absolutely no one—believed Bayern stood a chance of coming back at the Bernabéu.

4–1.

Real Madrid had scored four away goals in Bayern’s fortress.

And Bayern were supposed to turn that around in Madrid?

Madrid could play pure defensive counterattack in the second leg.

Even losing narrowly would be enough to send them comfortably into the final.

When the final whistle blew, there were no over-the-top celebrations from the Madrid players.

Because Mourinho had ordered none of it.

He gestured for everyone to do a quick thank-you lap for the away fans and head straight back to the locker room.

No one complained. Not even Casillas or Ramos, who had been critical of Mourinho in the past.

They had just hammered Bayern 4–1 in Munich.

In Mourinho’s eyes, there was nothing left to say until the trophy was won.

After post-match recovery and a quick shower, the squad flew home to Madrid that very night.

Even Germany’s Bild Zeitung, not one to easily praise opponents, had to admit:

”This is what a true champion looks like. Calm in victory, never celebrating before the final whistle.”

If Bayern had to lose, losing to a Madrid like this wasn’t shameful.

But back in Madrid, the coaching staff wasn’t as serene as the headlines made them out to be.

On the contrary—they were deeply troubled.

Not about the second leg. That was in the bag.

What kept them up was the next La Liga match—right in between the two Champions League semifinals.

And it just happened to be El Clásico.

The result itself didn’t matter.

Madrid had already clinched the league title. Even losing all the remaining games wouldn’t change that.

But to Madrid’s fans—and to some of the players—El Clásico still mattered a lot.

Now Mourinho and his staff had a dilemma.

Should they go all out against Barça? Or rotate heavily and rest for the Champions League?

Karanka had no idea what to do. The other assistants just looked toward Mourinho.

After thinking for a while, Mourinho finally spoke.

”Let’s wait and see how Barça vs. Chelsea goes in the first leg.

They’ll have even less prep time than we do.

If anyone should be worried, it’s them—not us.”

With that decision made, the rest of the staff finally relaxed.

They ended the meeting early and went home to get some well-earned rest.

The next morning, news of Madrid’s 4–1 demolition of Bayern spread like wildfire across Europe—and even the world.

Ronaldo’s goal and assist.

Leon’s two critical assists.

Alonso’s midfield dominance.

Leon and Essien’s meat-grinder-like midfield pressure.

Everything about Madrid dominated sports headlines.

For Madridistas around the world, it was a perfect day.

By contrast, the upcoming Barça vs. Chelsea match—another Champions League semifinal—just didn’t carry the same heat.

Even many Chelsea fans were already satisfied.

Making it to the semifinals with such an aging squad was already an overachievement.

Losing to Barça?

Sure, it would sting—but they were still proud.

Almost nobody gave Chelsea a chance.

From fans to pundits to players, the consensus was clear:

Barça would cruise, just like Madrid had.

And then there was Leon—one of the few who still believed in Chelsea.

Of course, he kept quiet on social media. Didn’t want to stir anything up.

Instead, he used Ronaldo’s villa to host a private watch party.

Every Real Madrid first-team player got an invite.

He also invited Griezmann and Isco as special guests.

The younger Madrid players loved the idea—nobody said no.

Alonso and Casillas declined politely—they had family plans.

But with the veterans absent, the atmosphere became even more relaxed.

Thanks to Leon, Griezmann and Isco got to know a bunch of Madrid stars.

Griezmann was also surprised that Leon had actually followed through with his ”dinner promise” so quickly.

Leon handled the food himself—hired a chef team focused on clean, healthy, delicious cuisine.

Dinner, of course, was just the appetizer.

The real main course was Barça vs. Chelsea.

Before kickoff, Leon got everyone to split into two ”cheering sides.”

Even though most people there played for Real Madrid, the number of people picking Barça to win was overwhelming.

Leon, seated next to Nacho and a few others, wasn’t fazed at all.

He shouted, loud and clear:

”Chelsea’s gonna win tonight!”

At first, everyone thought he was just being stubborn.

Even Nacho and Isco didn’t quite buy it.

But as the match wore on, the expressions in the room began to change.

Half an hour into the first half, Barça still hadn’t broken through Chelsea’s low block.

Marcelo was the first to get up—he tried to switch sides.

Leon booed him and called on his crew to push Marcelo back.

Laughter erupted in the room.

Marcelo didn’t care.

He squeezed onto Leon’s couch anyway, claiming:

”I was always for Chelsea. Just sitting over there out of politeness.”

Cue Ronaldo and Pepe smacking him for his shamelessness.

The first half came to a close.

0–0.

A lot of Barça fans started feeling uneasy.

Back in Ronaldo’s villa, the wine was flowing.

Madrid players no longer cared who sat where—they were all celebrating.

”What’s wrong with Barça? Are they really gonna get blocked from the final by Chelsea?”

”Barça’s never been good at breaking parked buses. Don’t let the old legs fool you—Chelsea’s spine is still solid. If they stick to the plan, they’re gonna make it really hard.”

”Only way to beat Barça is counterattack football. Chelsea’s done well so far. Let’s see if Lady Luck helps them out in the second half.”

”I’m calling it now—Chelsea scores next!”

Leon’s voice rang out again.

This time, no one argued.

Because based on what they had just seen?

He might actually be right.

Despite dominating possession, Barcelona still had very few real chances inside Chelsea’s penalty area.

Chelsea were defending with ten men behind the ball—Drogba had even dropped back into their defensive third.

And in that tight space, Chelsea somehow managed to stack three layers of defense. It looked impenetrable.

Plenty of bodies, constant rotations, never afraid of short passing combinations.

Rely on Messi and Iniesta to shoot from range?

Fine—but Chelsea’s keeper Petr Čech wasn’t exactly soft either.

As the second half kicked off, the Madrid players watching from Ronaldo’s villa were still casually chatting about possible future matchups.

Then, suddenly, the TV broadcast erupted—everything changed.

Messi turned to receive a pass and drive forward.

But Lampard stepped in, picked his pocket, and immediately launched a long diagonal ball downfield toward Ramires.

Counterattack.

Ramires brought it down with his chest, pushed it forward, and exploded into a sprint.

He blew past Xavi like a Formula 1 car, leaving the legendary playmaker helpless in his wake.

Leon, watching the familiar scene unfold, stood up from the couch. Around the room, Madrid players jumped to their feet in shock and anticipation.

Next second—low cross from Ramires.

Drogba, waiting at the back post, smashed it home.

”MY GOD!”

”Holy—! Chelsea scored?!”

”Drogba, what a beast!”

”Hahaha, Barça’s losing! Chelsea, LET’S GO!”

Screams, cheers, and laughter exploded in the villa. It was chaos.

Then Leon, unable to contain himself, peeled off his outer Real Madrid jersey, revealing a Chelsea blue No. 11 Drogba shirt underneath.

”Hahahahaha! What did I say?! Chelsea would score first! Chelsea are winning this one—Barça’s cracking!”

Standing on the couch, arms akimbo, he shouted triumphantly.

Of course, his smugness didn’t last long.

Within seconds, the rest of the Madrid squad swarmed him and tackled him back onto the sofa.

”Oh, really? You pulled a Fabregas?! Wearing the other team’s kit?!”

”Wait, no—it was under my Madrid jersey!”

”Still counts! What if we meet Chelsea in the final, huh? You’re gonna switch sides?!”

”Boys, let’s knock some sense into our little lion!”

”OOOOHHH!!”

Under a storm of laughter and teasing, Leon was mercilessly ”disciplined” by his teammates—tickles, slaps, pinches. It was chaos all over again.

After pleading for mercy, he finally collapsed back onto the sofa, face flushed from laughing too hard.

The attackers had gone for his most vulnerable spots—underarms and ribs—completely immobilizing him.

Once he finally escaped and caught his breath, he leapt away from the group, staying at a safe distance in case of Round Two.

Luckily, by then, everyone’s attention had returned to the TV.

Cristiano Ronaldo, smirking, turned and said:

”Well? Any more predictions, Lion?”

Leon shook his head.

”That was a one-time thing. Now Barça’s gonna be on guard. If Chelsea sit back too deep now, it depends on whether Barça can find a lucky breakthrough.”

The room quieted a bit—Leon was right, and everyone knew it.

As the second half continued, that’s exactly how it played out.

Chelsea’s formation shrank deeper.

Barça took control again.

In the dying minutes of regulation, Barcelona finally created two massive chances.

One curled shot hit the post.

Then, with the rebound rolling toward an open net, Busquets blasted it over the bar.

The Madrid players groaned in disbelief.

Fate, it seemed, had picked a side.

Tonight, Lady Luck wore blue.

When the final whistle blew and the screen showed Chelsea 1–0 Barcelona, Isco slumped.

The only person in the house not celebrating.

Even Griezmann joined the cheers.

For that one moment, Isco’s was a lonely world.

Leon wisely kept his Chelsea jersey hidden now.

He slipped back into his Real Madrid No. 10, joining in the singing and banter.

And the team? They all slept like kings that night.

April 19, the next morning—on his way to training at Valdebebas, Leon passed hundreds of Madrid fans on the roadside, all beaming with joy.

After medicals, he ran into Coach Karanka, who was grinning from ear to ear.

Sure, Madrid players and staff had to maintain a bit of professionalism for the cameras.

But within the walls of Valdebebas, the happiness was impossible to hide.

Mourinho, too, was at ease.

All the stress he’d carried about the upcoming Clásico had evaporated.

Barça, after a 1–0 loss to Chelsea with zero away goals, had been backed into a corner.

Now the pressure was on Guardiola.

He had two choices:

Fight Madrid tooth and nail in the Clásico, then face Chelsea with tired legs and low morale?

Or surrender the league, rest his starters, and go all-in for the Champions League?

From a rational standpoint, having already lost La Liga, there was no need for Barça to kill themselves in El Clásico.

If they beat Chelsea, they’d still have a shot at revenge in the Champions League final.

But if they lost to Chelsea, and also burned themselves out trying to beat Madrid… what then?

Just one Copa del Rey left to fight for?

It was an easy calculation.

Mourinho knew Pep was no fool.

So he confidently finalized Madrid’s squad list for the league match two days later.

April 20, both clubs released their official matchday squads.

The press had been hyping the game for weeks—but now they went silent.

Madrid’s list: a heavily rotated team, plus some B-teamers.

Barcelona’s list: the exact same strategy.

The moment both coaches saw the other’s lineup, they both sighed in relief.

Sure, some hardcore fans would be disappointed.

But for the players—for the club’s broader objectives—this was the responsible decision.

Leon, as one of the few starters listed for the match, received an unexpected honor.

Before kickoff, Barcelona’s starting XI lined up to applaud Madrid’s players onto the pitch.

It was official.

Real Madrid were champions of Spain.

It felt amazing—Leon wouldn’t lie.

But he still had one little regret.

He really, really wanted to see Piqué forced to clap for him.

But the guy didn’t even make the squad today.

Coward.

Not only was Piqué absent—so were Messi, Iniesta, Xavi, and Puyol. None of Barcelona’s core starters even made the squad list.

From another angle, you had to admit—Guardiola’s decision was smart.

He avoided giving the media ammunition, and he spared Barça fans from the emotional sting of watching their idols possibly lose again.

Leon didn’t play long in the Clásico. He was subbed off at halftime.

In the 70th minute, Mourinho brought on Ronaldo and Alonso just to give them a feel for match rhythm.

Then, in the 88th minute, Ronaldo rose to meet a Lucas Vázquez cross with a header—goal.

The home crowd at Camp Nou was disgusted.

But Ronaldo? He was thrilled—another iconic knee-slide celebration at the Camp Nou.

The score? Just 1–0. But this one goal pushed Ronaldo to 45 goals in La Liga.

A ridiculous number.

Messi had 42. On paper, it looked like a big gap, but he could erase that in just one match.

If Ronaldo wanted the Golden Boot, he couldn’t ease up.

After this round, with La Liga already wrapped up, both Madrid and Barça’s main players got ample rest.

Chelsea and Bayern, too, threw their league games.

Chelsea wanted to hold their lead at Camp Nou, and Bayern were heading to Madrid with nothing left to lose—just heartbreak and defiance in their eyes.

Before the semis began, fans expected the Real Madrid vs. Bayern showdown to be the true war.

But Madrid ended it in the first leg. No suspense left.

Meanwhile, everyone thought Barça vs. Chelsea would be one-sided.

Now, it was the match full of suspense.

The reversal in expectations made Chelsea’s away leg at Camp Nou the center of world football’s attention.

Madrid, ironically, became the sideshow.

But the players didn’t mind.

Less pressure. More time to prepare.

For Mourinho, that peace of mind was everything.

He even scheduled a lighthearted training session—a fun one.

The tactical prep was done. Physical intensity had already been met in prior sessions.

Now the key was mindset.

Watching his players laugh and joke on the pitch, Mourinho’s stern expression finally softened.

It reminded him of his time two years ago, with another hungry squad desperate to return to glory.

Now, once again, he stood at the door to the summit of Europe.

And he was ready to walk through.

He believed his players were, too.

※※※

The second leg of Barça vs. Chelsea kicked off the day before Madrid’s second leg against Bayern.

Madrid’s players could relax and enjoy it, knowing the final opponent would be revealed that night.

Barça had prepped a full bag of tactical tricks for the rematch.

Leon watched them line up and chuckled.

Guardiola was doing Guardiola things again.

Barça started in a… 3-3-4 formation.

Yes. 3-3-4. Not a typo.

Maybe the ironclad Chelsea defense in the first leg had given Pep PTSD.

From the fans’ perspective, it made sense.

Barça had overwhelming possession. More attackers? Why not? Keep the ball, minimize risk.

Leon, though, couldn’t resist muttering:

”You’re afraid of the bus? Then play a false nine. Stretch the lines. But 3-3-4? What are you doing? Inviting Chelsea to counter?”

Of course, Pep couldn’t hear him.

And even if he could, he wouldn’t change a thing.

To be fair, in the first half, the sheer number of attacking players did work.

In the 36th minute, they broke through Chelsea’s lines—1–1 on aggregate.

Then in the 44th, Messi to Iniesta, perfectly timed run, goal.

Barça were ahead on aggregate, and Camp Nou erupted.

Spanish broadcasters were ecstatic.

”Guardiola’s tactical genius!”

”This 3-3-4 will set the trend for modern football!”

Leon laughed, then typed a message into the team group chat.

”Chelsea will crush them on the counter. Just wait. Once Chelsea score, Barça’s collapse countdown begins.”

His teammates were skeptical.

They’d watched the first leg together.

Leon had predicted both major developments perfectly.

Now, Barça had momentum.

Two goals in. Total control.

But if Leon was this confident…

Maybe they should wait and see?

Marcelo was the first to post:

”I’m with the Lion.”

Ronaldo followed.

Then others joined.

The room backed Leon.

Chelsea could do this.

While the chat buzzed, the live feed showed Lampard shielding the ball, then sliding a perfect through pass forward—

Ramires burst through the right channel, past Barça’s left side.

Valdés came out.

Ramires didn’t shoot.

He squared it.

Mata. Tap-in.

The group chat exploded.

”LITTLE LION! Quick! Give me five lottery numbers!”

”Busquets is too slow! Once Iniesta is out of position, he’s toast. Leon’s reading the game like a prophet!”

”That goal is a dagger! That’s an away goal, man!”

”Wait, if we face Chelsea in the final… how confident are we?”

”Ninety percent. I’d say ten out of ten, but I gotta respect Little Lion and Michael (Essien). We’re not afraid of their bus, and we’re definitely not afraid of their counters. If we score first, Chelsea’s getting drained dry.”

Even when Thomas Müller finally scored for Bayern in the final minute of stoppage time—sneaking in behind Gómez for a late consolation—no one believed they had the faintest chance of turning things around at the Bernabéu.

4–1.

Madrid had scored four away goals in Munich.

What chance did Bayern have in Madrid?

Even if they nicked a win in the second leg, Madrid could just sit back and counter.

One goal down, two goals down—they’d still go through.

When the final whistle blew, there was no over-the-top celebration from the Madrid players.

Mourinho had forbidden it.

He gestured for the team to thank their traveling fans and return to the locker room without delay.

After dominating Bayern at the Allianz, the players had nothing but trust in Mourinho.

Even Casillas and Ramos—who had been at odds with him—followed orders without complaint.

They received treatment, showered, and flew back to Madrid that night.

Even Germany’s Bild Zeitung, notorious for nitpicking, couldn’t help but praise Madrid’s professionalism.

”This is what champions look like. No arrogance in victory. No celebration until the trophy is lifted.”

Losing to a Madrid like this?

No shame in it.

But while the public image was one of calm confidence, inside Valdebebas, the coaching staff was anything but relaxed.

It wasn’t the Champions League they were worried about now—it was El Clásico, which fell right between the two legs of the semifinal.

The league was already won.

Even if they lost every remaining match, they’d still lift the trophy.

But for many fans—and some players—El Clásico still meant everything.

Now Mourinho had to decide:

Go all out against Barça again? Or rotate and rest the squad?

Karanka couldn’t decide.

The assistants all turned to Mourinho.

After a moment of thought, he said:

”Let’s wait and see the first leg of Barça vs. Chelsea.

They’ve had less time to prepare than we have.

If anyone should panic, it’s them—not us.”

With that settled, the rest of the staff relaxed.

They adjourned early and finally got some sleep.

The next morning, the world was still buzzing from Madrid’s 4–1 victory.

Ronaldo’s goal and assist.

Leon’s two critical assists.

Alonso’s dominance.

Leon and Essien—the midfield meat grinders.

Everything about Real Madrid was trending globally.

It was a glorious day for Madridistas.

By contrast, the buzz surrounding Barça vs. Chelsea was modest.

Even many Chelsea fans felt like they had already overachieved.

Getting to the semifinal was enough.

If they lost to Barça? Sure, it would sting—but there was pride in the effort.

Most fans and pundits expected Barça to blow them away, just like Madrid did to Bayern.

Leon, as usual, stood in the minority.

He believed in Chelsea.

Not that he’d say so on social media. He wanted to avoid drama.

Instead, he organized a private viewing party at Ronaldo’s villa.

He invited the entire Madrid squad—plus Griezmann and Isco.

None of the young players refused.

Xabi Alonso and Casillas politely declined—they had family plans.

But with the senior guys out, the party felt even more relaxed.

Thanks to Leon, Griezmann and Isco got to mingle with some of Madrid’s biggest stars.

Griezmann was especially surprised that Leon had kept his promise to treat him to dinner so soon.

Leon didn’t rely on Ronaldo’s kitchen, either. He hired his own chef team—clean, healthy, and delicious.

Dinner was just the appetizer.

The main course? Barça vs. Chelsea.

Before kickoff, they split into two cheering squads.

Despite all playing for Madrid, most of them backed Barça.

Leon didn’t care.

Standing tall beside Nacho and a few others, he yelled:

”Chelsea’s gonna win this!”

Most thought he was just being stubborn.

But when Barcelona lined up in a 3-3-4, Leon couldn’t help himself.

”He’s overreacting to Chelsea’s bus. Why not go with a 4-6-0 and stretch the backline? Why throw in this ridiculous setup? What are you doing, Pep?”

Barça fans didn’t question it.

Commentators didn’t see the danger.

But Leon knew. He’d seen this before.

At first, it seemed to work.

In the 36th minute, Barça broke through—1–1 on aggregate.

In the 44th, Messi to Iniesta—goal. Barça led the tie.

Camp Nou erupted.

Commentators called Guardiola a genius.

Said the 3-3-4 would become the next tactical revolution.

Leon just chuckled.

Then he posted in the team group chat:

”Chelsea’s counter is coming. As soon as they score, Barça’s collapse countdown begins.”

The others were skeptical.

But Leon had predicted the first leg perfectly.

Maybe he was right again?

Marcelo quickly replied:

”I’m with the Lion.”

Cristiano followed.

Soon, the whole group backed Leon.

Then, on screen—Lampard held off a challenge, then sent a through ball.

Ramires burst through Barça’s left flank, drew Valdés out, and squared it.

Juan Mata arrived.

Tap-in. Goal.

The chat exploded.

”LITTLE LION! TELL ME WHAT LOTTERY NUMBERS TO PLAY!”

”Busquets is too slow! Once Iniesta gets caught upfield, it’s over. Leon’s read this like a script!”

”That away goal is a death sentence!”

”So if we face Chelsea in the final… odds?”

”Ninety percent. I’m not saying 100%—gotta respect Little Lion and Michael (Essien). But let’s be real. We’re not scared of their bus. We’re not scared of their counter. If we score first, they’ll bleed dry.”

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