"Why are you taking Pepe off? I think he can still keep going, his stamina is fine," Pintus said to Mourinho. "I guarantee it — I'm his fitness coach!"
Mourinho turned his head and glanced at Pintus.
"It's not about fitness. It's about the yellow card."
Pintus frowned. "Then you can just talk to him about it."
This time, Mourinho was silent for a long while.
Off to the side, Faria looked equally troubled.
"When I coached Inter Milan, I had a player named Balotelli," Mourinho began slowly. His cheeks visibly twitched, as if his expression alone could tell Pintus just how painful a memory this was.
"I could write a 600-page book called My Two Years Coaching Balotelli at Inter Milan. It wouldn't be a drama — it'd be a damn comedy!"
Mourinho sighed.
"I remember the match in Kazan — all my forwards were injured, and Balotelli got a yellow card in the 42nd minute.
"At halftime, I spent 14 minutes talking only to Balotelli. I told him, 'Mario, I can't take you off. I've got no forwards on the bench. Don't touch anyone, just focus on playing football.'
"'We lose possession? Don't worry about it.'
"'Someone tries to provoke you? Ignore them.'
"'Referee makes a bad call? Don't argue.'
"I begged him with all sincerity — please, Mario."
Mourinho stopped speaking at that point.
Pintus, hooked by the story, asked curiously, "And then?"
Mourinho stayed silent. Faria covered his forehead and answered instead: "And then… that little brat lasted one damn minute on the pitch before getting a red card!"
Mourinho's cheeks twitched uncontrollably as he suppressed his anger.
"After that, I never trusted any so-called 'pep talks' again. Any player at risk of a card, I'll sub them off. I'll never fool myself into thinking I can talk them into behaving."
Pintus opened his mouth, then turned to glance at Pepe — who was currently roaring "Hit him!" at the top of his lungs — and after a pause, sighed. "Maybe… you're right."
As Pintus left, Faria sighed. "Balotelli… that's one guy I wish I could forget."
Mourinho couldn't help but sigh as well.
He thought his greatest achievement at Inter wasn't winning the treble, but somehow getting Balotelli to occasionally not do something stupid.
Faria turned his gaze back to the pitch.
The match was still fierce.
Up front, Suker and Benzema were still sprinting and pressing like madmen. Once Barcelona pushed the ball into Real Madrid's half, they found themselves under even fiercer pressure — sometimes even losing possession outright.
"You think Guardiola will figure it out?" Faria asked.
Mourinho: "Yes. That's why time is precious for us."
On the other side, Guardiola's brows were deeply furrowed. The more he watched the match, the more wrong it felt.
Real Madrid's play was strange.
High pressing — by definition — means intense pressure high up the pitch, winning the ball back early and countering immediately. Sometimes the opponent could still advance to midfield and be harassed there, but Barca had faced Madrid's high press before — it wasn't usually this toothless.
So far, Barcelona's passing in their own half wasn't under huge threat.
Only once they reached the center circle did Madrid force them to play forward passes.
Force them?
Guardiola froze.
Yes — force them!
Frontline disruption, midfield disruption, and then defensive pressing at the back.
Wait…
Guardiola slapped his forehead.
This wasn't high pressing at all — it was low pressing in disguise!
Low pressing with defensive withdrawal.
Usually it's a 4-4-2, three defensive lines: forwards–midfield–defense.
Madrid had just put a high-press "mask" over it to fool them.
Instead of safely controlling the ball in midfield, Barca were willingly pushing forward — right into the second and third defensive lines — where they were strangled.
This style is usually used against stronger teams or when you're protecting a lead.
Guardiola never suspected Madrid would use it — they're Real Madrid! Would they really lower themselves like that?
But clearly Mourinho didn't care about appearances — only about winning.
That cunning Portuguese!
Guardiola gritted his teeth — he had to tell his players and adjust quickly.
But at that moment — disaster struck.
Iniesta, dribbling, was swarmed by Kaká, Alonso, and Khedira.
Alonso won the ball and fed Kaká.
Kaká turned with it.
Barcelona's whole formation was pressed up past the halfway line — far too high.
"Get back!!!" Guardiola roared in panic.
But Kaká had already launched a long pass.
Up front, Suker sprang into action.
Mourinho clenched his fist.
"This is it!"
He had put Suker up top for this very moment — the sharpest spear aimed at the opponent's throat. One strike to kill.
"Real Madrid counterattack!!!"
González screamed: "Suker! He's off!!"
Suker remembered training with the local track team back in Mostar, Bosnia.
Toes digging in, spikes gripping the turf, springing forward.
Body leaned slightly, head down, arms pumping hard for maximum drive.
Small, rapid steps to accelerate.
When he lifted his head, he thought to himself—
"Give it to me!"
The wind whipped his hair back, his jersey fluttering. His powerful right-leg muscles bulged like slabs of iron.
Puyol turned his head in panic — the world seemed to slow down. Suker was already facing forward and striding away.
Can't catch him!
Puyol decided — pull him back!
But his arm came up too late — Suker was gone.
A rush of wind past his ear.
"Out of my way!!!"
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud — Suker's legs cycled rapidly, body upright, arms pumping.
He blew past Puyol.Past the halfway line.Still sprinting at full tilt.
The cheers faded — only the roar of the wind in his ears remained.
He glanced at the ball —
Perfect from Kaká!
Barça keeper Valdés was caught halfway out — neither advancing nor retreating.
He could only pray Suker would miscontrol it.
But Suker cushioned it perfectly at his feet.
"It's over," Valdés thought.
He dove forward — but Suker flicked the ball over him into the net.
Then Suker raced to the stands, pressing a finger to his lips.
Shut up, you bastards!
The Camp Nou fell silent. Moments ago, the home fans had been jeering — now they were stunned.
Conceded again.And in the same way.
"Goooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaal!!!"
González's trademark elongated shout rang out.
"Goal! Goal! Suker!!"
"54th minute — just 9 minutes into the second half — Suker scores!"
"My God, that speed! One burst and he left Puyol behind — Puyol couldn't even grab him, just fell awkwardly!"
"Real Madrid, with a brilliant counterattack, take the lead!"
In the away section, the few Madrid fans went wild.
No one expected the goal to come so suddenly.
On the sideline, Mourinho clenched his fist. "It worked!"
The fake high press had lured Barca forward, right into the trap.
Guardiola's tactical sense would figure it out — but too late. On their third attempt, Madrid had scored.
Forget possession. Forget pride.
Low block, tight defense.
Victory would make everyone forget how it was won.
On the other side, Guardiola's neck veins bulged as he glared at Mourinho — who wore a faint, smug smile.
"Damn Portuguese!"
Guardiola was furious — from advantage to being snared.
He should've realized sooner — with Suker leading the line, Madrid could only counterattack, and low pressing suits that perfectly.
Now, Madrid led. Barca were forced to change.
Villa off, Bojan on.
Pedro off, Keita on.
Mourinho also made a change: Di María off, Arbeloa on.
"This is…" González shook his head. "In this managerial battle, Mourinho's won."
First half, Madrid were passive — Pepe's yellow card forcing Mourinho to sub him at halftime for Carvalho.
Even then, Barca had the edge.
But Barca got drawn into Madrid's tempo and provocation — seeking confrontation instead of goals.
In the second half, Mourinho sprung his trap.
By 54 minutes, Suker had scored.
Now, with two changes made, Madrid's disadvantage was gone — they had the lead and had reset their substitutions.
Most importantly, they now had their dream scenario: away lead, defensive setup complete.
All objectives met — now just defend.
After the goal, everyone — Suker included — dropped back.
No more disguises. Three defensive lines in place, pressing hard in their half, constantly disrupting Barça's buildup.
Madrid's shape and coordination had to be perfect — and their keeper alert. They were.
"Hold him!" Suker charged at Iniesta.
Forced to pass, Iniesta laid it off — but Srna slid in to intercept and sent it to Kaká.
"Counter!" Suker roared.
Kaká drove forward, looking for options. Suker was surrounded, Benzema had Puyol in front.
The best choice — a cutback.
Ball rolled to the edge of the box, where Alonso charged in and struck hard.
"Alonso shoots!"
The ball hurtled… straight at Benzema.
"Shit!" Benzema ducked — the ball skimmed his head and flew at goal.
Valdés blocked it with his chest — rebound into the six-yard box.
Right where Benzema had crouched.
He turned — the ball loomed large —
"Mmff!"
It smacked him in the face and bounced into the net!
Benzema clutched his nose, eyes watering.
"Another lucky one!"
"Benzema!! Wow!! What a lucky guy — the ball bounces off his face into the goal! 67th minute — Madrid double their lead!"
"Barça are too anxious — Madrid are capitalizing!"
Madrid players swarmed Benzema.
"Well done, Karim!"
"You scored with your face! But hey, nice one!"
"Two goals! We're winning this! Hahaha!"
Benzema looked embarrassed, still rubbing his sore nose.
Then— Wahahahahahaha!
He didn't need to look to know it was Suker laughing.
"This week's Top 1 goal — definitely yours! If they don't give it to you, I'll protest!" Suker howled.
Benzema's face reddened. Others chuckled too.
It's not unheard of to score with your face — in a scramble, any body part but the hand will do — but Benzema's accidental one was comedy gold.
"Karim is really lucky," Kaká said. "He's scored quite a few like this."
Suker nodded. "Yeah, you could say that."
In the past it was more like poaching — but this one? Pure 'dumb luck aura.'
How else does a ball just happen to hit him in the face and go in?
The team laughed their way back to position.
They called it luck — but Mourinho rubbed his chin, thoughtful.
After 13 league games plus 5 Champions League matches, Benzema had scored 4 such 'scrap goals' — over half his tally.
Once or twice could be luck. Four times? No.
"That's some sharp goal sense," Faria said.
He'd seen plenty of players in his time with Mourinho — and some just had this instinct.
It looked like luck, but it was subconscious positioning.
Otherwise, how would he always be there for rebounds?
Once or twice, fine — four times? Without instinct, they'd suspect he was the goddess of fortune's illegitimate child.
"We'll test him after we get back," Mourinho said, eyes bright.
Coaching Real Madrid was proving to be the right decision — he was finding gems everywhere.
Just like treasure hunting — and the finds kept coming!
After all, only top players join Madrid — and some aren't even fully developed yet. That made them all the more irresistible.