Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

The game hadn’t even hit the ten-minute mark before Chelsea found the back of the net, and countless Manchester United fans watching from home instinctively covered their heads.

As for the tens of thousands of Red Devils supporters inside Old Trafford? They were numb. None of them could remember how many times Li Ang had scored against United on their own turf.

Van Gaal couldn’t hold it in. Arms flailing, he roared at his starting eleven on the pitch.

In truth, he could accept Chelsea drawing first blood at Old Trafford. He was painfully aware of the yawning gap in quality between United and Chelsea these days.

What he couldn’t accept was that his tactical setup had fallen apart this early.

It didn’t just mean his plan to use four central midfielders to exhaust Chelsea’s attacking core had failed—it meant his entire strategy, including his starting selections, had been a blatant miscalculation.

The veterans in United’s squad—led by Rooney—were practically praying for a humiliating loss just to discredit him further. Their relationship had already disintegrated.

And with Van Gaal’s personality? There was no way he’d admit defeat, no way he’d admit he still needed Rooney, Carrick, or any of the others he’d fallen out with.

He’d rather resign than apologize.

And once someone opposed him, even if they were once on good terms, they’d be exiled to the bench or worse.

Fuming, Van Gaal summoned Ashley Young and Januzaj to warm up on the sidelines.

Those two still had the coach’s trust. Mata and Valencia, who leaned more toward the Rooney camp? He didn’t even glance their way.

On the field, Fellaini, who’d just settled himself after the goal, suddenly felt the pressure ratchet up.

That goal had come largely from his failed positioning—he’d tried hard, sure—but if someone needed to be blamed, he was the primary candidate.

Van Gaal’s move was also a warning to the rest of his midfield.

Talent didn’t matter anymore. Only effort. Anyone who disappointed him today would be riding the bench soon enough.

There was no more time to dwell on mistakes or regrets.

As soon as Chelsea finished celebrating and play resumed, United’s midfielders showed what ”effort” looked like.

Under normal play, they simply didn’t have the mobility to stop Chelsea’s passing combinations.

So instead of playing the ball... they started playing the man.

If you can’t outplay your opponent, take them out.

Dirty? Absolutely.

Unsporting? Completely.

But unfortunately, high-impact brutality can be effective.

Herrera and Schweinsteiger held back somewhat.

But Fellaini and Schneiderlin? They didn’t hold back at all.

Fellaini went after Kroos with a subtle but nasty swipe—Li Ang didn’t catch the moment clearly, and by the time he got close, Kroos was already up, wincing but standing.

Two minutes later, though, Schneiderlin slid in from behind and went straight for Hazard’s ankle—and Li Ang saw it perfectly.

He didn’t wait for the ref.

Before Schneiderlin could even stand back up, Li Ang charged in and shoved him violently off the pitch.

”I’LL F*CKING END YOU!!!”

Not satisfied, Li Ang lifted his leg, fully intending to kick him—

—but Matić, quick as lightning, lunged forward and locked him in a tight bear hug.

”Calm down, man! You need to calm down! If you kick him, you’ll be sent off too!”

The Serbian was yelling in his ear, trying to cool the volcano.

Other players quickly flooded the scene, pulling Li Ang and Schneiderlin apart.

In an odd twist, even United’s own players were telling Li Ang to chill.

Maybe it was guilt—few of them sided with Schneiderlin or even raised a fuss.

It was almost comedic.

Usually, when a brawl starts, you back your teammates no matter what.

Remember the Keane and Cantona days? Even Rooney’s era?

United players used to throw down as one. They didn’t hesitate.

This... tame version of United?

It might earn praise from the FA or the media for being ”rational.”

But the Old Trafford faithful? They were disgusted.

By contrast, Li Ang’s hot-blooded defense of his teammate felt like something out of the old-school football handbook.

Had Hazard been seriously injured, Li Ang wouldn’t have hesitated to take the red.

Fortunately, the Belgian bounced back up after quick treatment from the physios.

The ref breathed a sigh of relief.

He pulled Li Ang aside, lecturing him on sportsmanship and issuing only a verbal warning.

Then he called over Schneiderlin and, under the tense gaze of United fans, finally pulled out a yellow card.

A fair enough decision, especially at Old Trafford.

Some leniency was expected.

Li Ang didn’t argue, but he stared down Schneiderlin before walking over to Hazard.

”He’ll pay for that, Eden. I swear.”

He wasn’t joking.

Hazard was touched, but also nervous.

”I believe you, boss. But I’m okay now. Let’s hit them where it hurts—with football.”

Li Ang chuckled, clapped him on the shoulder, and nodded.

The game resumed—and Chelsea went full throttle.

Li Ang pushed up, constantly asking for the ball, showing intense attacking intent.

Within just three minutes, he’d already launched two blistering long-range shots from outside the box.

De Gea saved them both, spectacularly.

But United’s defenders were rattled—they’d never seen shots come off someone’s foot like that before.

”Don’t let him shoot! For God’s sake, press him earlier!”

De Gea was now barking at his backline, visibly shaken.

He wasn’t usually the shouty type, but he’d seen enough.

Ferdinand and Vidic weren’t there anymore.

Now he, the senior figure, had to rally the defense.

Seeing De Gea in monster form, Li Ang backed off the long shots.

Instead, he turned his focus to Daley Blind.

Blind might one day become a capable, versatile defender, but he was never meant to be a center-back.

Height isn’t everything—some short center-backs make up for it with power and vertical leap.

Blind had neither.

Li Ang replayed Suárez’s earlier header in his mind—how he bullied Blind to get the shot off.

With a subtle nod to himself, he began retreating toward midfield.

United had gained possession, but their attack was toothless.

Their midfield was built for brute force, not finesse.

And Li Ang knew—it wouldn’t take much for Chelsea to strike again.

Lukaku’s attempt to drive down the wing looked decent at first, but he was alone up top. And Chelsea’s defenders knew him too well.

After a few trademark power moves, he found himself swarmed.

With little to no service from United’s midfield, he was once again isolated and overmatched.

After regaining possession from Matić, Li Ang signaled for Hazard to move back up to the forward line.

He also began funneling passes to the wings—an unmistakable sign of what was coming.

Hazard and Salah both knew what that meant.

In Chelsea’s playbook, when Li Ang began directing play to the flanks, it was time to initiate their set-piece strategy.

By attacking down both wings in alternating bursts, Li Ang would hand creative control to Kroos, while he himself drifted into the half-spaces, looking for overloads and second balls.

To the outside world, the change was subtle.

But within Chelsea’s squad, it was a clear tactical shift.

Lukaku considered shouting a warning to his defenders.

But then he remembered how distant and cold the United locker room had become.

He decided not to bother.

On the pitch, Hazard and Salah began tearing into United’s flanks.

Luke Shaw held up okay against Salah, who still lacked his final form.

But Darmian against Hazard? That was a mismatch.

Hazard was toying with him.

With no other options, Darmian began resorting to fouls.

In the 32nd minute, he brought Hazard down just outside the box on United’s right flank.

Chelsea now had a prime free-kick opportunity.

In goal, De Gea barked orders, rearranging his wall.

Chelsea had already threatened from set pieces three times—and Zouma, starting in place of Maguire, was proving to be a menace in the air.

Just minutes earlier, he’d outjumped Smalling on a corner, nearly scoring.

Only another De Gea miracle save kept United from going two down.

Now, seeing Zouma prowling toward the box again, De Gea knew he had to be at his sharpest.

Kroos raised his arm, then whipped a curling ball into the box.

Bodies collided. Players jostled.

Everyone—players, fans, commentators—watched Zouma’s leap.

And he did get there—beating Smalling to the spot.

But the ball just grazed over his head, continuing its arc toward the center.

De Gea adjusted—

—but too late.

Li Ang had just shoved Blind aside and launched a header toward the near top corner.

De Gea pivoted, pushing off to his left.

But that split-second delay proved fatal.

The ball rippled the net before De Gea could lay a glove on it.

Old Trafford fell silent.

And then, Chelsea’s away fans roared, their voices punching through the stunned crowd like cannonfire.

Li Ang screamed toward the sideline—perhaps unintentionally in Schneiderlin’s direction—then pounded the crest on his chest and sprinted to the corner flag.

Sliding on his knees, fists pumping the air, he celebrated like a man possessed.

To the home fans, it felt like a slap to the face.

Painful.

Humiliating.

Infuriating.

And yet... there was nothing they could do.

With this goal, the game was likely lost.

Chelsea had struck a psychological blow.

United’s fight was gone before it had even started.

As the players regrouped, Chelsea swaggered back across the halfway line, leaving United’s players to stew in frustration.

For the rest of the half, Chelsea didn’t press forward.

Instead, they switched to possession football, passing the ball around in midfield, toying with their opponents.

Technically, this wasn’t showboating.

Manchester City did it all the time.

But everyone watching knew what this was.

Chelsea were humiliating United.

Mocking them for lacking quality.

Mocking them for forgetting what it meant to fight.

United’s players were angry.

Van Gaal on the sideline was livid.

But what could he do?

At halftime, Van Gaal gave a furious team talk, demanding fire and aggression.

In the opening minutes of the second half, United pressed high and hard.

But Chelsea absorbed it all calmly.

After soaking up the pressure, they pushed forward again.

Chelsea’s aggressive shape did leave space, however, and United finally had a chance to break.

In the 66th minute, after recovering the ball in defense, Herrera shielded and passed back.

Smalling launched a sharp through ball, bypassing Chelsea’s front line and reaching Schneiderlin in stride.

The Frenchman turned and began to push forward, hope flaring in his chest.

Then—pain exploded in his heel.

He crumpled instantly, clutching his foot and howling in agony.

Old Trafford went silent.

And then the crowd erupted—in boos.

Because standing over Schneiderlin, calm, unapologetic, and unmoved, was Li Ang.

He didn’t glance down.

Instead, he calmly turned to face the incoming swarm of furious United players.

But before they could reach him, his teammates closed ranks, forming a wall around their captain.

Li Ang’s face was emotionless.

He had broken his own rule, crossed a line he rarely touched.

But he felt no regret.

Schneiderlin had injured Hazard.

Now, he understood what it felt like.

If there was a price to pay, so be it.

This was about honor. Brotherhood. Duty.

The Chelsea players stood with him, unwavering.

The clash between red and blue intensified.

Tempers flared. Shouts rang out.

The referee was dumbstruck.

He had thought Li Ang had calmed down. That the matter was over.

Clearly, he was wrong.

Blowing his whistle furiously, he rushed in to separate the teams.

”Li Ang!”

The ref pointed sternly.

A red card rose high into the air.

The stadium exploded again.

But Li Ang’s face remained composed.

He peeled off his captain’s armband, walked to Hazard, and handed it over.

”Sorry. It’s yours now…”

And then, without looking back, Li Ang strode off the pitch, head held high, jeered and cursed by tens of thousands.

But inside, he felt no shame.

Two goals scored, lead secured—that was his duty as captain.

Defending a teammate, even if it meant a red card—that, too, was his duty.

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