Chapter 51: El Clásico. [3]
The second half began with thunder.
The Bernabéu, already a storm in the first forty five now shook like an earthquake. Madrid fans smelled blood.
Their team led 2-1; Bellingham had struck, Vinícius had burned, Mbappé lurked like a predator. But Barcelona weren’t finished. Sam’s curling equalizer had reminded everyone that this wasn’t going to be simple.
FWEEE!
The whistle blew, and the war resumed.
Madrid started an early siege against the Barcelona defense as within two minutes of the restart, they unleashed their artillery.
Vinícius Jnr. tore down the left in menacing fashion, skipping past Koundé before whipping in a devilish ball. Mbappé lunged, studs grazing the ball, but Jose García smothered it at the near post.
The rebound fell to Rodrygo who smashed it back in, but again, Araújo blocked heroically, his chest absorbing the impact, collapsing to the ground but rising instantly like a soldier refusing to fall.
The crowd rode the early surge, roaring and chanting.
"Madrid!" "Madrid!"
In the 49th minute, Bellingham nearly struck again. Valverde found him at the edge of the box, and with one elegant glide past Pedri, he fired low. García went on a full stretch dive and tipped it around the post.
Madrid had the momentum. They were suffocating their opponents, tightening their coils and pushing Barça to the brink. Hansi Flick paced the technical area, gesturing furiously for his men to keep their shape.
And then, the tide turned.
In the 52nd minute, Yamal picked up the ball from deep. He was only 19, but he carried the swagger of legends when he moved with the ball. He glided past Mendy, skipped away from Valverde, before feeding Pedri in the middle.
Pedri, a magician at work received the ball and utilized the la pausa technique to open up space before slipping the ball wide to Raphinha.
Raphinha accelerated like a prime Lewis Hamilton, taking one touch to surge past Arnold, before driving a low cross into the six-yard box.
Sam was there... lurking, waiting.
Rüdiger clung to him like a last born clung to their mom, Huijsen tugged his shirt, but Sam stood his ground and muscled both aside, extending his right boot, then...
Tap.
The ball trickled past Thibaut Courtois into the corner.
GOAL! Real Madrid 2-2 Barcelona.
For a few seconds, silence, then...
BOOM!
The away fans erupted in a frenzy of blaugrana smoke. Sam sprinted to the corner, sliding on his knees, arms outstretched. His teammates mobbed him, Raphinha screaming, Pedri laughing in disbelief.
The Santiago Bernabéu fell silent, stunned again. For the second time this game, Sam had silenced the lion’s den.
And then, the duels intensified.
Madrid, furious, exploded forward again as they tried to use sheer energy and intensity to crush their archrivals.
Vinícius clashed with Koundé in a constant battle of pace vs power; it was a battle for the ages. Mbappé squared up against Araújo, feinting left, darting right, testing the Uruguayan’s every step.
In midfield, Valverde and Gavi were locked in a war of attrition, snapping into tackles, shoving, barking into each other’s faces.
The referee hovered, cards in hand, trying to hold the growing chaos at bay.
Bellingham, elegant as ever, glided through Pedri’s press, creating lanes through Barca’s shape. But Pedri responded with a subtle brilliance unique to him, twisting away from Guler, dictating Barça’s tempo.
Every duel was personal now.
And then, in the 58th minute, fans were forced to jump to their feet as Madrid came close to getting their third goal of the game.
Mbappé dropped deep, received the ball and turned sharply, before threading Vinícius clean through on goal. The Brazilian burst into the box, suddenly one-on-one with García as fans jumped to their feet.
He fired... low and vicious.
But Jose García spread wide, legs outstretched, and blocked with his shin.
Bam!
Los Blancos fans cursed in frustration. But the rebound fell back to Vinícius, who tried again only for Araújo to slide in for another heroic block.
The Bernabéu groaned, hands clutching heads. Hansi Flick clapped furiously from the sideline though his heartbeat was at an all-time high against his chest.
"Vamos, vamos!" He shouted.
And then, just minutes later, Barça nearly took the lead.
Pedri stole the ball in midfield and instantly fed Sam. The Nigerian, brimming with confidence, darted into the space between Rüdiger and Huijsen like a needle through thread.
He powered into the box like a rampaging monster, cut inside, and unleashed a curling strike at goal.
Courtois flew, fingertips stretching, tipping it just over the bar.
BOOM!
The stadium roared in a cacophony of cheers for Courtois and whistles, boos, and jeers at Sam. Sam smirked, shaking his head, as if to say. ’You can’t stop me forever’.
The temper boiled over in the stadium, the tackles growing even more brutal.
In the 62nd minute, Raphinha skinned Arnold again, only to be hacked down cynically from behind. The referee handed out a yellow card, but not satisfied, the Brazilian shoved Arnold back, forcing the referee to rush in to calm tempers.
Seconds later, Gavi bulldozed through Arda Guler, sparking another melee.
Players crowded, shoves exchanged, whistles shrieking. The referee flashed two more yellow cards, one to Gavi, and one to Valverde who had joined the scuffle. The Bernabéu buzzed with venom.
This wasn’t just football anymore. This was war.
And then, in the 67th minute, amid the chaos, Madrid struck again.
From chaos came brilliance.
Rodrygo collected on the right, danced past Balde, and lofted a perfect cross to the far post where Mbappé ghosted between Araújo and Cubarsí, leaping high.
Header!
Goal!
Madrid 3-2 Barcelona.
The Santiago Bernabéu erupted, thunder shaking the rafters. Mbappé sprinted to the corner flag, cupping his ears, mocking the away fans. Vinícius leapt onto his back, Rodrygo sliding beside him. It was euphoria at the Bernabeu.
Madrid were back in front, but Barça didn’t fold.
Sam, standing in midfield, clenched his fists. He barked at his teammates, demanding focus.
"Seguimos! C’mon, we keep going!" He roared.
Yamal nodded, determination blazing. Pedri adjusted his socks, calm as ever. Raphinha tapped Sam’s chest.
They weren’t done. The game wasn’t done.
As the clock neared 70 minutes, the Bernabéu was in chaos. Madrid led 3-2, but Barcelona’s stars were still alive, their fire unbroken.
Every time Vinícius touched the ball, whistles and cheers shook the ground. Every time Sam surged forward, boos rained down like thunder.
The stage was set for the final act.
The next twenty minutes would decide everything.