The second half had barely begun when Ricardo Quaresma felt the pressure hit him earlier than anyone else—earlier even than Kai.
In the 48th minute, Quaresma was shoved off the sideline by Emerson the moment he received the ball. The linesman didn't raise his flag—perfectly legal, just high-intensity contact.
In the 52nd minute, Quaresma was brought down early by the opposing left-back Serafim. All he got was a long-range free kick—completely harmless.
In the 54th minute, Quaresma was double-teamed by Kirop and Serafim and cleanly dispossessed.
From that moment on, Quaresma developed a deep hatred for anyone with "-fim" in their name.
Teammate Delfim: "What the hell? You targeting a whole group now??"
But during this same stretch, Kai was also being swarmed—Delfim, Barbosa, even Hugo Viana joined in to press him.
Still, nothing is impossible—if you're willing to let go.
After getting smashed to the ground once, Kai simply abandoned his plan to control the ball. He dropped deeper, turned himself into a passing machine, and stopped giving the opposition any chance to stick to him.
That shift handed control of the game to Sporting Lisbon for a while.
Their coaching staff was thrilled.
Their tactic had worked.
"Saint Maxa" was living up to the hype!
Moreirense gave up possession completely. Their midfield looked dead, their attacking threat almost nonexistent.
The assistant coaches crowded around Maxa, practically ready to toss him into the air in celebration.
Maxa covered his face—but through his fingers, he could still see Kai staring straight at him.
The moment their eyes met, Maxa's heart dropped.
In the end, he spread his hands in surrender: I didn't do shit, boss. This wasn't me. Believe me, Kai!
The director caught that exchange and immediately commented:
"Oh! As we all know, Maxa is a treasure within Sporting Lisbon's coaching staff. Both Augustus and Materazzi hold him in high regard!"
"He's a true tactician. Judging by what we're seeing, his halftime adjustments have clearly worked!"
"This is what a top assistant coach does. Honestly, if Materazzi leaves someday, Maxa could absolutely take over this club!"
"Look at him—so confident. That gesture says it all: 'Kid, you're too young.' That's the strength of Lisbon's 'Saint'!"
At that exact moment, Maxa felt another burning gaze.
From the opposing sideline.
Triguera.
His eyes screamed: You ungrateful bastard! Even if you don't respect me, at least respect Kai!
Maxa: This is a fucking misunderstanding… please…
Man looked like he'd swallowed a brick.
Totally screwed.
—
In the 59th minute, after Quaresma lost the ball, Emerson immediately looked to pass to Kai.
But the passing lanes were completely blocked.
So he switched and played it to Cristiano Ronaldo, who had dropped deep.
Ronaldo collected the ball, shook his shoulders, exploded forward, and drove past midfield.
Right-back Abdullilah stepped up to challenge him.
Ronaldo's breakthrough got stalled—he passed it back to Emerson.
No options.
Back to Ronaldo again.
Abdullilah, now confident, stuck to him once more.
But this time—
Ronaldo leaned into him, shielded the ball, nudged it behind with his foot… then spun around and burst down the outside.
Abdullilah, shorter and unable to see the ball, had no clue when Ronaldo made his move.
By the time he reacted—too late.
"Beautiful skill! That's creativity!"
"I know, it sounds weird to call Ronaldo 'creative.' In the past, his game was all about raw power—fast, strong, direct. No bullshit."
"But now? He's changed. He's lost a bit of that brute sharpness, but gained something else—control, imagination."
"That's what the Portuguese league is doing to him!"
After turning, Ronaldo cut inside and faced Marcos near the edge of the box.
He tried to pass—but Marcos blocked it.
The ball stayed at Ronaldo's feet.
Now the defense had reset. Anderson and Flávio were tightly marked. No passing options.
He had to go solo.
Old Ronaldo would've forced it.
Beat Marcos, enter the box—simple.
But now…
Ronaldo started stepping over the ball.
One cycle. Two cycles.
Marcos didn't dare dive in. A foul here would be dangerous. And if he missed, Ronaldo was gone.
He held his ground, waiting for Abdullilah to recover.
More defenders were closing in.
The window was shrinking.
Then—
BOOM!
Ronaldo's right foot suddenly scooped under the ball.
Marcos braced for impact—thinking it was a push forward.
But—
Whoosh!
The ball lifted over him.
"This isn't a pass… it's a chip!"
"Another one! Ronaldo already assisted earlier with a brilliant chip!"
"This time it's an inverted triangle chip—cutting inside and out! That's risky as hell!"
"He could've just taken the man on! Even a cross might've worked—Anderson and Flávio were there!"
Before the commentator could finish—
BOOM!!!
Kai charged into the top of the box.
With his right hand bracing against Viana, he swung his left leg like a drawn bow—
And unleashed a volley.
A fucking missile.
The ball tore through the air like a streak of white lightning.
Peter Schmeichel launched himself full stretch, reaching as far as humanly possible—
But it didn't matter.
Top-left corner.
Unstoppable.
No fucking chance.
Schmeichel hit the ground, bounced back up instantly, and stared at Kai in disbelief.
That shot…
Was art.
Was violence.
Was perfection.
Scholes?
Lothar Matthäus?
Dennis Bergkamp?
No—
Zinedine Zidane.
That kind of elegance wrapped around raw, brutal power.
"GOOOOOOAL!!! K-K-K-KAI!!!"
(The commentator clearly didn't know Kai didn't give a damn about Durant.)
The stadium erupted.
"Three–two! Moreirense refuse to die! They've taken the lead for the third time today!"
"Kai's long-range volley is absolutely insane!"
"Just look at Schmeichel's face—that tells you everything!"
And once again—
The underdogs struck back.
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