Suker kept running around the field, constantly scanning the pitch.
He stationed himself right on Lyon's defensive line, an irritating thorn in their side.
Lyon's center-back Cris had to stay close to Suker at all times.
Vukojević also positioned himself more centrally.
Suker still drew heavy defensive attention, but the pressure on him was immense.
Real Madrid fans were watching as Suker was tightly surrounded, while other positions on the field couldn't create meaningful breakthroughs or advancement. It was incredibly frustrating.
"Break through!"
"Dribble it!"
"Charge forward!"
"Stop passing back! Forward, forward, forward!"
The fans kept yelling in frustration.
Higuaín was fuming inside.
You guys don't know shit!
Why are we passing back?
Because the opposing half is overcrowded—stretching Lyon's formation is the point.
Once Lyon's defensive line is stretched, Suker will have more space and more danger to unleash.
That's the real reason they kept recycling possession.
They were baiting Lyon into overcommitting.
Take Govou, for example!
The guy had already started sprinting like mad to press, eager to extend the lead. He wanted to be the one to blow open Real Madrid's goal.
In the past, for any striker, scoring against Real Madrid was a tremendous achievement.
Even though Madrid had been underwhelming in Europe recently, scoring on them was still a big deal.
If you can't score against Madrid, how can you call yourself a top striker?
"Slow down! Slow down!"
Pjanić kept yelling, but he couldn't rein in Govou.
Their shape was beginning to stretch.
"This guy!" Pjanić cursed inwardly. He opened his arms and shouted: "Don't worry about me—fall back!"
Just as the words left his mouth, Govou managed a steal up front.
He surged toward Madrid's box, excited, but with no teammates to support, he was soon surrounded. Ramos cleared the ball.
"Where is everyone?!" Govou knelt down and shouted in frustration.
It was such a golden chance!
He got the interception in the final third—if just one teammate had been there, they could've scored again.
Even Pjanić began to waver.
Was there really a chance?
Suker had seen the whole scene clearly from up front.
He didn't know if Madrid were genuinely poor—hence conceding—or just baiting Lyon on purpose.
But either way, it worked.
Lyon's formation had pushed up, and Suker edged forward slightly.
He glanced toward the goal.
He noticed Lyon's keeper, Lloris, was standing near the edge of the penalty area.
Lloris—future Spurs captain, France's World Cup-winning goalkeeper.
Compared to the player he'd become, this version of Lloris was still raw and played much more aggressively.
Just like how he came way out in the first half to head the ball away, he had good reflexes but took more risks.
Lloris was eager to showcase himself.
For players, that's usually a good thing—ambition fuels improvement.
But for a goalkeeper, stability is everything.
And right now, both Lloris's positioning and style gave Suker the feeling that there might be an opportunity.
He just needed a teammate to create that moment—and he had to capitalize.
The game continued.
After Govou's interception, Lyon applied even more pressure.
Suker hadn't touched the ball in ages, but he patiently waited for that one opening.
Surely they can't give me nothing all game, right?
Then it came—Alonso and Diarra combined for a steal.
The ball landed right at Alonso's feet, and he looked up instantly.
Suker didn't hesitate—he turned and sprinted.
Alonso launched a long ball forward.
"Alonso's long ball—is this a counterattack for Real Madrid?!"
Spanish commentator González shouted.
He saw Suker racing toward the ball, but Lyon's Cris and Boumsong were also charging in from both sides.
Suker got to the ball first, with the defenders closing in fast.
González shook his head.
"Looks like there's no ch—"
He didn't even finish his sentence when Suker suddenly lifted his right foot and chipped the ball toward goal.
At that moment, Lloris was still standing around the penalty spot.
"That shot..."
González stood up abruptly.
Tens of thousands of eyes in the stadium followed the ball back toward Lyon's goal.
They saw Lloris scrambling back, leaping in front of the goal line, arms outstretched.
His fingertips grazed the ball—but not enough.
Swish!
The ball and Lloris dropped into the goal together.
Dead silence.
The goal came too suddenly.
Just when everyone thought Suker would control the ball and adjust, he chose to chip it instead.
And Lloris's positioning? Completely baffling.
Why wasn't he on the goal line, but halfway out?
Caught in no man's land—too late to retreat, too early to charge.
Suker exploited that perfectly.
Outside the Gerland Stadium, Real Madrid fans craned their necks toward the big screen.
When they saw Alonso's long ball, their eyes lit up—but then they saw Suker sandwiched between two defenders.
Just as they were about to give up, the crowd inside suddenly erupted.
"What just happened—?"
One fan's eyes widened.
On the screen, he saw Suker pull off an outrageous chip.
"OHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
He screamed and jumped around like crazy.
Other fans quickly joined in after a moment of stunned silence.
BOOM!!!!!!!
Thunderous cheers exploded across the stadium and beyond.
On-screen, Suker ran toward the Lyon supporters and made a "shut up" gesture.
"Beautiful!"
"My god—is this the power of Suker?!"
"That was his first shot of the match—and it went in!"
"What kind of efficiency is this?!"
"God! He IS god!"
Madrid fans were in shock—faces full of disbelief and joy.
They now saw Suker's power in a new light.
Was Lyon bad?
No!
They had played incredibly well.
So well that they shut down Suker for nearly half a match.
But the problem was—Suker only needs ONE chance.
That's all he needs to score.
That's Real Madrid's super striker.
"Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!"
González clutched his head, exclaiming:
"We all thought Suker would bring the ball down—but he chipped it! Scored in a way no one expected. So composed—he must've spotted Lloris's positioning in advance!"
"That was Suker's first shot of the match—and he buried it!"
"I don't know how to describe it. Just—unbelievable!"
As Suker celebrated, the Madrid players all ran over.
They tackled him joyfully, overwhelmed with happiness.
When Lyon led earlier, the fear of another Champions League round-of-16 exit loomed large.
Then Suker pulled off a goal out of nowhere.
A spectacular chip—so beautiful it gave everyone chills.
Alonso, the provider, stood there stunned.
To be honest, the pass wasn't even great—it dropped too close to the box.
But Suker's vision and execution made it magical.
Alonso had played with many top strikers.
But none of them had Suker's madness or brilliance.
"One more!"
Suker shouted.
With his goal, Madrid's morale soared.
That's right!
No more retreating.
Fight. To. The. End.
Defend with all you have—and leave the rest to Suker.
It may sound odd, but this is how Madrid wins now.
Vukojević squatted down, gasping for air.
With the brutal schedule, his stamina and muscle fatigue were pushed to the limit.
Once the Croatian warhorse, now running on fumes.
He had truly given his all.
But they still couldn't stop Suker.
He was torn inside—happy for his friend, but their team's situation was now desperate.
They'd have to return to the first-half strategy.
But Madrid had now fully dropped back, defending deep.
Scoring against them wouldn't be easy.
And there was always the danger of getting hit on the counter by Suker.
Either way, Lyon was now trapped.
As the home team, a loss here would be a blow to morale.
Even a draw wasn't acceptable.
So—they had to attack.
"Lloris! What the hell are you doing?! Stay on your line! Who told you to wander around?!"
Coach Puel screamed at Lloris.
He was furious at Lloris's poor positioning.
Had Lloris been on the goal line, Suker could never have chipped him.
He might've helped the center-backs delay Suker—maybe not stop him, but buy some time.
Instead, Lloris ruined everything.
Now, Lyon had no choice.
They must attack.
Madrid could accept an away draw—but Lyon couldn't.
So attack they must!
But attacking stretched their formation—leaving more space for Suker to counter.
Puel now had to figure out how to stop Suker while still scoring goals.
Like trying to catch a flying dog with your mouth.
Who the hell could outrun Suker?
"Substitution!"
Puel turned abruptly.
Madrid was making changes.
Albiol and Gago stood ready.
Puel's eyes turned red.
"Goddammit!"
"Real Madrid are making changes—Diarra and Higuaín come off, Albiol and Gago come on! Pellegrini is reinforcing the defense—smart move."
Madrid just needed to hold the line now.
That way, they'd secure at least a draw—and maybe, if Suker scored again, a win.
González let out a sigh of relief. He felt like Pellegrini was finally coaching like himself again.
Puel looked at his own bench.
No one left.
This was Lyon's strongest attacking setup already.
Even if he added another striker, Madrid had fresh defenders in Albiol and Gago.
Pellegrini had optimized his setup first.
Puel didn't make a change.
He could only hope his players still had something left to push for another goal.
But it didn't happen.
After the 70th minute, Lyon's energy dropped.
Vukojević was clearly exhausted—he couldn't keep up with Suker anymore.
Suker was still bouncing around like nothing.
With just a quick turn, he could lose Vukojević.
Most of Suker's runs were decoys—but his threat was too great.
Even his empty runs couldn't be ignored.
So Lyon got more and more passive.
Madrid grew more and more composed.
Finally, through some slick passing by Benzema and Alonso, they moved the ball up cleanly.
Benzema didn't have to stay back defending anymore.
He looked up—Suker was still surrounded. No passing lane.
Then, footsteps from behind.
A blur streaked down the flank.
"Play me!"
Marcelo, sprinting down the sideline, hair bouncing wildly.
Benzema's eyes lit up.
He slipped the ball between the full-back and center-back.
Marcelo surged forward.
As he neared the box on the left, Marcelo stopped.
Then—a sudden feint toward the byline, tricking Réveillère into shifting his weight.
Marcelo pulled back and slipped the ball diagonally to the edge of the box.
Benzema arrived—bang!
"Benzema! The shot!"
González roared.
A powerful strike—weaving through players—headed toward goal.
But the angle was too direct.
Lloris dove and barely tipped it upward.
Suddenly—panic.
"Clear it!"
Just as Lyon defenders moved to react, a figure darted in from the side.
White jersey. Big number 9 on the back.
Suker!
He leaned forward and nodded the falling ball into the net.
Lyon's players froze.
They glanced at the linesman—flag down.
In that moment, despair.
Done for.
Tweet!
Ref blew the whistle and pointed to the center circle.
Silence.
Then—Madrid fans erupted again.
BOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Inside and outside—crazy Madrid fans.
They turned it around!
From a painful first half, Suker scored twice in the second to reverse the result!
Two goals.
Two golden goals!
The French commentator clutched his head in agony.
"I don't know what to say... Lyon played so well—but... what kind of ending is this?!"
"Madrid scored twice in the second half—and came from behind!"
"The craziest part? Suker had only two chances in the entire match! Just two!"
He threw up his hands, defeated:
"How do you beat that?"
Lyon fans fell completely silent.
Those who had just shouted "Where is Suker?" now stared at him, dumbfounded.
He'd scored two goals immediately after.
What the hell kind of scoring efficiency is that?!
Madrid's bench went wild.
Raúl's eyes widened.
Suker's first goal was one thing.
But two goals from just two shots?
Even in his prime, Raúl never did anything that crazy.
That wasn't just skill—it was nerves of steel.
Suker had been Madrid's only attacking outlet all game.
And under all that pressure, he delivered two goals and flipped the game.
Even Raúl had to admit—this guy was insane.
He had a feeling—
They were witnessing the rise of one of the most terrifying strikers in football history.
Possibly, after Maradona and Pelé, the next true king of football.
Because nothing else could explain Suker's brilliance.
"My god—are you even human?!"
"Hahaha! We came back!!"
"How were you even there? Doesn't matter—we turned it around!!"
The players surrounded Suker, dancing and shouting in joy.
On the other side, Lyon's players were devastated.
They'd had their chance—and blew it.
Now it was too late.
"I—I don't know how he got there!"
Sissoko was pale, his voice trembling.
He'd been watching Suker.
Then suddenly—he was in front of goal.
No one knew when or how Suker snuck in.
Sissoko didn't.
And if he didn't—no one else did either.