Chapter 118: Few Teams Are as Resilient as You—But I Just Want to Win
"Leon has great vision—look at Di María's movement! The cross comes in! Cristiano Ronaldo, headed layoff! Leon—!!!
Leon shoots! A close-range rocket! Is it in?! IT'S IN!!! Čech couldn't stop it! Leon has scored for Real Madrid in the Champions League final!!!
Leon becomes the first Chinese player in history to score in a Champions League final! The first Asian to ever do it!
Leon has made history—he's raised the ceiling for what Asian players can achieve in a single season in European football!"
He Wei erupted with emotion as the ball hit the back of the net, joining the jubilant Real Madrid fans in roaring celebration.
His voice was so impassioned that even the usually composed Coach Zhang couldn't get a word in edgewise.
But Coach Zhang didn't mind. Once He Wei calmed down a little, he chuckled and picked up the commentary.
"This is a new milestone. No Asian player had ever scored in a Champions League final before—Leon has done it! Hah, looks like the Chinese fans were right all along:
'Leon doesn't score much, but every goal is gold. He only scores in big games and critical moments!'"
Coach Zhang's praise sent Chinese fans in front of their televisions into another round of cheering and laughter.
The origin of that saying? A fun little stat someone once compiled in a Leon fan forum years ago.
Back then, fans would post in the "Little Lion Bar," joking that Leon only seemed to score against big teams in big games.
Eventually, the quote went viral and made its way to national forums.
Even commentators like He Wei and Duan Xuan started referencing it during matches.
But it wasn't just fluff—Leon really did elevate himself against the strongest opponents.
Perhaps ever since that towering header against Lazio in Serie A, Leon had been destined to shine brightest in the toughest moments.
As his teammates tackled him in celebration, Leon kept muttering the same word:
"Lucky… I'm just lucky…"
In truth, in that split second after scoring, Leon had felt like he'd left his body—pure, unfiltered euphoria.
But once Cristiano embraced him, he returned to reality—and felt only relief.
Because if that ball from Ronaldo had been even slightly off, not in the perfect shooting pocket near the penalty spot, Leon's blast could've flown into the stands.
He wouldn't have cared about online mockery, but the idea of missing that chance… it would've haunted him.
But everything aligned perfectly.
Ronaldo's layoff had been deliberate—putting the ball right where Leon liked it best.
Leon didn't let his teammates down.
He didn't let himself down.
Originally, he thought he'd use that muscle memory—the one honed from months of penalty drills—against Bayern.
But instead, it paid off in the final.
"That's not luck. That's your hard work paying off. Well done, Little Lion."
Cristiano patted his shoulder firmly.
The Madrid bench finally settled down after the wild celebration.
Players, flushed with joy, started chatting animatedly.
Mourinho, heart pounding, forced himself to make the "calm down" gesture—both hands pressing downward.
He was signaling to the team:
Keep your heads. The job's not done yet.
Chelsea resumed play.
Seconds later, the referee blew for halftime.
Perfect timing.
Mourinho now had fifteen minutes to cool his players and plan the second half.
Di Matteo, on the other hand, looked resigned—but not broken.
His eyes didn't show despair, just quiet determination.
Mourinho noticed this—and once again, he took Di Matteo seriously.
As soon as the Madrid starters returned to the dressing room, Mourinho stopped talking to Karanka.
He stood up, clapped loudly, and gave his players a proud grin.
That applause?
A rare moment of unfiltered praise.
If you're getting Mourinho's praise in a Champions League final, you've done something very right.
But of course, things were about to shift again.
Karanka rolled the tactics board to the front of the room.
Mourinho told everyone to stay seated. No need to stand.
"They haven't given up.
If we could open the Chelsea dressing room door right now, we'd hear it.
The anger. The refusal to surrender. It's boiling inside them.
This is a team that's been through wars. They've played Champions League finals. Semifinals. They've faced the best."
"That's why I kept repeating it before the match—stay sharp. Respect your opponent.
You've seen it yourselves. Despite all our preparation, Drogba and Lampard are still giving us problems."
Mourinho picked up a pen and tapped the tactical board where Drogba and Lampard were positioned.
"They know how to keep calm. They know how to fight back.
Trust me—they'll unite.
Because every team that reaches this stage understands what sacrifice means."
"Facing players I once coached? It hurts. But I'm also grateful. Because tonight, I stand with you."
"Believe me—you are the best team I've ever coached. No question."
Applause broke out—loud and heartfelt.
"Now… forget the scoreboard. Forget the lead.
Those numbers mean nothing.
Let's start fresh. Ground up.
Let's adjust."
In that moment, Mourinho wasn't just a tactician.
He was a leader of men.
The tactics weren't complex.
But executing them in a final, under pressure, was harder than it sounded.
One mistake could change everything.
Compared to Madrid's explosive first half, Chelsea's technical level might've been a notch below.
But their mentality?
Leon could see it in their eyes—Čech, Terry… not a trace of panic.
Just frustration. Determination.
Now he understood why Mourinho had drilled this into them all week.
Mindset.
Chelsea had clawed their way to the final with pure resilience.
They had nothing to lose.
Madrid had walked a smoother path.
Not that they couldn't handle adversity—but they carried the burden of expectation.
That was both strength and weakness.
Leon didn't know how this mental battle would shift the second half.
But he knew one thing.
He had no fear.
From the day he turned pro, he never craved fame.
If it came, great. If not, so be it.
But one thing mattered more than anything else.
On the pitch—he just wanted to win.
He was even prepared to bring on Álbiol for extra aerial coverage if Real Madrid began to show cracks in defending set pieces.
His plan? Sub off Arbeloa, shift Ramos to right-back, and reinforce the central zone with Álbiol.
But those concerns quickly faded.
Madrid's defense on set pieces was relentless.
Every single player challenged for headers with full commitment.
Even when Chelsea got first contact, Madrid's pressure made it nearly impossible to get a clean shot on goal.
Two straight corners. Two complete shutdowns.
It was enough to ease the tension in the stands—and in Mourinho's heart.
Drogba looked frustrated.
Even in the twilight of his career, he was still physically imposing.
But not even he could shake off the double-team of Pepe and Ramos.
Worse, he knew the man behind this strategy—José Mourinho—probably designed it specifically for him.
Each failed attack took a mental toll on Chelsea.
And each counterattack from Madrid cut a little deeper.
Everyone knew Ronaldo was sacrificing his usual role for the team.
But when he took off on a break with the ball at his feet?
Chelsea's defense flinched.
Most support strikers were mediocre at best.
But this was Ronaldo.
If you didn't double him immediately, he could instantly flip the switch and kill you.
Time and again, Ronaldo would pull defenders toward him and then calmly offload to teammates in space.
It worked like a charm.
Benzema and Di María each had clear chances—a close-range tap and a curling shot.
One was saved by Čech. The other missed by inches.
Both were quality strikes—just a little unlucky.
But with this kind of momentum, another Madrid goal was inevitable.
Chelsea fans in the stands were restless.
The players on the pitch were tense.
Finally, in the 37th minute, Di Matteo made a call.
He pushed Kalou forward to join Drogba, switching to a 4-4-2.
Ramires went to the left, Mata stayed right, Lampard and Mikel held the middle.
Classic English style.
One big man, one speedster. Direct, brutal, effective.
And suddenly, it worked.
Because Drogba was a one-man battering ram.
Even Leon and Essien couldn't stop him from holding up the ball.
Stopping him from turning was possible.
But intercepting his flick-ons?
Forget it.
And Madrid couldn't afford to foul him—no more free kicks.
So Leon and Essien had to keep dropping back, chasing down whoever received Drogba's layoffs.
This lowered their overall efficiency.
Now, Chelsea began generating real danger from both flanks.
With Kalou drawing attention, Drogba didn't have to score—he could set up others.
Madrid had no choice but to drop even deeper.
Then, in the 45th minute, as stoppage time ticked on, Lampard delivered a long diagonal ball—not to Drogba, but to Ramires on the wing.
Arbeloa pushed forward. Alonso tracked back.
But Ramires had already played Ashley Cole in with a neat overlap.
Old as he was, Cole still had elite technique.
He beat the line and whipped in a fierce, curling cross.
Drogba, who had drifted to the back post, suddenly sprinted into the box.
Ramos was marking Kalou. Pepe was alone.
In a one-on-one, Drogba bullied Pepe and launched himself at the ball.
It should've been a goal.
But Casillas reacted like a bolt of lightning, punching the bullet header away with both fists.
"Ashley Cole crosses! Drogba—OH!!!
CASILLAS! SAINT IKER SAVES THE DAY!!!
Arbeloa clears it! Alonso—Madrid on the counter!"
He Wei's voice rose from shock to ecstasy in under a second.
Madrid burst forward.
Casillas had lit the fuse.
Alonso's long ball found Benzema, who wrestled Mikel off and fed Leon surging forward.
Leon barreled through Mikel's tackle, then unleashed a perfect pass into the massive gap left behind Ashley Cole.
Di María sprinted into space, directly facing John Terry.
No time for hero plays—he whipped in a cross with his weaker foot.
Ronaldo darted to the far post, but instead of shooting, he laid it back across the box.
Leon was there.
Just behind the penalty spot.
No time to think.
Terry slid in—late.
Leon breathed, planted, and struck.
All those extra hours of penalty practice paid off.
Čech didn't move in time.
"How dare he shoot from there?!"
That was the thought in every fan's mind.
Too risky.
Why not just place it?
But Madrid trusted Leon.
He didn't miss from this zone anymore.
The ball smashed the underside of the bar and ricocheted into the net.
Goal.
Čech stretched—but too late.
Leon roared, sprinting down the baseline.
"Equalized by a header? Don't joke—
We are NOT Bayern Munich!"
We are Real Madrid.
We are Kings of Europe.
They weren't dead yet—they were still alive, still very much present on the grand stage of the Champions League final.
From 0–2 to 1–2, the shift in momentum was massive. Not just emotionally, but strategically. For both sides.
Real Madrid hadn't made any major defensive errors, but they had still given Chelsea a window.
A tiny sliver of opportunity—and Chelsea had seized it.
Torres, fresh off the bench, used his clever movement to claw Chelsea back from the brink.
He grabbed the ball and shouted to his teammates to hurry back to midfield for the restart.
And for the first time in a long while, Leon showed visible emotion.
He didn't curse. Didn't throw blame.
Instead, he waved his arms furiously, roaring at his teammates to stay focused, to wake up.
"We have to understand this—this isn't one of those 'lose today, come back next year' games!
It's been TEN YEARS since this club last lifted the Champions League trophy!"
"Give it everything! Give it all! Because this might be the only shot we ever get!"
"Don't lose heart! Fight to the last minute! We MUST, MUST fight to the very end!"
Leon's voice cracked as he screamed, pouring every ounce of strength into his rally cry.
His teammates, rarely seeing him like this, froze—then…
The fire in their chests ignited.
"Right! You think we got here easily?! If Chelsea can fight—we can fight HARDER!"
"Get your heads in the game! We're not losing this!!"
"It's now or never! I've had enough of all the pain and shame of past seasons! We're winning this damn trophy TONIGHT!"
"Talk to each other! Cover your zones! Stay sharp—let's hit them AGAIN!"
From chaos to cohesion, Madrid's dressing-room-like unity exploded right there on the pitch.
Chelsea had already reset. They were shouting too, rallying behind each other.
But Madrid's fire matched them, blow for blow.
Cristiano Ronaldo's eyes burned like embers—he was ready to tear something apart.
He didn't want another regret.
He didn't want to cry again.
Not like in 2008—when he scored, but missed the decisive penalty.
Not tonight.
"Cristiano!"
Leon called out just before kickoff resumed.
Ronaldo turned back.
Leon met his eyes and gave a sharp, resolute nod.
No more words were needed.
The message was clear.
From the sidelines, Mourinho stepped forward.
And he saw it—his team was burning.
He saw Ronaldo blow past Mikel like a train.
He saw Benzema force his way into Terry's zone with brute will.
He saw Leon—sprinting without holding anything back.
"This… this is my team. This is MY Real Madrid."
Tactically, there was nothing left for him to do.
All he could hope now was that his men would fight to the last breath.
The pitch turned hostile. Every challenge had venom.
The referee's whistle screamed more and more frequently.
In the 76th minute, Di María and Ashley Cole crashed to the turf fighting for a loose ball.
They stood up, chests out, heads butting.
Yellow cards for both.
In the 79th, Chelsea tried to counter—Marcelo slid in late to break it up.
Another yellow.
The flow of the match disintegrated into interruptions, fouls, and tension.
Di Matteo told his players to cool down.
There wasn't much time left.
If they lost their heads now, Madrid would cruise to the title.
Chelsea reset. Madrid pressed higher.
And that gave Mikel a chance—a long ball lofted toward Drogba, now only marked by Ramos.
With no double-team, Drogba didn't hesitate.
Chest control, then a bulldozing turn.
Ramos alone couldn't stop him.
But just as he turned, Alonso slid in cleanly, taking the ball away.
Arbeloa rushed in before Lampard could react, and played it forward to Marcelo.
Chelsea's push had left them vulnerable.
Leon sprinted through the center—faster than any Chelsea player.
He didn't even need to signal. Marcelo passed it straight into his path.
Mikel had learned. He dropped early.
But Leon didn't try to dribble this time—he threaded a through ball.
A 20-meter missile that split Chelsea's defense like a blade.
Ivanović hesitated. Cahill dove early to cut it off.
Too late.
Leon's pass was fast—borderline insane.
So fast that Ronaldo, for all his anticipation, nearly mishandled it.
His first touch was too heavy.
But Čech didn't react fast enough either.
Ronaldo had one choice.
He threw himself forward—sliding, stretching—and poked the ball just as Čech lunged.
Their bodies collided.
Čech, helmet and all, was physically fine.
But emotionally?
He was shattered.
The ball rolled, slow but steady, toward goal.
Terry sprinted—slid in—cleared it off the line—
But not before it had crossed.
Benzema looked to the ref—arms raised.
The assistant's flag didn't move.
The referee blew his whistle—
Pointed to the spot.
"Goal stands! IT STANDS!!! RONALDO'S SLIDING FINISH CROSSED THE LINE!
84TH MINUTE! IT'S OVER! LEON TO RONALDO! THIS MATCH IS DONE!"
He Wei nearly choked on his own breath.
His face flushed red as he shouted, unleashing the roar of a nation.
In homes across China, Real Madrid fans erupted in celebration.
Ronaldo didn't celebrate wildly.
He kissed the grass where he'd fallen, then sat in Chelsea's box, smiling, arms outstretched—
To Leon.
Leon and Benzema raced to him.
They embraced tightly.
Leon exhaled—deep, heavy, full of relief.
This Chelsea was the toughest team he'd faced all season.
Maybe one of the toughest in Champions League history.
But tonight?
He just wanted to win.
No matter who stood in his way—
They would fall.
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