Chapter 159: Kid, If You Go to Barça, I'll Just Keep Beating You
With the explosive pre-match news all but confirmed by Guardiola's personal social media post, there was no doubt—this round of La Liga belonged to Barcelona in terms of media traffic.
Major media outlets from across Europe flooded Barcelona, scrambling to get exclusive scoops from within the club.
By matchday, the Camp Nou and its surrounding areas were swarming with journalists, cameras slung over shoulders and boom mics poised.
The scene was chaotic.
Barça fans were livid.
At first, some were hopeful, pleading with the press to relay their sorrow and desire for Guardiola to stay.
They believed the media could amplify their voices and reach the club faster than they could on their own.
But as reports began to focus more on "inner turmoil," fan "panic," and the club's tight-lipped stance, the mood shifted.
Barça supporters realized these journalists weren't there to help—they were here to feast on the club's disarray.
Tensions flared.
Some hotheaded fans began confronting reporters in the streets, yelling in their faces and venting their frustration.
It was a PR war erupting right in the heart of the city.
Finally, Guardiola himself stepped in to calm things down.
Though he had skipped the pre-match press conference the day before, this time he posted a short video message confirming he would lead the team in their upcoming match.
In the clip, Pep looked surprisingly calm, composed, even serene.
He patiently reassured fans, urging them to come together and support the team—just one more time, as this could be his final match in charge of Barcelona.
Watching from afar, Li Ang couldn't help but give a silent thumbs-up.
Now that was leadership.
Meanwhile, Barça's senior executives remained hidden in the shadows—refusing to face the fans, refusing to clarify their position.
Li Ang silently mocked them.
These were the same people too afraid to speak honestly, too afraid to take responsibility.
Having had his fill of the drama, Li Ang didn't mention it again to his teammates.
After all, Dream Team Barça had pushed Real Madrid to constantly evolve over the last two seasons.
Li Ang didn't mind seeing Barcelona fall.
But not like this.
Even though he knew Guardiola's departure was inevitable, he'd hoped it would come at the end of the season.
That way, the legendary Mourinho-Barça rivalry could've lasted one more year—one more complete showdown between football's two giants.
Win or lose, both sides would have walked away with no regrets.
But now?
Dream Team Barça and Mourinho's Madrid wouldn't get to finish what they started.
It was a loss not only for La Liga—but for all of world football.
"Just how incompetent are Barça's higher-ups? They couldn't even lie properly?
They drove Pep to a public breakdown! What are they, brain-dead pigs?"
Sitting on the team bus, Ramos' grumbling made Li Ang crack a smile.
Incompetent?
Oh, we're just getting started.
Barça's front office had plenty more disasters to deliver in the years ahead.
※※※
Later that night, just past 7 p.m., Real Madrid and Málaga players were warming up at La Rosaleda.
During a quick water break, Li Ang jogged over and bumped fists with Isco, exchanging a few playful jabs.
But Isco didn't seem in high spirits.
Without missing a beat, Li Ang grinned and said, "Barça's about to implode."
Boom. Salt in the wound.
Isco immediately rolled his eyes.
"Messi's still there. They won't fall apart."
"But Guardiola's leaving."
"They'll hire a good replacement over the Christmas break."
"But Guardiola's leaving."
"The board promised major winter transfer support for the next coach."
"But Guardiola's leaving."
"…"
Li Ang's relentless repetition broke Isco's resolve.
He practically lunged, mock-threatening to strangle Li Ang.
Only then did Li Ang laugh and raise his hands in surrender.
The moment passed, and Isco jogged off with a glare that said, "You better watch out on the pitch."
Li Ang just smiled and went back to his warm-up.
Málaga were no joke this season.
Not only were they solidly in the top four, they had also advanced to the Champions League knockout stage—topping their group undefeated, even ahead of AC Milan.
Meanwhile, Valencia—another La Liga team who had also made it out of the group stage—was currently languishing in 11th place.
Same mid-table DNA, yet Málaga were pulling off a double-front campaign without faltering.
Their structure and squad planning were clearly working.
And once again, Manuel Pellegrini had proven his worth.
The former Real Madrid manager—who lasted just one year—was excelling again.
He was famous for getting big results on small budgets and for his preference for attacking football.
As the winter transfer window neared, rumors swirled around Málaga's star players and Pellegrini himself.
After Manchester City's Champions League disaster and rising pressure on Mancini, the English media reported that City's board was eyeing Pellegrini as a potential replacement.
Spanish media had been echoing the same for weeks.
But now, with the Guardiola news breaking, those same outlets had flipped—linking Pellegrini with Barcelona instead.
Never mind the fact that Pellegrini had already publicly denied any interest in leaving Málaga midseason.
Journalists didn't care.
His name had heat again, and they were going to run it into every headline possible.
Mourinho, upon hearing Pellegrini vent about the rumors, could only laugh and offer some sympathy.
Truth be told, Pellegrini wasn't cut out for coaching at a big club.
Too honest.
Too focused on the football.
Too soft against media pressure.
To survive at a major club, you needed thick skin—and the ability to throw hands with the press when needed.
Still, Mourinho had immense respect for what Pellegrini could do with a mid-table team.
At Villarreal or Málaga, as long as the board gave him room to operate, he could build a Europa League-level contender within two years.
Málaga had now reached that level.
Their tactics were polished.
Their squad was balanced.
They were in a sustainable cycle of growth.
Mourinho's praise, of course, came with a caveat—as of now.
Up through La Liga's first sixteen rounds.
Because the second half of the season? That was when squad depth really got tested.
Málaga's Champions League run was a blessing and a curse.
Great for the club's profile.
Terrible for their players' stamina.
If Málaga could manage their rotation well and survive the Round of 16—or even the quarterfinals—in the Champions League, there was a real chance they could maintain their top-four status in La Liga.
But if they failed to balance the load? A collapse in form could come swiftly and brutally.
Mourinho had seen it too many times over the years.
Still, at present, Málaga were riding a wave of morale-boosting momentum after reaching the Champions League knockout rounds.
Because of that, Mourinho prepped for them with the same level of caution and respect as he would for Atlético.
And with several first-team starters unavailable, Mourinho once again went with a conservative approach—just like he did against Atlético—employing a deep, compact midfield line at the start.
So, when the match kicked off at 8 p.m. sharp at La Rosaleda Stadium, the two teams, though both lined up in apparent 4-2-3-1 formations, came out with starkly different tactical intentions.
On Madrid's back line, Essien once again started at right back.
In midfield, Li Ang and Matuidi partnered in the double pivot.
Li Ang played the deeper role—taking up Alonso's usual duties of orchestrating from deep and intercepting centrally—while Matuidi roamed and swept up threats.
Modrić was tasked with advancing the ball and organizing in the final third. But defensively, he dropped back into the defensive third to help cover for Li Ang when needed.
Callejón started in place of Di María and played with high work rate, often tracking deep into Madrid's half.
From the opening whistle, only Cristiano Ronaldo pressed high, while Benzema dropped into midfield to help in the press.
Callejón, in particular, functioned more like a roaming box-to-box midfielder than a traditional winger in the opening minutes.
He operated on the right, Matuidi on the left. Together, they did the dirty work Li Ang normally handled on his own.
With Modrić and Benzema also actively pressing Málaga's ball carriers, the home side's early build-up was laborious.
Only Saviola and Joaquín managed to create some breathing room, using their technique and movement in tandem with Isco to find small breakthroughs.
Their progression wasn't fluid, but they slowly gained control of possession and carved out half-chances during their exchanges with Madrid's midfield.
But that slight flicker of optimism didn't last long for the Málaga players—or their fans in the stadium.
In the 7th minute, Isco finally broke into Madrid's 30-meter zone with the ball, but was immediately dispossessed by a ferocious burst of pace and a precise sliding tackle from Li Ang.
Crucially, this wasn't just a defensive clearance.
Li Ang executed a clean slide, shielded the ball with his instep as he popped up, and immediately began a surging run forward.
That kind of clean "tackle-and-carry" was old-school Italian defending at its finest—and if his hair weren't cropped short, you'd be forgiven for thinking you were watching a classic Serie A sweeper from decades ago.
After carrying the ball some seven or eight meters, Li Ang lifted his head and whipped a long pass in behind Málaga's defensive line.
As always, his passes were flat and driven, leaving enough space for a runner to reach the ball in stride.
Callejón made a run without the ball, beating Monreal for pace and reaching it just before Portillo could close him down.
With perfect timing, he curved in a looping cross.
Unfortunately, Cristiano Ronaldo was muscled off the drop zone by right-back Jesús Gámez, and Benzema's contested header went just wide under pressure from Demichelis.
No goal—but the message was clear. Madrid's counterattack plan was in full effect.
Mourinho applauded fiercely on the sideline.
The home fans, meanwhile, exhaled in collective relief after gasping.
Their eyes all turned toward the man who had ignited the move—Li Ang.
The Movistar La Liga commentator declared with excitement that Li Ang had once again dominated Isco in a direct duel.
His transition from defense to attack was so smooth, it caught Málaga completely off guard.
He still didn't have Alonso's long-pass range, but if he had gone directly for Ronaldo instead of opting for a safer option, the goal might've come right then and there.
Even so, it was clear—Li Ang was a growing danger in midfield transitions.
And for the remainder of the first half, Málaga had to deal with his constant presence.
Isco could break past Modrić.
He could outmaneuver Matuidi.
But in every one-on-one against Li Ang, he couldn't find a way through.
Passing was his only real option—but Madrid's midfield always recovered in time to cut off the next wave.
Li Ang sat deep, stayed disciplined, and disrupted anything that came his way.
Meanwhile, Madrid's counterattacks kept coming.
Málaga's early initiative felt more like a poisoned apple than an advantage.
Mourinho had lured them into pressing high and taking possession—but the cost was letting Madrid's forwards break repeatedly on the counter.
And against this front line?
That was dangerous.
Demichelis, despite a strong season, still had a gambler's instinct. It cost him.
In the 31st minute, during another Madrid counterattack sparked by a long ball, Demichelis noticed Benzema drifting deeper and instinctively followed.
He tried to anticipate and win the ball early—basketball-style fronting.
If he cut off the pass, he could start a counter of his own.
But he misjudged.
He assumed Benzema would flick the ball on into the box for Ronaldo—an ambitious play he thought he could intercept.
Instead, Benzema headed it backward—a controlled layoff.
Much simpler. Much more effective.
With Demichelis out of position, Modrić had time to deliver a perfect through ball to the right side of the box.
Callejón, timing his diagonal run brilliantly, took the ball in stride.
He shot low to the near post, faking out keeper Willy Caballero.
As the ball hit the back of the net, Li Ang, watching from deep, raised his arms and shouted in celebration with his teammates.
It was his long ball that had kicked off the move.
No assist, no stat—just the start of the play.
And he felt proud.
Grinning, he turned to the side where Isco stood, hands on hips, shaking his head.
"You see that, kid? That's this Real Madrid.
If you go to Barça... I'll just keep beating you."
Isco stared at him, speechless.
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