Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

”Chelsea shows no signs of slowing down their tempo—they’re maintaining intense offensive pressure on Manchester United! Leon is still rallying his teammates forward. Moyes really needs to figure out a way to stabilize their defense…”

In the Sina Sports studio, commentator Jun Jian tried not to let his joy show too openly. He offered a somewhat objective defense of United, even though everyone watching knew this was turning into a rout.

But what could Moyes possibly do to hold off Chelsea’s relentless central attacks?

This wasn’t even his game plan to begin with. The tactics had been dictated from above—by United’s board. Moyes had no real say in how this match was supposed to be played.

He’d originally hoped to start aggressively, maybe even catch Chelsea off guard and steal an early goal.

But it was clear now that such a plan was pure fantasy at Stamford Bridge. Lady Luck wasn’t on United’s side, and Chelsea were in complete control.

With no results on offense, all Moyes could do was fall back on his original fallback plan—packing the midfield and hoping the extra bodies could delay or disrupt Chelsea’s threat through the center.

If Moyes had full control, he would have switched tactics immediately.

But that wasn’t an option.

Ever since Ed Woodward passed down the ”play with United style” command, the result of this match had essentially been preordained.

To be fair, it’s not that United’s board was stupid—not entirely.

From their perspective, this was a team that had won five of the last seven Premier League titles, and had just secured another league title under Ferguson last season.

How could things have gone so wrong after just one summer? How could a squad like this suddenly fall apart?

Sure, maybe some players weren’t in top form—but this was a champion team. With the right manager, at the very least, they should’ve been in the top four.

So in their minds, the squad wasn’t the problem. They’d even brought in Fellaini!

If United were now struggling outside the top six, then it had to be Moyes’ fault.

And that’s the crux of the issue: the United board genuinely didn’t understand football.

The Glazer brothers were businessmen through and through. They knew profit margins, dividends, and brand exposure—not tactics or squad dynamics.

Woodward, who had taken the reins of football operations, wasn’t much better. Sure, he knew how to build commercial empires—but when it came to the game itself, his football IQ was still in the shallow end of the pool.

They didn’t grasp the intricate problems hiding in United’s squad, or how much of their success had been propped up by Ferguson’s tactical genius.

To them, Ferguson’s system was just a playbook to be copied. All Moyes needed to do was follow the blueprint, right?

That kind of naive thinking is a recipe for disaster.

And the football world? It has a way of teaching hard lessons to those who refuse to learn.

This season was only the beginning.

Over time, United would be stripped of the glory and reputation Ferguson had painstakingly built.

Mourinho, watching from the sidelines, understood all of this perfectly.

Whether he stayed long-term at Chelsea or not, he knew one thing for sure: he’d never touch the Manchester United job with a ten-foot pole.

”Moyes is being set up. I refuse to believe he made the call to attack us at Stamford Bridge. That’s just not his style,” said Holland, shaking his head.

It really was a shame.

Moyes had been one of the most respected coaches in English football. From his breakthrough as a young coach to consistently leading Everton to European qualification, his trajectory had always pointed upward.

Had he not taken the United job, no one in the English football scene would’ve doubted his bright future.

But in just half a season, the chaos at United had drained him of the goodwill and reputation he’d spent years building.

A true tragedy.

Holland didn’t say more, but Mourinho nodded silently in agreement.

Now, watching his players dominate the pitch with ease, Mourinho no longer even considered asking them to ease off.

”If anything, let’s just help Moyes get this over with quickly,” he thought, calmly settling into his seat to enjoy Chelsea’s attacking showcase.

Respect didn’t matter anymore.

United had already disrespected Chelsea by trying to punch above their weight at Stamford Bridge.

Getting battered? That was on them.

At the start, the thousands of traveling United fans had sung their hearts out, urging their team forward. But as they watched their once-proud club get toyed with—utterly unable to mount a response—their enthusiasm drained away.

From champions to potentially missing the top four entirely in the space of one season—the psychological blow was hard to take.

Any team would struggle with that kind of whiplash. Winning the league last season, and now scraping for seventh or eighth? It was too much.

But reality offered no comfort. United fans had no choice but to accept it.

Meanwhile, Chelsea’s players were having a blast.

Leon, like the rest of the team, was simply enjoying himself.

To dominate last year’s champions with such ease? That was a special kind of thrill.

For veterans like Lampard and Terry, perhaps there was still a lingering edge to facing United—a rivalry forged over years of intense battles.

But for Leon, there were no personal grudges. He didn’t like United’s management, sure—but he didn’t hate the club.

To him, they were just another European powerhouse.

Just like Bayern and Dortmund in the Bundesliga, Benfica and Porto in Portugal, Inter and Juve in Serie A—big names with big histories.

Respected, but not beloved.

Leon had only ever supported Chelsea. After that emotional commitment, any other team—Arsenal, Liverpool, United—they were all the same in his eyes.

He might resent the decision-makers, but he held no animosity toward the badge.

Still, in this moment, when he had the chance to dismantle a once-great club on the pitch?

It was exhilarating.

Last season, when he faced United with Real Madrid, Ferguson was still in charge. That United side was still formidable.

Madrid had the edge in that clash, yes—but it was a competitive tie. A clean win, not a massacre.

Today, Mourinho wasn’t stopping them. That said enough.

If their coach wasn’t asking them to pull back, then why should they?

His teammates were hungry. Leon had no reason to play the gentleman.

With midfield dominance established, Leon and Matić stayed pinned in United’s half.

But unlike past matches where Chelsea used the flanks to stretch defenses and create central overloads for Lampard and Leon to exploit, today was different.

Today, Chelsea went right through the heart of United’s midfield.

They pushed through the middle before shifting wide—creating room for the wingers to cut in or deliver decisive final balls.

It gave Ibrahimović and Hazard far more opportunities to shoot.

The first goal, scored in the 13th minute, was a classic example: Leon slipped it through, Hazard finished coolly.

No need to worry about threatening passes either—De Bruyne was handling that on the right flank like clockwork.

In the 27th minute, Leon once again linked up with Ibra, who had dropped deep.

A neat one-two, and Leon burst past Carrick again, slicing straight through United’s core…

Phil Jones didn’t make it over to help until it was too late. By the time he shifted across to cover, Leon had already slid the ball over to Hazard, who had drifted into the left half-space on United’s side of the pitch.

As for Januzaj? That kid was still upfield waiting for a pass, expecting United to go on the attack.

Track back? Not happening.

First, he didn’t have the work rate. Second? Even if he did track back, it’s not like he could make a difference.

When Moyes saw the play unfold, he felt the chill settle into his bones.

He used to complain about Cleverley—how he was a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Not much help in attack, couldn’t anchor the defense, always hovering near Carrick trying to help without really helping.

But watching Januzaj now? Moyes suddenly missed Cleverley.

At least Tom knew his role. He worked hard, tracked back, and gave Carrick some breathing room in buildup.

But now Cleverley was injured. Moyes didn’t want to use Kagawa, so he had no choice but to start Januzaj in the number ten role.

And the so-called prodigy that United fans pinned their hopes on? He was doing more harm than good.

The middle of the pitch was Swiss cheese. Leon could waltz through it whenever he wanted.

Without Cleverley’s protection, Carrick’s lack of pace was exposed to the maximum. Leon was making a mockery of him.

Jones wanted to help Carrick, to stay central and shield the defense.

But Hazard had Rafael completely pinned. If Jones ignored that, Hazard would cut in at will or hit the byline and find Ibrahimović with a cutback.

Jones was stuck in no man’s land.

Just like this time—Leon beat Carrick, Jones stepped up to cover, and Leon simply slipped it wide. Hazard charged into the box once more.

One quick stepover, and Hazard blasted past Evans, leaving both him and Rafael grasping at air.

The Chelsea fans roared with delight.

Hazard hit a low cutback across the box, and Ibra was there to receive it.

Vidic marked him tightly, but Ibrahimović wasn’t trying to shoot—he held his ground, shielding the ball with his back to goal, then laid it off to the edge of the box.

Leon, who had read the play perfectly, stepped into the path and fired a rocket toward the top far corner.

On the touchline, Mourinho was already on his feet, ready to applaud.

But De Gea pulled off a miracle save.

The Spaniard showed off his unreal reflexes and top-tier shot-stopping ability, somehow deflecting the ball with a single outstretched palm.

Leon was stunned. He’d put full power and pace behind that shot, and De Gea still kept it out.

But the ball rebounded straight to De Bruyne, lurking on the right side of the box.

He didn’t hesitate—boom. No chance for De Gea this time.

Mourinho’s hands froze mid-applause, went to his head in disbelief, and then came right back together as the goal celebration began.

Leon scratched the back of his head, a little frustrated that his wonder strike hadn’t gone in, but he was all smiles as he ran toward De Bruyne.

”Kevin, what’s with the celebration?” he laughed, pulling his teammate into a hug.

Most players, even without signature moves, at least did a fist pump or a knee slide at the corner flag. But De Bruyne?

He just waved his arms, pumping up the crowd.

”I am celebrating,” De Bruyne replied, not even realizing Leon was joking.

Leon could only chuckle and leaned in close, whispering something into his ear.

Seconds later, both players pulled out the ”masked celebration” together, drawing an even louder roar from the Stamford Bridge faithful.

On the other side, though, things couldn’t be gloomier.

Rooney stood with hands on hips, staring at the giant scoreboard flashing 2-0.

It wasn’t even halftime yet.

There was no anger or fury in Rooney’s eyes—just resignation.

He’d been with United for a decade, won everything there was to win. Sure, he wasn’t Giggs or Scholes, but he had a Premier League and a Champions League title to his name.

He’d known the highs, the cheers, the glory.

The decline was hard to swallow—but it wasn’t the pain of defeat that got to him.

It was the uncertainty.

With Ferguson gone, and the last generation of United legends fading out, where was the club supposed to go?

Moyes wasn’t the answer. And even if they changed managers again, Rooney didn’t think anyone could truly get the club back on track.

He’d realized that after his failed talk with Woodward.

But he was just a player—a fading star.

Sure, he could deliver a moment of brilliance here and there. Maybe even rescue United in the odd big game.

But across a season? Across two or three more?

Could he stop United’s fall?

No. And that uncertainty gnawed at him.

Carrick felt it too. So did Evra. Vidic. The entire squad had no direction.

Even with Moyes giving clear tactical instructions—attack like United used to—the players couldn’t even hold onto possession, let alone build meaningful attacks.

The disconnect between strategy and reality left the team paralyzed.

In the 36th minute, Leon connected with De Bruyne’s cross and, using Ibrahimović as a screen, headed home Chelsea’s third goal.

Vidic exploded.

He lashed out at the midfielders, shouting furiously.

But all it did was sap whatever morale his teammates had left.

By the 58th minute, Chelsea struck again.

Ibra linked up with Hazard on the left, made a decoy run to pull defenders, then burst into the six-yard box to tap home Hazard’s cutback.

4-0.

United fans began leaving in droves. Enough was enough.

Moyes finally made changes—Kagawa for Januzaj, and a just-recovered Van Persie on for Welbeck.

A desperate gamble for dignity.

Mourinho, meanwhile, responded with his own changes: Oscar for Leon, and Lukaku for Ibrahimović.

Time for the heroes of the night to rest.

Chelsea’s tactical retreat was obvious. Mourinho had seen enough. They’d done the damage.

United’s substitutes tried to salvage something. Kagawa and Van Persie ran hard. But they were shadows of their former selves.

Within minutes, they were swallowed up by Chelsea’s defensive shape.

And then, in the 84th minute, Chelsea struck one final time.

David Luiz launched a long ball over the top.

Lukaku, full of power and energy, burst past two defenders, cut inside, and smashed the ball past De Gea.

5-0.

An undeniable massacre.

Yet none of the Chelsea players taunted the crowd. No one flashed five fingers like Piqué once did to Mourinho.

This wasn’t about disrespect. Chelsea and United weren’t bitter enemies.

Still, the fans celebrated. Until the news from the Etihad broke.

Manchester City had demolished Cardiff 5-1.

Suddenly, the mood soured.

City were right on Chelsea’s heels. Only six points separated them now.

And Mourinho?

He sat quietly, staring at the scoreboard.

His smile faded.

A new decision was forming in his mind.

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