Afterward, Su Hang received "Eto'o's Cheetah Instinct," which sparked the idea to put on a show in the Champions League final.
With Zidane anchoring midfield and focusing on control over defense, Real Madrid were never going to create many chances up front anyway. So even if Su Hang decided to "act," it wouldn't hurt the team's rhythm.
If they had gone into a full-on offensive battle with Barcelona, Su Hang wouldn't have had the freedom to put on such a show. In that case, Real Madrid's attack would have suffered, and they might have wasted crucial opportunities.
It was part fate, part calculation.
Not everything was Su Hang's design—but who would ever believe that?
To everyone else, Su Hang had been putting on an act for half a month just for that one goal.
What a schemer!
The pure and innocent Su Hang of the past was gone.
The man playing now was Lord Su Hang—a sly, aristocratic version of himself!
After the celebration, Su Hang walked back onto the pitch and called out to Puyol nearby.
"You said I don't look like Bergkamp. Well, did I just look like Eto'o to you?"
Puyol's fists clenched tight.
There's nothing more infuriating than trash talk—except trash talk after your opponent takes the lead.
But Real Madrid's next move was even dirtier.
They changed formation!
=
Su Hang
Robinho, Zidane, Figo
Baptista, Beckham
Roberto Carlos, Helguera, Sergio Ramos, Salgado
Casillas
This time, it was a proper 4-2-3-1!
Damn it—so shameless!
Real Madrid looked stronger defensively, and with Zidane pushed higher up, their attack gained new edge.
If Zidane's earlier deep position had been meant to control possession and limit Barcelona's offense, this time Real Madrid were ready for a real fight.
Derek Rae sounded puzzled.
"Real Madrid already have a one-goal lead—shouldn't they stick to their previous strategy? Why change formation now?"
"Keeping possession and denying Barcelona space was the only way to contain Ronaldinho."
"Now it looks like they've added another defensive midfielder, but that also gives Ronaldinho more of the ball… I really don't think two defensive midfielders can stop the world's best player right now."
Tommy Smyth, however, saw it differently.
"That's exactly why this is Real Madrid."
"With a one-goal lead, they're not afraid of anyone."
"So what if Ronaldinho gets to play? Zidane's gone forward too—Real Madrid's attack has been unleashed."
"If they can't beat Barcelona like this, then it's only a matter of time before they lose anyway."
"After all, Zidane is thirty-four. He can control the game from deep for half an hour or so, but he can't do that for a full match."
"If they don't adjust now, they'll have to later."
And Tommy Smyth was right—he had perfectly captured Real Madrid's mindset.
For the first-generation Galácticos, not daring to face Barcelona head-on would've been the biggest insult to their superstar legacy.
In the 42nd minute, Ronaldinho—now enjoying plenty of possession—finally came alive.
A dazzling dribble drew a foul from Baptista, earning the Brazilian a yellow card.
By the 45th minute, Barcelona were pressing relentlessly, determined to equalize before the break.
Ronaldinho flicked the ball through Beckham's legs, but he underestimated Beckham's stubbornness.
Beckham's pressure forced a brief miscontrol.
Sergio Ramos pounced, won the tackle, and passed the ball back to Beckham.
Beckham shoved Ronaldinho aside, created space, received the return, and launched a long ball forward.
Su Hang was waiting up front, muscling with Puyol and going full throttle.
As the ball dropped, Su Hang stretched out his right foot to make contact.
Puyol instinctively looked to the right, checking for the ball—he feared Su Hang might try another back-to-goal feint.
But then—
Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw a flash of white.
The ball?!
Su Hang had touched it with his right foot, yet it was flying to the left and curling behind him?
How was that even possible?
Before Puyol could react, Su Hang spun from the right and slipped past him.
The Ice Prince's Waltz!
Bergkamp's Back-to-Goal Split!
A mirror version!
The entire stadium froze.
Derek Rae shouted, "That's… Bergkamp!"
"Su Hang looks possessed by Bergkamp's spirit—straight into the penalty area!"
"Puyol is like his dance partner, completely motionless!"
"Su Hang lifts his foot!"
"Valdés dives!"
"Spinning with precision, grace in motion—but wait! It's not a shot! Su Hang doesn't go for glory—he passes it across!"
"Zidane bursts in and taps it into an empty net! Not just a thirty-four-year-old Zidane—even a sixty-four-year-old Zidane could finish that!"
"Two–nil! No question about it! Zidane converts Su Hang's assist of the century!"
Su Hang now had a goal and an assist—he completely dominated the first half.
Real Madrid struck Barcelona again just before halftime.
Even a poetic flourish slipped into the commentary—it wasn't hard to imagine Derek Rae's excitement.
Regardless of nationality, seeing an Asian player shine so brightly in a Champions League final would thrill anyone.
Tommy Smyth clapped in delight.
"Real Madrid's gamble paid off!"
"Simon is an absolute tactical genius!"
"After taking the lead, he deliberately ceded possession to lure Barcelona forward—inviting the snake out of its hole."
"They knew Real Madrid's attack was just as deadly, but with Barcelona trailing, they had no choice but to take the bait."
"And sure enough, Real Madrid struck back beautifully."
"Down 2–0, Barcelona will find it nearly impossible to recover in the second half—especially without conceding again."
...
Halftime. Both locker rooms were boiling.
In Barcelona's locker room:
"Xavi, Iniesta—start warming up. You might be on early in the second half."
"Larsson, use every ounce of energy before you're subbed—don't forget your yellow card quota too, got it?"
"Van Bommel, Edmilson—lock down Zidane! Don't let that bald bastard get any space, and especially don't let him link up with Figo or Su Hang!"
"Puyol, stay sharp! We can't afford any more defensive lapses like in the first half!"
"Ronaldinho, it's time for you to step up. I know you're saving yourself for the World Cup, but the Champions League trophy is right in front of you. This honor is every bit as glorious—if not more—than a World Cup semifinal!"
Rijkaard's voice thundered through the room, full of passion and conviction.
Meanwhile, in Real Madrid's locker room:
"Zizou, tired? Hang in there—you carried the first half! Someone, give Zidane a massage!"
"Luis, how's your stamina? Need some water? We'll be counting on you in the second half!"
"David, great job out there. You'll need to push even harder after the break."
"Casillas, excellent work—keep it up! You're the best goalkeeper out there!"
"Su Hang, you explain the second-half tactics to everyone."
Simon bustled about, full of energy, offering encouragement like a personal assistant.
It was all about emotional support.
As for tactics... well, this Real Madrid didn't actually need a head coach.
What they needed was more of a team manager—or perhaps just a caretaker.
The players handled everything else themselves.
Just like today.
From the starting lineup to the tactics to the mid-match adjustments—everything had been decided by Su Hang and Zidane.
Simon had nothing to do with it.
But did that stop him from winning the Champions League?
Did it stop him from appearing on the live Coach of the Year leaderboard and breaking into the top ten for the first time?
Not at all!
So why bother pretending to arrange anything?
Let the professionals handle the professional stuff!
Right, Captain Su?