As he walked back out into the roar, Mateo felt a shift inside him. The fear was still there, but now it was mixed with a cold, hard anger. He was tired of being the "reject," the "wunderkind." He was a footballer. And he was here to fight.
The second half began, and Dortmund was a different team. They were more direct, more aggressive. Mateo was a phantom, his movement now a constant, nagging question that Madrid's midfield couldn't answer. He was no longer trying to beat them with skill, but with intelligence. He drew fouls. He created small pockets of space. He was the grit in the gears of the pristine white machine.
But Madrid's quality was relentless. In the 57th minute, a corner. The ball was whipped in, and in the crowded box, Pepe, a man who seemed to be carved from granite and fury, rose highest. His header was a battering ram, flying into the net. 2-0. The beast roared again, louder this time, tasting blood.
