"Real Madrid timed this counterattack perfectly, and of course, Suker's blistering pace down the wing was crucial."

"Suker cleverly used Corluka's tight marking against him—letting the ball roll past before exploding into space with his speed. And once he reached the box, he showed his lethal finishing!"

"Corluka… in the Premier League, he's a solid fullback. But he's still too young. Against Suker, he couldn't make the right decisions. Even Tottenham's center-backs failed to cover, leaving Suker free to threaten the goal."

González shook his head. "Tottenham lacks experience. Against a world-class striker like Suker, even the tiniest bit of space is enough for him to score!"

ROAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!—

The Bernabéu erupted in cheers.

Suker's goal had given Real Madrid the lead—as usual, he was the one to break the deadlock.

On the sidelines, Mourinho clapped lightly, a satisfied smile on his face.

Harry Redknapp's tactical adjustments for Bale were commendable, but reaching Suker's level wasn't something that could be achieved through mere tweaks.

Right now, Bale only had speed in his arsenal.

But for Suker, speed was just one of many weapons.

He had countless other ways to hurt opponents—a true all-around monster.

Bale stood with his hands on his hips, staring at Suker's celebration.

Their counterattack had failed, while Real Madrid had executed theirs flawlessly.

Their own best tactic had been turned against them—that was the most painful part.

"Hey, Bale, don't dwell on it. Your speed is your greatest weapon—just get past Srna!" Van der Vaart encouraged.

Bale nodded. "I know. I'll keep pushing down the flank."

Meanwhile, Srna exhaled slowly, a smile forming.

As expected, Suker was reliable.

With the lead secured, his defensive pressure would ease a little.

But he also felt a hint of tension.

Bale's speed had startled him—that sudden burst to shake him off had been frightening.

If not for Ramos covering behind, Bale might have broken through.

Against Bale, Srna had to stay vigilant.

'Stick to him. Close him down IMMEDIATELY.'

He reminded himself firmly.

With Real Madrid leading, the game resumed.

Tottenham kicked off, still playing cautiously, not rushing their attacks.

Real Madrid, meanwhile, were calm as ever.

They were ahead—no need to force things.

Tottenham slowing the tempo suited Real just fine. They were happy to wait, even if it meant dragging the game out.

Van der Vaart, experienced as he was, quickly realized this. He dropped deeper to receive the ball, trying to open up channels for Tottenham's attack.

Watching Van der Vaart's probing passes, Real Madrid tightened their shape.

Then—Van der Vaart received the ball facing the right flank. Crouch had found space, and everyone expected a pass to the tall striker.

But Van der Vaart dragged the ball back, spun, and fired a pass toward Bale instead.

The pass was unexpected—even Bale was caught off guard before his eyes lit up.

But in that instant, a figure streaked across, intercepting the ball.

Srna!

He controlled it, kneeling to shield the ball before passing to a teammate.

"Oh~~~ SRNA!! Van der Vaart's pass was sneaky, but Srna read it perfectly! What a interception!"

Spanish commentator González praised loudly.

Van der Vaart scowled, gritting his teeth.

This guy just won't quit!

On the sidelines, Mourinho looked even more pleased.

"Srna's been exceptional!" Faria couldn't help but admire.

Mourinho smiled. "Compared to Maicon, Srna lacks some natural talent. But do you know his greatest strength?"

Faria turned. "What?"

Mourinho pointed to his eyes. "Focus."

"In a 90-minute match, few can stay fully concentrated. High-intensity games drain not just stamina but mental energy too. As the match goes on, focus inevitably wanes."

"But Srna maintains his concentration for 90, even 120 minutes. That's why feints and tricks don't fool him. He adapts faster, performs better." Mourinho nodded. "Like just now—Van der Vaart's pass fooled us, but not Srna. He saw Crouch but never lost sight of Bale."

"Of course…" Mourinho grinned. "Bale's technical flaws helped. He didn't check his surroundings before receiving the ball. If it were Suker, he'd have spotted Srna's movement."

"As long as Srna keeps this up, our right flank is secure!"

Srna exhaled, his eyes locked on the ball while tracking Bale's positioning.

Bale was growing frustrated—Srna gave him zero breathing room.

Every touch was contested, every move disrupted. Srna even used subtle fouls to irritate him.

Apart from those clean tackles, Srna mostly clung to Bale, grinding him down bit by bit.

THUD!

Bale received the ball with his back to goal—Srna instantly pressed into him.

"Get off me!"

Srna held Bale's waist, preventing him from turning.

Suddenly, Bale dragged the ball toward the touchline, trying to spin away.

But just as he turned, Srna shoved in, muscling Bale aside before winning the ball and passing back to Ramos.

"SRNA! BEAST!"

Suker gave a thumbs-up from afar.

This guy was ridiculously solid.

Bale might not be at his peak yet, but he was still Tottenham's star.

And Srna had him locked down. Tottenham's most dangerous weapon had been neutralized.

That "beast" was well-earned!

Commentator González marveled: "This season, Srna has delivered countless stellar defensive performances. He's undoubtedly Real Madrid's most reliable right-back. The key is—he always completes his tasks flawlessly. His former teammate Maicon was torn apart by Bale, but Srna has reclaimed some pride for fullbacks!"

THUD!

In the 31st minute, Srna robbed Bale again.

This time, it was pure physicality—Bale couldn't hold off Srna and lost possession.

Bale practically climbed onto Srna, desperately trying to win it back.

But Srna? Ice-cool.

He simply slipped a pass forward to Kaká.

"Beautiful!"

Kaká immediately gave a thumbs-up before driving down the wing.

Then—Srna saw Bale launch into a full-speed sprint, charging at Kaká like a madman.

Srna's eyes widened. "Kaká! Behind you!"

Kaká's dribbling rhythm didn't change.

The gap between him and Bale kept shrinking.

Bale was furious.

He'd lost the ball—now he'd win it back.

As he closed in, Bale surged forward, trying to overtake.

But just as he was about to reach Kaká, the Brazilian shifted the ball sideways, his body blocking Bale's path.

Bale had to adjust, but every time he tried to get ahead, Kaká cut him off.

When Bale accelerated, Kaká matched it, maintaining just enough distance.

Suker, making a run on the other flank, saw this and grinned.

Kaká's a pro at walking the dog!

"Bale can't catch Kaká?" Faria gasped.

He knew Kaká was fast, but Bale not catching up was shocking.

Mourinho smirked. "That's called rhythm changes and path selection."

"Dribbling isn't just sprinting blindly. It's about touch rhythm, footwork variations, ball control, and choosing the right path. I don't know who's faster between Kaká and Bale, but once Kaká's ahead with the ball, few can catch him."

Bale gritted his teeth, sprinting wildly—but he just couldn't get past Kaká.

As they neared the byline, Bale rammed into Kaká in frustration.

But Kaká, as if he had eyes on the back of his head, chopped the ball inside, weaving between Bale and Gallas.

"Kaká breaks through! SHOOTS!!! Uh~~~~"

González blinked. Was that… a miss?

The ball zipped through the crowd, skimming low toward the far touchline.

Just as he wondered, a figure slid in like a torpedo.

A white jersey flashed across the grass.

SUKER!

His outstretched boot connected perfectly—

SWISH!!

The ball ricocheted into the near corner.

40th minute—Real Madrid 2-0 Tottenham Hotspur!

Suker with a brace!

"SUKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!—"

González belatedly realized.

"That was a PASS! My God, that was a PASS! I thought it was a shot—the speed was insane! But no, it was a deliberate cross!"

*"Kaká assists Suker! Real Madrid lead 2-0!"*

"Forty minutes in, Real Madrid have two goals, while Tottenham have only managed three shots!"

"Well, Tottenham need adjustments. If they want any hope, they must figure out how to unleash Bale!"

With that, González laughed. "Folks, give Real Madrid's players a round of applause—they've been magnificent!"

A two-goal lead by halftime had crushed Tottenham's morale.

Their Champions League run had been a Cinderella story—they'd even beaten AC Milan, achieving the rare feat of conquering both Milan clubs.

But Real Madrid had dismantled them in just 45 minutes.

Tottenham's trump card, Bale, had been shut down.

Meanwhile, Real Madrid's wing raids left them utterly helpless.

Suker had once again showcased his terrifying efficiency.

Facing a 2-0 deficit, Tottenham had no idea how to approach the second half.

Tottenham's Locker Room

The players sat in silence, heads bowed.

Two goals down, completely outplayed in the first half—their mood was bleak.

Bale clenched his fists, lips pressed tightly together.

He couldn't break past Srna, and Real Madrid's attacks were relentless. There was no opening for a comeback.

"Bale!" Redknapp called. "Second half, drop deeper. Create space to accelerate."

They had to rely on Bale.

With their left flank neutralized, Crouch's aerial threat had been useless.

Van der Vaart had tried his best to create chances, but he couldn't outplay Real Madrid's midfield alone.

So, Bale had to start further back, using pure speed to break through.

"Understood." Bale nodded firmly.

It was their only option now.

Real Madrid's Locker Room

Mourinho praised the squad.

"Excellent first half. We executed every tactical detail perfectly—especially Srna. Shutting down Bale gave us control of the game!" He clapped. "Let's hear it for Srna!"

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP—

The locker room erupted in applause.

"Beast! Srna!"

"Brilliant!"

"Unbreakable!"

The praise was genuine, not just banter. Srna deserved it.

Ramos and Casillas clapped the hardest—as a center-back and goalkeeper, if Srna got beaten, they'd be the first to suffer.

With Srna holding firm, they'd had an easy first half.

Srna smiled modestly but accepted the praise graciously.

"Alright, gentlemen, the game isn't over. The next half is crucial." Mourinho's tone turned serious. "Tottenham now has two choices:"

"First—tighten their defense, avoid conceding more, and try to turn things around at home. If they do that, our job gets easier."

"Second—attack aggressively. Not to disrespect Tottenham, but they're running out of options. And when teams are desperate, they often throw caution to the wind."

"But whatever they choose, our response is the same: DEFEND."

"Stay compact, disrupt their rhythm, and strike on the counter!"

"Second-half substitutions at the 55th minute—Karim, you've got 10 more minutes. Hope you score!"

He ended with a lighthearted jab.

Benzema played along, pretending to panic, making the locker room laugh.

After tactics, Mourinho pulled Suker aside.

"Once Benzema comes off, you'll play as the central forward—or rather, the counterattacking focal point. I don't need you fixed there, but you must be an outlet. Understood?"

Suker nodded instantly. "Leave it to me."

Mourinho patted his shoulder before addressing the team.

"Forty-five minutes left, lads. Let's finish this!"

Second Half

As the teams returned, they noticed Tottenham had made changes.

Sandro and Crouch were off.

Kranjčar and Lennon were on.

Mourinho smirked.

Without Bale's breakthroughs, Crouch's height was irrelevant.

For Tottenham, freeing Bale was the priority.

So, they'd paired Lennon with Bale for a dual-speed attack, hoping to stretch Real's defense and create space.

Kranjčar added creativity.

Tottenham were going for it.

Mourinho had expected them to play safe and fight harder at home.

But they'd chosen to bare their fangs now.

Still…

This wouldn't break Real Madrid's defense.

Mourinho held up five fingers. "Fifty-minute substitution. Karim, you've got five minutes left."

Benzema rolled his eyes.

Real funny, boss.

On the pitch, Tottenham's players looked determined.

The substitutions signaled their intent—all-out attack.

Realistically, this match had already shown the gulf in quality.

A home advantage wouldn't bridge that gap.

Three shots in the first half was pathetic.

Rather than losing on their knees…

They'd go down fighting!

Attack!

Even if they lost, they'd make Real Madrid's defense sweat.

Even in defeat, they wouldn't go quietly.

"They've got murder in their eyes," Suker remarked, stretching.

Benzema: "I've only got five minutes. You'll help me score, right?"

Suker scoffed.

Dream on!

I'm still one short of a hat-trick!

Priorities, kid. Get some perspective.

WHISTLE!

The second half began.

After their adjustments, Tottenham charged at Real Madrid once more.