Chapter 168: El Clásico IV—A Slumping Barça Meets a Red-Hot Madrid
Inside Real Madrid, no one was really talking about defending their La Liga title anymore.
Mourinho didn't like to speak too soon about trophies that hadn't been won yet.
And after experiencing a title-winning season, Madrid's players had come to understand the value of short-term goals.
Celebrating was fine—even small ones here and there—but everyone knew: the season still had to be played one match at a time.
This year, Madrid didn't have a big lead halfway through.
Even with Barcelona finally starting to slip, the gap was only two points.
In the most optimistic scenario, if Madrid won their game in hand, they'd stretch it to five.
But a five-point cushion?
That was still within two games—hardly a safe margin.
Madrid would inevitably slip at some point too.
So staying mentally steady and ignoring the noise was the smartest strategy.
Which is why, after taking the lead in the standings, Madrid chose silence.
AS sent out hordes of paparazzi, hoping to catch Madrid players misbehaving during their break.
But all they got was Ronaldo shopping with Irina in a duty-free mall, and a few shots of Li Ang not training.
That's right—Li Ang, for once, didn't use his break to train.
Instead, he took a short trip with Marcelo and Nacho down to Valencia's coast.
Madrid's winters weren't brutal, but they were dry and cold.
Valencia, in contrast, offered mild sunshine—even in February.
Li Ang didn't think twice.
Marcelo loved the beach.
They grabbed Nacho, a couple assistants, some security, and hit the road.
It wasn't even a long drive—barely 400 kilometers from Madrid to Valencia.
By noon, they were already sitting at a seaside restaurant, feasting on seafood.
When they encountered reporters along the way, they smiled and waved.
AS quickly ran a headline:
"Li Ang and teammates hit the beach in Valencia."
In truth, they'd found nothing controversial. It was just filler news.
The mini-vacation ended the next evening. No fast cars. No women.
Just sun, food, and naps by the sea.
Back in Madrid, the squad returned to training refreshed and focused.
Mourinho didn't say much, but everyone was all in—mentally locked in for the league and Champions League.
While La Liga's 25th round loomed, the second wave of Champions League Round of 16 matches began.
Málaga and Barcelona were up next.
Málaga visited Dortmund. Barça went to the San Siro.
And the results?
Shocked all of Spain.
Both lost.
Málaga fell 1–3 in Germany.
Not catastrophic, but disappointing.
Had they only lost by one goal, they'd still be in it. But losing by two?
The second leg at home would be a mountain to climb.
Still, no one considered it a true upset.
Dortmund had already proven their strength in two epic matches against Madrid.
Barça's loss, on the other hand?
0–2 at the San Siro.
That was unacceptable.
Fans speculated that their poor league form had infected their Champions League performance.
No away goal.
Down by two.
If Milan scored once at the Camp Nou, Barça would need to score four to advance.
Even three wouldn't be enough.
It was a brutal, crushing position to be in.
Meanwhile, Bayern Munich smashed Porto 3–0 in Portugal, joining Madrid in putting one foot into the quarterfinals.
Galatasaray and Schalke drew 1–1—a result most considered an easy stepping stone for any quarterfinal opponent.
Barça had become the embarrassment of the Round of 16.
The other top teams held their own.
Even United, though losing to Shakhtar 1–2, grabbed a crucial away goal.
Barça got nothing.
Wiped clean.
Milan, of all teams, were suddenly showered in praise.
Li Ang could hardly recall most of the Champions League scores from that year.
But he vividly remembered the semifinals—where both Spanish giants were thrashed by Germany's top two.
That season humbled many fans.
Li Ang included.
Even years later, he remembered it well because he was one of those fans who got humbled.
Still, in his memory, Barça made it to the semifinals.
So despite their slump, Li Ang still believed they'd overcome Milan in the second leg.
If Milan still had Zlatan and Pirlo, he might lean their way.
But now?
No Ibra. No Maestro.
They had firepower, but not enough control.
Barça still held the edge.
Back in the present, Madrid shifted focus to La Liga.
Matchday 25 brought them to face Deportivo La Coruña—a newly promoted team.
Deportivo sat second to last, just one point above Mallorca.
After 24 matches, they had only three wins.
Simply put: they were weak.
But there was still one bright spot: the veteran playmaker Juan Carlos Valerón.
Even at nearly 38 years old, he was still putting in work—18 starts, 1 goal, 5 assists.
Anyone looking at those numbers had to applaud.
The man had given everything.
In the reverse fixture earlier in the season, Li Ang had missed the chance to face him.
But this time, Valerón started—and played the full match.
And Li Ang?
He didn't hold back.
In fact, he turned in one of his most complete performances—right in front of the man he considered a mentor.
9 successful tackles.
7 interceptions.
7 aerial duels won—100% success.
And on the offensive end?
A goal and an assist.
Madrid, using a semi-rotated lineup, crushed Deportivo 4–0 at the Riazor.
Deportivo didn't even get a goal.
Li Ang was handed the customary Man of the Match champagne.
But what really made him happy?
Valerón's jersey.
"You played great, Little Lion. Keep it up. Stick to your path—walk it with pride."
Valerón hugged him, offering heartfelt words.
Li Ang tightened his grip, saying nothing.
They both knew:
This was probably their first and last clash on a La Liga pitch.
Even if Deportivo somehow avoided relegation, Valerón would likely return to Las Palmas to enjoy the final years of his career.
There was sadness, but also peace.
Li Ang understood—he was Valerón's successor in spirit.
He had learned so much studying the veteran's "playmaker principles."
All he could do now was wish him happiness in whatever came next.
And as Valerón embraced Li Ang like a proud elder, the crowd—both home and away—rose to their feet.
It wasn't favoritism.
It was respect.
Valerón received standing ovations at every stadium, every match.
That was the fans' highest form of admiration.
With that emotional night over, Madrid's players were sharpening their focus.
Because next?
El Clásico II.
Barcelona had just beaten Sevilla 3–1, but celebrations were muted.
Because they were facing a dilemma.
February 26th. El Clásico.
Just three days before that?
They had to play Atlético in the Copa del Rey second leg.
If they went all-in, they might flip the aggregate.
But if they held back?
What a waste—to go so far, only to walk away.
Time was tight.
No room to hesitate.
In the end, Vilanova caved to his players' will.
With a resigned expression, he fielded a full-strength 4-3-3.
But Atlético were ready.
The first half wasn't bad. Barça led 1–0. Simeone looked calm.
But then Diego Costa came alive.
In just twenty minutes, he broke Piqué and Mascherano—both booked. Both rattled.
Falcao smelled blood.
He bullied the box relentlessly.
Neither center-back dared risk another foul.
Barça conceded two.
Even though they won the match 3–2, they lost on aggregate.
Eliminated.
Shattered.
Barça fans, already reeling from Milan, broke again.
And now?
They had to face Madrid?
No way.
La Liga's title race?
It's over.
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