Chapter 93: Back and Forth

It was a corner for Real Madrid.

Modric placed the ball on the arc of the corner flag again and again, as though searching for the spot that felt most natural to him. His right hand rose high, flashing tactical signals to his teammates in the box, and then he swung the ball in with force.

The delivery hung high and drifting, but there was clearly no understanding between him and his teammates inside the area. Bailli rose above everyone to reach the first ball and nodded it clear.

Yet the clearance was recovered by Real Madrid once more, and the man who found it was their greatest threat, Ronaldo. With the ball at his feet, the Portuguese star let fly at once from the left side of the penalty area.

Rukavina had just surged out from the box and, seeing this, hurried in to throw his body across Ronaldo’s shot path. The ball struck him and deflected away.

But at that very moment Benzema, who had just been preparing to retreat from the area, charged onto the loose ball. Before the opposition could react, he stabbed it away with a single touch, and just after crossing the line of the box he curled it with the inside of his right foot.

Bonera also tried to block the shot with his body as Rukavina had done, but the ball struck the outer edge of his thigh. Its direction changed, yet it still arced toward the goal.

Asenjo had originally read the flight of the ball well, but he had not expected the deflection off Bonera. Suddenly it was flying the opposite way from where he had anticipated.

It was over.

Bonera twisted back toward the goal, his heart sinking, and by then the ball was already nestling in the net.

One to one.

This was Benzema’s twenty-seventh goal of the season, twenty-three of them in the league. His form this year had been exceptional.

Villarreal’s advantage lasted barely any time at all; in less than ten minutes, Real Madrid had leveled the score.

The pressure of pure superiority had both Zhishui Wei and Marcelino on the touchline making the same gesture: hands on hips, a picture of helplessness.

After equalizing, Real Madrid surged forward in waves, but time was running short and the first half soon came to an end.

At halftime, Marcelino had little to say. There was no need for speeches in a match like this. They were being completely overpowered in terms of quality; in the second half, he could only wait for Zidane to make the first move and then respond accordingly.

Zidane was clearly thinking the same way. With such an advantage in strength, he had been remarkably relaxed in his in-game management.

In this respect, Zidane was much like the NBA’s “Zen Master,” Phil Jackson.

Neither the personnel nor the tactics changed at the start of the second half.

Real Madrid built from midfield, and Ronaldo dropped deep to help control the tempo. Suddenly, someone stabbed the ball away from behind him. Ronaldo had just begun to turn when a gust of wind cut past and his face stung sharply; only then did he realize that Bruno’s flung sleeve had brushed across his cheek.

Bruno Soriano excelled at fierce, fearless, all-out defending. He was single-minded in his devotion to the craft. Though not as celebrated as Kanté or Casemiro, his defensive ability as a holding midfielder was unquestionably among the very best.

Bruno drove forward at speed with the ball, charging straight at Real Madrid’s half. Zhishui Wei, stationed on the front line, paused for a moment, then drifted gradually to the right flank to give the captain a wider lane, while himself lurking in an inconspicuous spot, waiting for the chance to pounce on goal.

Bruno continued to surge ahead with the ball, eyes fixed only on Real Madrid’s net. Ramos, Marcelo, and Navas simply did not exist in his vision.

After Bruno won the ball off him, Ronaldo also hustled back with urgency, chasing diagonally after the captain of the Yellow Submarine.

Bruno carried the ball diagonally toward the center. Just as he neared the penalty area, Ramos came rushing up.

He knew he would have trouble getting past Ramos, especially with Marcelo arriving as well and Ronaldo lurking behind him. One misstep, and they could strip the ball away.

At that moment, fortunately, Bruno saw Zhishui Wei raise his hand.

With a flick of his right ankle, Bruno sent a low pass out to Zhishui Wei, who had already advanced along the flank.

At last, the Chinese speedster, long lurking behind Real Madrid’s back line, had a chance to shine.

With the middle of Real Madrid’s defense wide open, Zhishui Wei took a heavy touch and burst into the box.

But before he could drive further, Varane thundered into him from behind.

Zhishui Wei’s balance was broken. Ramos pressed up at the right moment, intending to combine with Varane and squeeze him from both sides, stripping the ball cleanly away.

Should I go down for a penalty?

The thought flickered through Zhishui Wei’s mind, but he dismissed it at once. Varane’s challenge was normal physical contact, and at the Bernabeu, the referee would find it difficult to award a penalty for something like that.

I’ve fought this hard to get here. How could I surrender the ball so easily?

He gritted his teeth, used his right foot to drag the ball leftward into the box, and kept going.

Ramos hurried after him, but immediately regretted it. Zhishui Wei used his left foot to pull the ball back again, dipped his body low, and shot past him. So rapid was the movement that Varane, arriving from the side and behind, could not react in time and nearly collided with Ramos.

At that point, even if Varane and Ramos had wanted to commit a foul from behind, it was too late.

He was through!

Whether it was the fans inside the Bernabeu or those watching on television, whether it was the live commentator or the studio analyst, everyone was now fixed on that figure, nervously guessing his next move.

Strike!

Varane came at him, and Zhishui Wei lifted his leg as if to shoot, only to set it down softly.

A fake shot, then a real burst past him. He had broken through Real Madrid’s final line and was now face to face with Navas.

One on one!

With a chance like this, Zhishui Wei had a hundred ways to put the ball into the net, but this time he chose the most elegant of them all:

A chip.

With Navas rushing out, Zhishui Wei lofted the ball delicately over him and into the goal.

Two to one!

Villarreal had once again taken the lead over mighty Real Madrid at the Bernabeu.

After scoring, Zhishui Wei repeated his gun-blowing celebration.

This time, unlike his previous thunderous strike, the chip had not a trace of smoke or fire about it. It seemed like a visitor from beyond the heavens. Combined with his gun-blowing gesture, it drew who knew how many cameras and how many lively female fans.

“Wei, haha, we’re ahead again! We’re going to win for sure!” Bruno’s voice reached Zhishui Wei, and then the Yellow Submarine captain wrapped the still-posing striker in a fierce embrace.

“Hey, watch the styling!”

“This is the haircut I just did!”

His teammates’ wild celebrations ruined the hair Zhishui Wei had specially arranged for the match, turning it into a bird’s nest of chaos. Even after play resumed, he kept reaching up to rake his fingers through it.

Unfortunately, before he could get it fully straightened out, his expression shifted from delight to helplessness.

Modric sent a surgeon’s pass through midfield, and Lucas Vazquez played a one-two with Benzema before driving into the right side of the box from eighteen yards out.

This time Mario did not allow Lucas Vazquez another step. He lunged in brutally, both legs wrapping around the challenge.

Lucas Vazquez had control of the ball, but he could not stop the tackle from bringing him down.

Lying on the ground, Lucas Vazquez looked toward the referee behind him. He had already broken into the box; to be flattened so clearly could only mean a penalty. But would there also be a red card?

The referee this match clearly did not relish the role of being the center of attention. He took quick, short steps toward the fallen Lucas Vazquez and the tackle’s aftermath, first pointing to the penalty spot, then reaching into the pocket of his shirt...

A red card!

Mario had brought down Lucas Vazquez from behind after he burst into the box for a one-on-one. The referee decisively awarded a penalty and sent Mario off with a straight red.

Though Villarreal’s players were somewhat unhappy, they did not argue with the referee. Mario’s foul had been far too obvious; at that instant, the Yellow Submarine fullback had plainly suffered a brief lapse in judgment.

Being pegged back was not fatal, but being a man down as well was disastrous.

Ronaldo took the ball from the referee, set it on the spot, and stepped back two paces, staring hard at Asenjo, who was dancing on his line.

Ronaldo might not be better than Messi overall, but in penalty-taking alone, the Argentine was certainly no match for him.

Ronaldo was not disturbed by Asenjo’s movements. He lashed the ball into the upper left corner with power, and the penalty was converted without fuss.

Two to two, and the score was level once more.

But with at least twenty minutes still to play, Villarreal, reduced to ten men, found themselves in a truly perilous position.

The balance of victory had already begun to tilt toward Real Madrid.