A few days earlier, Mourinho had exchanged messages with Guardiola.
"Hey, Pep. Give me a hint on how to break down Real Madrid. I feel like I'm going bald over this. Is there any way to stop Ho-young effectively? We were completely beaten last year."
Guardiola replied, "Are you making fun of me? I'm enjoying life in New York now. Don't forget that you and Ho-young are the reason for that."
Of course, it was said jokingly.
Guardiola and Mourinho both came from Barcelona and had been close for years. Mourinho had been a coach, Guardiola a player.
Now both were managers. Guardiola had no major titles compared to Mourinho, and one might have expected envy, but that was not the case.
Their relationship had cooled after Mourinho eliminated Guardiola in the Champions League quarterfinals, but it eased again after Guardiola stepped down.
That was why the proud Mourinho had asked him for help.
They were no longer rivals on the touchline.
After nearly three hours on the phone, Mourinho finally got a clear answer.
"Hire an assassin, break his legs, and throw him off the pitch. That's the only way to stop Ho-young."
"Crystal clear."
Absurdly, that was the conclusion after three hours.
It was ridiculous, yet Mourinho, who had suffered against Ho-young, could only agree.
"Yes. The premise is wrong. How do you stop a monster? Unless you break his legs, you cannot."
Mourinho ended the conversation there.
Even two tactical geniuses could not find a solution in three hours.
Still, he felt he had gained a hint, and that was enough.
But Guardiola changed the topic.
"How is Italy? Worth living in?"
"It rains more than I expected, but it's perfect. Still less than England."
"That's one reason I avoid England."
"You should try all four major leagues. Why not come to Italy?"
"If I ever go to Italy, it will be for a fashion show or a vacation."
"Then Germany?"
"Germany… if something happens that shakes the football world, maybe."
"Shakes the football world? What do you mean?"
"When Ronaldo moved to Real Madrid for 130 million euro, Europe shook, didn't it?"
"So?"
"This time, it might be even bigger."
"You always speak in riddles. No wonder I'm losing my hair."
"You bastard."
After that conversation, Mourinho devoted himself entirely to designing tailored tactics.
He divided the 45 minutes into segments of 8 plus 1 minute.
One minute to prepare the tactical shift, followed by eight minutes of execution.
In total, he prepared ten different tactical patterns.
Facing Real Madrid required that level of detail.
He analyzed every strategy Real had used this season and prepared responses, even for their most impressive circle switching tactic.
Those grueling preparations gave Inter confidence and allowed them to perform well early on.
The first 20 minutes had been a success.
But Ho-young's explosive run had rendered everything useless.
Just one moment.
They conceded before they could even react.
Even five minutes later, Mourinho still could not believe it.
He wasn't that fast a few weeks ago.
What was that?
It looked like Usain Bolt controlling the ball perfectly.
How could someone increase dribbling speed so drastically in such a short time?
It made no sense.
If it were doping, it would be believable.
But Ho-young was not that kind of player.
UEFA had already announced doping tests for the day after the match.
And he had never failed a test before.
Guardiola's words echoed.
Unless you break his legs, you cannot stop him.
It felt like a madman destroying the ecosystem had appeared.
Now Mourinho understood what Guardiola meant about shaking the football world.
Damn it.
The real problem was that Inter's soaring morale had collapsed.
As time passed, Real's momentum grew, and by the end of the first half, control had completely shifted.
The prepared tactical segments were practically meaningless.
Mourinho steadied himself.
If I lose my composure, it's over.
He quickly signaled for tactical adjustments.
It was the 38th minute.
"Real Madrid's possession rises to 66 percent. Inter remain focused on defense, dropping their line and maintaining compact spacing."
Inter concentrated on numerical superiority in defensive zones to block Ho-young's penetration.
"Interesting dynamic. Real control the ball, Inter control the space."
"Exactly. Inter are not pressing high but occupying space. Meanwhile, Real players are active off the ball, relying on stamina. Ho-young has already covered over six kilometers."
"But it does not look easy. They might just waste energy."
Tap.
With no forward passing option, Ho-young played the ball backward.
Mourinho's defensive system felt like a solid, well-built world.
Even after conceding, he had responded immediately.
That showed his tactical mastery.
Then.
Ho-young began to adjust his style.
If the opponent brings a different shield, you draw a different weapon.
He pictured the pitch in his mind.
There are too many obstacles for a fast break. They won't allow space for a run.
The near-divine burst he had shown earlier carried a heavy penalty.
Even with iron stamina, it was draining.
Running at nearly full sprint with the ball increased fatigue and strain on his lower body.
It had limits.
And Inter's defenders were targeting him.
If he charged into space again, injury was a real risk.
Unless it was a clear counter, restraint was wiser.
Then we slow it down. We have control. Build patiently.
Calmly.
Without falling into Mourinho's trap.
He lowered the tempo with the ball at his feet.
"Higuaín, I'm fine. Stay higher. Move in a wider radius."
"Got it."
Higuaín, who had dropped deep, pushed back up to the last line.
He hovered near the defensive line, applying psychological pressure and preventing aggressive pressing.
That gave him breathing room.
The burden shifted to the attacking midfield line.
But that was the playmaker's responsibility.
I must cover as much as I can.
Football is sacrifice.
If you run more, your teammates become comfortable.
Comfortable teammates perform better.
Creating that over 90 minutes is a true playmaker's role.
That was Ho-young's belief.
"42nd minute. The match has become strangely calm."
"Real have stepped out of Mourinho's trap and are conserving energy. It's clever."
Ho-young distinguished when to hold and when to pass, restoring composure to his teammates.
The suffocating tension eased.
Even the crowd and commentators quieted.
"It feels like the first half will end this way."
"If so, Inter will feel the pressure. They aimed to drain stamina and strike on the counter, but it seems exposed. Ho-young is now drawing Inter out by circulating the ball."
The pressure shifted to Inter.
Real held the lead and the psychological advantage.
Mourinho had tried to appear bold, but his plan was laid bare.
Instead, he was being drawn in.
Scolari, meanwhile, calmly directed his players.
The composure of a World Cup-winning manager.
"Damn it. We need at least one counter before halftime."
"But they're not committing forward."
Cambiasso and Samuel exchanged words.
"We can't push out recklessly. If our line stretches, they'll attack the space. Higuaín will run. Or Ho-young will sprint like a madman."
"This is ridiculous."
The midfield had to act.
"Fine. Sneijder and I will look for a chance. Be ready to push the line up."
"Right. Let's hit them."
They could not end the half passively.
Even without scoring, they had to show hope.
Cambiasso and Sneijder began to move subtly.
Ho-young still circulated short passes.
Cambiasso shook his head.
Two aren't enough. He's too strong under pressure.
He glanced sideways.
Zanetti understood and stepped forward.
"Inter's midfield line pushes up. Zanetti presses Ho-young."
Ho-young pulled the ball back under his sole.
"Young, watch out!"
"Sneijder closes from the side!"
"Cambiasso charges from behind!"
Zanetti pressed from the front while Sneijder and Cambiasso converged from different angles.
Inter's other players blocked passing lanes.
He was trapped.
We take it now.
Sneijder lunged in.
Now.
Ho-young twisted left.
Sneijder followed.
But.
Body feint.
He only suggested left, remaining in place.
Sneijder lost balance and stumbled.
The back line opened.
A simple back pass would have escaped pressure.
But.
Ho-young faced Cambiasso instead.
Feigning a back pass, he rolled the ball under his sole.
Then turned 90 degrees.
Whoosh.
He accelerated toward the flank.
"A sudden turn from Ho-young! He escapes!"
Cambiasso was stunned.
What is he doing?
Then came the move.
Scoop turn.
Named because it looks like scooping the ball, it requires complete control.
Ho-young had practiced it obsessively.
Tap.
He broke free and drove forward.
Zanetti, realizing the danger, retreated.
Within seconds, Ho-young reached the right flank.
Robben had already cut inside.
"Ho-young drives down the flank! Chivu steps up!"
"But Ho-young continues and crosses!"
Chivu lifted his leg to block.
But no cross came.
"A Cruyff turn! He fakes the cross and spins the other way!"
"He cuts inside to the left!"
The angle opened.
Ho-young stopped the ball and focused.
The world seemed silent.
Before Chivu could recover, he curled a left-footed strike.
"Ho-young with a left-footed cross… wait…"
Outside the box.
It was not a cross.
Boom.
The moment the ball left his foot, he knew.
King's Curler (SU) and Robben's Curler (U) had begun to merge.
The result, Supreme Curler (W+).
Not fully fused, yet astonishing.
The ball painted a rainbow arc and buried into the top left corner.
Goal.
No words were needed.
This was playmaking.
(To be continued.)
◇◇◇
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◇ You can read the ahead chapter on Pat if you're interested: p-atreon.c-om/Blownleaves (Just remove the hyphen to access normally.)