As the players regained their fighting spirit under Su Hang's encouragement, the smile on Luxemburgo's face gradually disappeared.
Hmph!
If winning only required words, these guys would already be champions.
But unfortunately...
France's qualification had little to do with Zidane—it was Henry and the others who stepped up late on. And now Zidane's getting all the credit?
"Oh, right! Carlos." Just as he was about to leave the locker room, Su Hang suddenly called out to Roberto Carlos. "In the second half, play with some fire, like you used to... I..."
Carlos's hair stood on end.
He instinctively exchanged a glance with García.
He had barely pushed forward this entire match.
He'd been holding back.
Had Su Hang seen through him?
What was Su Hang about to say?
"I suspect you?"
"We need your help!" Su Hang patted Roberto Carlos on the shoulder, then strode out of the locker room.
Left behind, Carlos was drenched in sweat.
His massive thighs suddenly felt weak beneath him.
...
"Alright, the second half kicks off."
"Real Madrid looked sluggish in the first half, overwhelmed by Bilbao's physical play."
"So maybe the problem isn't Luxemburgo—maybe it really is their poor form?"
"Su Hang forced Luxemburgo's hand earlier, but if they don't win this game, his actions will be hard to justify."
"Exactly. If you're out of form and the coach benches you, holding a press conference is outrageous."
"Su Hang's attitude has changed since becoming captain. I don't respect that."
"He crossed the line. He did things a player shouldn't do. That's not a good captain. Real Madrid should reconsider who wears the armband."
"Honestly, Su Hang's nowhere near Raúl. Even Guti might do a better job!"
While the debate raged, the 49th minute arrived.
Figo took a pass from Zidane, suddenly burst forward, and went straight at the defense.
It had been ages since he'd shown such sharpness.
He split the center cleanly.
If not for Bilbao's center back rushing across to clear, it could have been deadly.
Figo earned a corner for Madrid.
Beckham walked to the corner flag, glanced at the jostling in the box, and remembered Su Hang's words from halftime.
He held up three fingers.
The signal for "corner routine three."
Near post.
But no one was there.
Thwack!
Beckham swung it in without hesitation.
In the next instant, Su Hang shoved aside a defender, darted to the near post, and leapt.
At the height of his jump, the ball struck his head perfectly.
Whoosh!
The ball skimmed forward, sailing over the keeper and into the far corner of the net.
"GOAL!"
"Su Hang!"
"One–nil!"
"Su Hang scores!"
After landing and confirming the goal, Su Hang sprinted to the corner flag.
He pointed at Beckham, leapt, and landed right on him.
Beckham caught him in a hug.
Then the rest of Madrid piled in.
"Well done!"
"Beckham's delivery was ridiculously precise!"
"Su Hang is unstoppable in the air!"
"And don't forget—it was Figo who won that corner!"
"That's the way to play!"
Applause thundered around the stadium.
The Madrid fans finally had something to celebrate.
They'd waited several games for this moment!
52nd minute.
Bilbao tried to build an attack, but Madrid pressed high with renewed energy.
Bilbao were forced backwards.
Out of nowhere, Su Hang slid in and stole the ball.
A high press steal—deadly!
Thud!
Without even getting up, he kicked it forward from the ground.
Raúl controlled, adjusted quickly, and curled a shot before the defenders closed in.
The ball arced over the charging keeper and into the far corner.
"Another one!"
"Bilbao conceded straight from the restart!"
"Two goals in three minutes for Real Madrid!"
"Su Hang's interception set it up, and Raúl finished it off!"
"Two–nil! Madrid are alive!"
"Raúl is as sharp as ever! Who said he doesn't deserve to start?"
"In this form, he's every bit as good as Ronaldo!"
From the stands came the chant of Raúl's nickname:
"El Capitán!"
"El Capitán!"
"El Capitán!"
Raúl kissed his knuckles as though kissing a wedding ring.
The atmosphere hit a fever pitch.
Bilbao's players were rattled.
It wasn't just the scoreline.
It was that strange feeling.
Football is often about belief—sometimes players just know they're going to win.
Sometimes they just know the shot will find the net.
It's not entirely an illusion.
Your brain processes far more than your conscious mind.
You take in endless information. Your rational mind can't make sense of it all, but your subconscious already predicts the likely outcome.
That's anticipation—and more often than not, those instincts prove right.
57th minute.
Figo drove through the middle again.
It was as if he were five years younger—back to being Portugal's king, the right-wing master!
The opposition had no answer but to bring him down.
Beep!
The referee blew, flashing a yellow card at Bilbao's defensive midfielder.
Figo had won a dangerous free kick.
Beckham and Zidane stood over the ball.
Beckham could go for goal directly—it was right in his range for the trademark Banana Free Kick.
Zidane, on the other hand, could float it to the far post for a set play.
Bilbao's wall had no idea what to expect.
Beckham sprinted up.
The wall leapt together.
No one dared risk it.
His reputation was too great.
And his Banana Free Kick was deadly accurate—he'd scored several last season.
But Beckham only feinted.
As the wall landed, Zidane bent the ball directly at goal.
It curled smoothly over the line of defenders.
If Bilbao's players had jumped again, they might have blocked it.
But they had no time.
Zidane had timed it to perfection.
Whoosh!
The ball arrowed into the top corner of the net.
"GOAL!"
"Three–nil!"
"Zidane! Zidane scores from the free kick!"
"Three goals in eight minutes! Madrid are on fire!"
"This is the Galácticos! This is what superstars can do!"
"When they find their rhythm, they can end a match at any moment!"
...
(35 Chapters Ahead)
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