Chapter 19
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: El Santo de Madrid -2
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This El Clásico had plenty of talking points even before kickoff, right?
That's right. Jesus Joo and Luis García transferred to the rival club Real Madrid via buyout clauses.
Yes. There was talk they might be excluded from the lineup for safety reasons this match. But both Jesus Joo and Luis García made the starting lineup.
Truth be told, since it's a derby, it'd be tough to bench Jesus Joo with his insane form for Real Madrid.
Luis García too. World-class midfielder, after all.
Indeed.
Speaking of which, the camera's on Jesus Joo now.
Jesus Joo, starting El Clásico in Real Madrid white at his old home, Camp Nou, Barcelona's fortress.
Yeah, massive boos from the Barcelona crowd already. Means they see him as a real threat.
Oh, fun fact we just learned. Jesus Joo's the first to play both El Clásicos of a season as the away team player.
The caster's deadpan delivery nearly made the analyst crack up laughing.
Ahem. Quite the rare record.
With Jesus Joo's unique record in the books, La Liga Round 21, Real Madrid vs. Barcelona kicks off with the away side's ball.
As the match kicked off, Barcelona fans unleashed boos and vile curses every time I touched the ball.
"Jesus! You damned pig bastard!"
"Puta! What? Heart with Barcelona? Before I rip out your heart and feed it to the pigs, get the hell out!"
Thud- Thud-
Their jeers didn't faze me one bit. They only hated on me like that because deep down, they knew I was a threat.
"Puta!!!! Block him!!!!"
Splash-
Barcelona's No. 6, Antoine Dembélé, lunged in with a rough tackle at my feet. Sure, he was a defensive midfielder, strong in passing and positioning, but...
"Sigh. You call that a tackle?"
His sliding challenge was amateur-hour compared to his passing skills.
I sidestepped it effortlessly with a drag-back. Dembélé rolled past with a stunned look on his face.
With one defender shrugged off, I spotted Iker Bravo bursting into the space behind.
I could've gone direct, but relaying through Luka seemed safer. I passed to him and pointed at Iker.
"Luka! Iker!"
Luckily, Luka saw it too. Before I finished speaking, he was already threading a space pass ahead of Iker.
"Iker!"
Iker controlled it cleanly, shook Barcelona's right back in a flash, and curled one with his right foot.
The second Iker struck it, I was off. Back in my playing days under the coach they called Super Pipe Filippo Inzaghi, I'd heard it drilled into me:
"Never stop thinking or running until the ball crosses the goal line."
Unlike what I'd predicted when he struck it, Barcelona's keeper just tipped Iker's shot wide with his fingertips.
The deflected ball didn't fly far, dropping inside the penalty area. Barca defenders scrambled to clear it, but...
I'd already ghosted into the box. A step ahead of them, I calmly nudged it into the far corner past the fallen keeper.
Confirming it crossed the line, I bolted toward the Madrid away fans and mimicked the celebration of the man Barca fans once called Messiah. Pointing both hands to the heavens, Real Madrid supporters erupted.
"He is the prophet from the East, bringing victory to Madrid."
"Our Saint, with Real's glory!"
"His name is Jesus!"
"The history he'll write with Real is already legend!"
Iker Bravo's shot! Álvaro Arbeloa pulls off a super save on Iker Bravo!
Barcelona players rush to clear Arbeloa's save!
Bloody hell! Where'd this guy come from?! Jesus! A full step ahead of the Barca defenders, slots it home into the opposite corner!
Oh my gosh, lethal movement. Everyone mesmerized by Iker Bravo's beautiful curler, but he charged the box like Italy's legendary striker Filippo Inzaghi.
Goal! Jesus sprints to the Madrid away end. Oh! Messi's signature celebration!
... It's like he's telling Barca fans: Your new Messiah, driven out by your hate, now graces Madrid!
Real Madrid's adopted Messiah draws first blood against Barcelona!
Despite the early opener suggesting a goal fest, no further scores came in the first half.
Tactics got tweaked fast in both locker rooms.
In Real Madrid's away locker room, a sub was made.
Bruno Iglesias' condition was worse than thought after a rough foul from Barca's left back late in the half.
"Jorginho replaces Bruno Iglesias up top. Keep the formation, you take his role."
Like Pedro Rodríguez, Jorginho—who'd decided to retire from Real Madrid at season's end—nodded.
"Si."
"And Jesus!"
"Si?"
"Rip those stinky asses apart!"
I nodded at the manager's words.
"Si."
Real Madrid leads 1-0 on Jesus Joo's early strike. Second half underway after 15 minutes of the break. Unlike predictions of a barnburner, both managers shored up defense?
Yes. El Clásico's the world's top derby, so they're playing it cautious.
Unlike the first half, could goals pour in now? Over to Jang Hyun-ji on commentary for Real Madrid vs. Barcelona second half.
Second half. Barcelona, desperate not to lose at home Camp Nou, pushed their line high and attacked fiercely.
"Luis! Mark No. 7!"
For a stretch, Real Madrid's backline held off Barca's onslaught.
73rd minute.
Sergio Pepe—the legendary center-back duo Ramos and Pepe from his Real days had inspired him to change his name—thugged out an intruder in his zone.
"Boooooooo! Ref, you moron! That's not a foul?!"
"Sergio Pepe! That cursed name! Burn in hell, you dog!"
He slung a pass to Barca's big pig, Luis García.
"Pig bastard! Sold your dirty ass to Real Madrid for Jesus, living good now?!"
"Filthy whore-monger!"
Luis received it amid jeers from his old club, shook pressure with rhythmic flair, and fed me.
As the pass reached me, enraged Barca fans unleashed their filth.
"Booooooo! Dirty traitor! Judas scum!"
"That whore you love? Probably moaning under another guy right now!"
"Oh, poor Jesus! Couldn't satisfy her with your tiny dick, huh?!"
"Poor Jesus, send her our way—we'll satisfy her plenty!"
These bastards. Touching my pure, precious Yu-na—the little one who'd innocently said she wanted to repay the grandma who raised her after nearly being abandoned at the orphanage from her parents' divorce?
Rage boiled in my chest. I wanted to charge the stands right then.
But this 234-year-old pro knew how to hurt them deeper.
I evaded the Barca captain's shin-high tackle. A mere body feint sat the covering right back on his ass.
Just the keeper and one center-back left. The pale-faced CB...
Crack- Ta!
I blasted past with a burst of speed. Before the CB recovered, I'd read the keeper's rush, chipped it over his arms into the empty net.
Whistle blew—goal.
I sprinted straight to the seats of those who'd spewed the worst.
Flung-
Jersey off. I gave them Messi's Bernabéu jersey-lift celebration.
Ignoring the pig heads hurled in humiliated fury, I hit them with the cross ceremony folks now linked first to Jesus—against that backdrop.
Barca fans lost it even more, naturally.
"Puta!!! Kill that dog!"
"I'll snap that trash's legs!!!"
I flipped them off with my slender middle finger, mocking.
Pale-faced Sergio Pepe grabbed me, dragging me away by force.
Even as he pulled me, I taunted the Barca crowd.
"Hala Madrid!"