Chapter 167: A Burned-Out Barça Falls in the Second Half of the Season
"When a Mourinho-led team secures a three-goal advantage in an away leg of the Champions League knockout stage, how likely is it that the home team can stage a comeback in the second leg?"
An Arsenal fan posted this rather desperate question on social media in the 80th minute of the match.
As expected, the replies came in waves, and while the formats varied, the message was universal:
"Comeback? Bro, Arsenal are finished!"
Inside the Emirates, tens of thousands of Gooners could barely muster the will to believe anymore.
Even when Wenger threw on Wilshere and Oxlade-Chamberlain in a desperate late gamble, the crowd remained gloomy.
In truth, many had mentally prepared themselves for the worst long before kickoff—ever since watching Madrid's demolition of Sevilla the previous week.
It just looked hopeless.
If Arsenal couldn't do anything against a slightly conservative Madrid side at home, how were they supposed to survive the full force of Madrid's blitzkrieg at the Bernabéu?
Just two years ago, Arsenal had managed a 2–1 home win over Barcelona in the Champions League.
Back then, they had Fabregas, Nasri, and Alex Song in midfield.
Sure, the forward line was a bit lacking, and the backline had its flaws.
But that midfield trio—powerful, balanced, and fearless—stood toe-to-toe with Barcelona's dominance.
Now, when Arsenal fans looked back and compared that midfield to the current one…
They could only sigh.
They used to think the squad needed upgrades.
After enduring years of frustration, they realized—those were the good times.
Back then, even with stingy spending, Arsenal fans weren't envious of anyone else's midfield.
But that golden balance was gone.
And it might never return.
The referee didn't even add injury time.
As the clock hit 90:00, he blew the whistle.
On the scoreboard, the numbers were crystal clear: 0–3.
Madrid's players, who had held firm all game, exchanged smiles, high-fives, and hugs as they left the pitch.
As soon as he stepped off the field, Mourinho dropped his fierce persona and made his way toward Wenger.
Now, the two genuinely looked like old friends—clapping each other's backs, sharing a few lighthearted words.
"You really need a defensive midfielder to hold the fort. Are you still planning to raise one yourself? Arséne, these days, no youth academy gives up a gem that easily."
"I know. That's why I tried to buy Li Ang in 2011. Or... how about selling him to me now?"
"Hey, I'm using him right now. Why are you so obsessed with that kid? Pick someone else—I'll see if anyone in my squad fits the bill."
"You... Anyway, great match. See you in the second leg."
"Sure. After the match in Madrid, let's grab a drink."
They chuckled and parted ways, heading back to their respective teams.
Shortly after this high-profile match concluded, Manchester United's first leg against Shakhtar Donetsk also wrapped up.
United lost—an upset—but their fans weren't too upset.
A 1–2 defeat in Donetsk's freezing Metalist Stadium was survivable.
They had an away goal.
Back at Old Trafford for the second leg, every fan believed a comeback was likely.
And with that, half of the Champions League Round of 16 first legs were complete.
As expected, Juventus, PSG, and Real Madrid all won.
United were the only ones to slip, but even that was manageable.
All in all, the stronger teams still held the advantage.
Which was exactly what UEFA wanted.
They liked seeing fresh faces in the early stages—Cinderella stories were good for viewership.
But once the quarterfinals arrived, they wanted the big guns.
That's the contradiction at UEFA's core:
They want underdog stories…
But they also want ratings and prestige.
Still, credit where credit's due—the Champions League had grown significantly under their model.
Even if it meant getting roasted online year after year.
The remaining eight teams would play their first legs a week later.
For now, the Champions League drama took a short break.
Among all the thrilling moments across the four matches, one scene in particular captured fans' attention.
After Juventus crushed Celtic 3–0, a young sub named Paul Pogba made headlines in the post-match interview.
When asked about his dreams and idols, Pogba replied:
"My idol is Li Ang.
I want to win a club Grand Slam before the age of 22, just like him."
Sitting next to him, Pirlo burst out laughing and turned to the camera:
"Alright then. I'll introduce the kid to Little Lion myself."
Normally, fans would chuckle and move on from such exchanges.
But Pogba's comment sparked a wave of curious fans to flood Li Ang's social media, leaving messages asking if he knew about it.
Eventually, Li Ang had to post a screenshot of his chat with Pirlo and Pogba to appease them.
He found it all quite amusing.
Initially, he assumed Pogba had just made a casual comment, and Pirlo had followed up out of courtesy.
But Pogba came in hot:
"Li Ang! I'm your fan!"
That line immediately made Li Ang wary.
But after a few chats, he figured out what Pogba really meant.
Turns out, Pogba didn't worship Li Ang's skill or style.
He admired his trophy cabinet.
He envied the fact that Li Ang had won so much, so young—and was raking in the cash doing it.
Which was fair.
Still, that made Pogba less of a football fan, more of a "championship fan."
But once that was clear, the two hit it off just fine.
After all, Pogba was still a teenager.
Still learning. Still dreaming.
Li Ang didn't hold anything against him.
He even shared a few behind-the-scenes stories from Madrid's title runs.
Pogba listened with wide eyes and open admiration.
At this point in his career, Pogba was still just a promising rotation player at Juventus.
He hadn't even broken into the starting eleven consistently.
But he was chasing the dream.
And chasing it hard.
He hadn't even tasted the sweetness of a Serie A title yet—let alone dreamed of touching a Champions League trophy or achieving a historic six-title sweep.
Li Ang gave Pogba a few words of routine encouragement, saying he'd keep an eye on his performances in Serie A.
What he didn't expect was for that simple comment to energize Pogba, who immediately extended a formal invitation for Li Ang to come watch Juventus live in Turin.
Caught off guard, Li Ang could only give a vague reply, promising he'd visit if he ever found the time.
After two days of casual chats, Li Ang realized something: he hadn't gained a fan, he'd basically adopted a little brother.
Encouraging him, promising to see him play live... Li Ang couldn't help but find this whole dynamic slightly strange—this unexpected role of mentor-figure.
Still, since nothing had been locked into a specific date, there was no pressure for now.
But that small promise lingered in his mind.
Back on the field, Real Madrid were prepping for their next La Liga clash—this time, against a notoriously tough opponent: Rayo Vallecano.
This team had already given them plenty of trouble in the first half of the season.
And they weren't just a flash in the pan. Rayo had carried that same fire all the way into the second half of the season, grinding their way into La Liga's top six.
They weren't flashy, didn't score tons, didn't concede tons either—but every match was a dogfight. Their style? Relentless. Never backing down.
If they smelled blood, they pushed for the win. Draws? Rare. They always went for broke.
They were a nightmare for both Real and Barça.
Naturally, a ton of Barcelona fans began rooting hard for Rayo, hoping they'd steal points off Madrid.
As for Barça's own matchup this round—they were set to face Valencia, fifth in the table. But most of their fans weren't particularly worried.
Earlier hiccups in their form were chalked up to an overloaded schedule. But now?
Barça had a full week to rest. No Champions League. No Copa del Rey.
With fresh legs and a reset mentality, beating Valencia at home seemed more than reasonable.
On the night of February 16th—and into the early hours of the 17th—thousands of confident Barça fans gathered in front of their TVs, sure of a win.
Real Madrid's game wouldn't kick off until the night of the 17th, so naturally, the hope was to take care of business and then watch Madrid crash and burn the next day.
Even a 1% chance of that happening was enough to fuel dreams of retaking the top spot.
But after ninety grueling minutes… their screens showed a result that had every Barça fan seeing red.
1–1.
Valencia had held them. Frustrated them. Disrupted their patterns.
Messi had clawed them back into the game with a hard-earned equalizer, but that was it.
No miracle ending. Valencia had bunkered down in the middle, copying Madrid's lockdown tactics, and Barça just couldn't break through.
When the final whistle blew, the Barça players looked utterly drained—not just physically, but emotionally.
Even if their bodies were fine, their spirits were clearly shot.
On the sideline, coach Tito Vilanova wore a deep frown.
He knew it.
The cost of over-relying on his starters had come due.
But what choice did he have? Even under Guardiola, the bench had been thin. The rotations were always risky.
Back then, Pep had gotten away with it by whipping his inner circle into a frenzy. He'd built a family that would die for each other on the pitch.
But that magic was gone.
Sure, the loyalists still respected Vilanova. But they weren't willing to bleed for him like they had for Pep.
At the end of the day, they were human.
And now... some of those same veterans had started acting like they were untouchable.
Vilanova couldn't afford to take a hardline approach. Not right now.
Barça's Champions League knockout games were about to begin. If he cracked the whip now, the entire squad could implode before the first round ended.
Pep had probably seen this all coming. That's why he bowed out at Christmas last year—before it could get this bad.
Now, Barça stood once again at the center of a media firestorm.
Their own fans were furious. Pundits were ruthless. The press tore into their fading stamina and lack of squad depth.
And quietly, calmly, Real Madrid reaped the rewards.
Their locker room was ecstatic, of course. But unlike the past, they didn't gloat.
No social media barbs, no cheeky interviews. Just a quiet celebration behind closed doors.
Mourinho and his staff toasted their good fortune, keeping the noise inside Valdebebas.
With two games in hand and only a one-point gap, Madrid had now overtaken Barcelona in the standings.
Barça's once-flawless campaign had begun to unravel.
And Madrid, thanks to calculated rotation and consistent depth, had no plans of letting that opportunity slip.
On February 17th, Real hosted Rayo Vallecano in the final La Liga match of the round.
It was a primetime fixture—the only La Liga game that night, broadcast across Spain and globally.
Rayo came in swinging, ready to fight for every inch.
But Mourinho had prepared something special.
He deployed a rare four-man midfield to choke Rayo's aggression right at the source.
Alonso sat deep, Essien and Matuidi patrolled the flanks, and Li Ang orchestrated from an advanced central position.
With that midfield lineup, Rayo never stood a chance in a physical battle.
By halftime, Madrid were already two goals up—thanks to a red-hot Gonzalo Higuaín, who netted twice in deadly fashion.
In the second half, Cristiano Ronaldo earned a penalty in the 63rd minute.
But instead of taking it himself, he handed the ball to Higuaín.
The Argentine didn't hesitate. He stepped up and buried it—completing his first hat trick of the season.
Final score: 3–0.
Another clean win.
With that result, Real Madrid not only overtook Barça by two points—they did it with a game still in hand.
And suddenly, the title race looked completely flipped.
Barça fans were furious. Anxious. Demoralized.
Madrid looked unshakable.
Stable, rested, rotating efficiently—and now free from the burden of Copa del Rey matches—they were cruising.
The question burning in every Barça fan's mind was now painfully clear:
Can we still compete for La Liga this season?
The next day, every sports outlet across Spain splashed the same headlines across their front pages.
Marca led the charge, riding the wave of momentum:
"Real Madrid, Marching Boldly on the Road to the Title Defense!"
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