Jesus and Patience -3
With Barcelona's kickoff, the first half came to an end, and as soon as Coach Valverde entered the locker room, he harshly berated the underperforming players.
"Puta! Your first half was the worst! Since when did El Clasico turn into child's play for little girls? How long are you gonna keep giggling and letting those dog bastards push you around?!"
Surveying the players' faces, Coach Valverde proceeded with substitutions and tactical changes.
"In the second half, Jesus Gonzalez comes in for Iker Bravo. Good work out there, Iker."
By telling Iker he'd done well, the coach signaled that this wasn't a punitive sub but a tactical one. Iker looked a bit miffed at the early hook but nodded in acceptance of the order.
"Jesus! Your job's simple! Rip their backdoor apart!"
Valverde gave a brief rundown of Jesus Gonzalez's role. We huddled up, arms around shoulders, to boost morale.
"Puta! Let's go kick those stinky Catalan asses!!"
"Make it a real El Clasico!! Vamos!!!"
Halftime ended, and the second half kicked off with Real Madrid's kickoff. The rested broadcast team ramped up their energy.
Second half of Real Madrid vs. Barcelona. Real Madrid kicks off. Jesus is gearing up.
We'll see if both teams' coaches prepared well for the second half. With the ref's whistle, the match resumes.
No goals from Jesus yet in this game. Hopefully he bags one in the second half.
Yes! Luis Garcia shakes off Sergio Busquets' pressure and passes to Jesus!
"Jesus!"
Luis Garcia's pass reached Jesus. With a delicate first touch, he shook off the defenders and drove into the penalty box. But a powerful impact from behind sent him crashing to the turf.
Thwack-!
"Aaaagh-!"
Barcelona center-back Hobertu Peheira had swiftly fouled Jesus just before he could enter the box.
Tweet-!
The ref, witnessing Hobertu Peheira's kick up close, blew the whistle. Hobertu immediately raised his hands in remorse. A yellow card went to the offender.
"Hey! That was a golden chance!"
Real Madrid players swarmed the ref, protesting the yellow. Barcelona players, pleased with the call, shielded the ref and traded barbs with the Madrid side.
"Vardrid! The ref called it right, so shut your mouths and fuck off!"
"Oh yeah? Just like your wife who ran away 'cause she couldn't stand your ugly mug?"
El Clasico was heating up.
#
65th minute of the second half.
The moment Vladimir Rajovic was shrugged off by Manuel Francisco Dus Santos, he lashed out with a leg, committing a foul.
The ref promptly yellow-carded Vladimir and calmed the clashing Real Madrid and Barcelona players.
"Enough!"
Barcelona's ensuing free kick. Sergio Busquets whipped it into the box, but Ter Neuer securely gathered it.
Real Madrid's immediate counter. Ter Neuer punted long to me up top. In the aerial duel, I quickly jabbed my finger into the opponent's ribs.
"Agh!"
The foe clutched his ribs and went down, but the ref spotted nothing amiss and didn't whistle. I slipped a pass into space ahead of Jesus Gonzalez, who had subbed for Iker Bravo.
"Jesus!"
Jesus Gonzalez sprinted forward at speed, reaching the box in a flash. He shook his marker with shot feinting, then unleashed a curling right-foot strike. The ball grazed the keeper's gloves, arced slowly... and clanged off the post.
"Clear it!!"
In the goalmouth scramble, the cleared ball came my way. It took an awkward bounce right in front, but that was child's play for a soccer fossil with over 200 years under his belt. I adjusted my foot's angle and power on the fly. The volley caught a bit more of the ball's outer edge than planned, veering slightly off my intended line—but it still rippled the Barcelona net cleanly.
As the score tied, I vaguely spotted the Real Madrid away fans going wild up in the top corner. Unlike the EPL, away sections aren't near the corner flags here, so most scorers just share quick joy with teammates. But me? Jesus. I don't give a fuck about optics, you absolute alpha. Right after scoring, I unleashed a strolling celebration in Camp Nou—something I hadn't even done against Japan—right in front of the Barcelona supporters.
"Boooooooo-!"
"Jesus, you dog bastard! Hobertu Peheira's gonna smash your leg!"
The reaction was fiery.
#
Rafael Obrador intercepts a pass meant for Manuel.
Ah... Barcelona's subs aren't adapting to the tempo.
It's not just Barcelona. Real Madrid's replacements for the fatigued Luis Garcia and Luka Savic are struggling with the pace too.
Fatal errors keep coming from the subs on both sides.
Even late in the game, players are squeezing out every ounce of energy for intense forward pressing, leading to mishaps from the less-settled subs.
Right. Rafael Obrador lofts a long pass to Jesus Gonzalez.
Jesus Gonzalez lays it off first-touch to Jesus! Hobertu Peheira harasses, but no use! Jesus holds off the challenge and thwacks it!!
Ohhhhhh!!!! Jesus's shot gets sucked in!
This one's a dagger for Barcelona. 85th minute—Real Madrid takes the lead at Camp Nou!
Silence blankets Camp Nou! Barcelona fans clutch their heads in despair!
Jesus spreads his arms wide, slowly surveying the hushed stadium.
#
After the go-ahead goal, Real Madrid kept creating chances. Jesus Gonzalez's shot smacked Barcelona keeper Dmitry Yashin's hands and went out over the line.
Real Madrid corner awarded. I strolled into the box. As I entered, both teams' players looked flustered.
"...What the hell's that guy doing in the box?"
"Puta! Hobertu!! Mark Jesus!"
Unlike the video analysis, the young defender approached me with a dazed look when I stepped in. Come to think of it, this punk was the one who kicked me earlier. Time for payback—I started running my mouth slow and deliberate.
"Hey, rookie. Wanna know the secret to my soccer skills?"
"Shut your trap, you bastard!"
His words said no, but I felt his focus lock on my mouth. I drawled on.
"People who only watch the ball—"
Of course, no way I'd spill the real secret, so I said it in Korean.
"Puta! Madre! What the fuck's that, you dog? Chinese?!"
As the idiot crossed the line, Jesus Gonzalez's corner curled in long. Hobertu Peheira's eyes snapped to the ball.
I shot him a smirk. Wrong move, buddy. He should've been watching me. Hobertu headed it clear. I gave him the "secret" while jumping a beat late, smashing my head into his face.
"—can't beat someone who only watches people! Go home and suck more mommy milk, you cocky little shit!"
Crack-!
"Aaaaaagh-!"
Our faces collided. Hobertu crumpled, clutching his mug. I clutched my head and flopped down too. The ref halted play and urgently summoned medics from both benches.
While getting treated, I glared at Hobertu Peheira. That dog bastard's got a rock head. How the fuck does my head hurt more after face-meets-skull?
Agh... my head's throbbing.
I complained of headache to the medics checking me. Diagnosed with concussion symptoms, I was subbed out.
And the team conceded an equalizer to Hobertu Peheira, ending in a draw.
Did that fucker wear a helmet? Why'd I do all the damage and get hooked?
. . Match end. Barcelona 3 : 3 Real Madrid