Chapter 110: Barcelona, Salute This Season's La Liga Champions!
"This must be Mourinho's special trump card prepared for the second half of the league season. Essien—who would've thought he could still play like this? From serious injury to top form again, he only needed a bit over three months. Incredible!"
He Wei's voice was full of genuine joy as he watched Essien's rebirth at Real Madrid.
Xu Yang, however, shook his head slightly, clearly feeling it was a shame Mourinho had played this card so early.
"He should've saved it. In just ten days, Madrid will face Bayern in the first leg of the Champions League semifinals. Wouldn't it have been better to unleash this surprise then?"
He Wei didn't quite agree with Xu Yang, but since they were on air, he let it slide and gave his partner some face.
Off-screen, however, Chinese fans had no such reservations. The forums lit up with direct rebuttals:
"Xu Yang, what are you talking about? You want to save Essien as a secret weapon? Shouldn't you test him in a big match first? Training sessions are nothing like real games!"
"Wait for what? You think today's game isn't important? You think Heynckes isn't already studying every frame of Essien's tape?"
"If you keep waiting, you'll be waiting until next year's Champions League final. This season we win with or without surprises! Xu, have some faith in your own judgment!"
"Okay, okay, chill out. Let's not have Xu Yang actually start believing all this."
"Haha, I was just kidding, geez~"
Interestingly enough, Mourinho's reasoning for using Essien today wasn't far off from what the Chinese fans were saying.
First, he needed to see how Essien would perform when given full freedom in a real, high-stakes match.
Second, he knew Heynckes wouldn't overlook someone like Essien—a former superstar who could still shift a match's tempo.
You might doubt other managers' prep work, but not Heynckes.
He was a legend precisely because of his thoroughness.
And honestly, if you were going to play your ace, today's match against Valencia was as critical as it got.
Mourinho didn't want to leave the La Liga title hanging because of a freak draw or loss.
This sprint to the finish—before El Clásico, before the Champions League semis—was his window to seal the league early.
The earlier he secured the title, the earlier he could focus fully on Europe and the Copa del Rey final.
He'd learned from bitter past seasons:
if you want to win everything, you can't hedge your bets in the final stretch.
No "holding back."
No "maybe later."
Go all in. Now.
And so today, he played his trump card.
One match to decide La Liga.
Atlético and Sporting Gijón in the final two rounds?
Pushovers.
He could rotate and relax then.
Essien didn't disappoint.
Together with Leon, he completely disrupted Valencia's rhythm on both ends of the pitch.
Once Valencia conceded the opener at the Bernabéu, doubt crept in.
Their midfield couldn't wrestle control back, and the panic began to spread.
If Emery's adjustments weren't spot-on, this game would spiral out of reach.
But Mourinho wasn't about to wait.
He didn't want to settle it in the second half—he wanted to break Valencia mentally before halftime.
So, in the 20th minute, he made a tactical change.
"The boss wants us to press even higher?"
Leon was surprised. It wasn't what he expected. He'd thought Mourinho might instruct them to brace for a potential Valencia counterattack.
Essien, however, just grinned—white teeth flashing.
"You'll understand him better the longer you play under him. He likes stable wins, sure—but he's not afraid to go bold when it's time. Let's go!"
With that, he charged past the halfway line, heading straight for Alberto, who had just received the ball.
Leon didn't hesitate.
If Mourinho gave the order, there had to be a reason.
Questioning the boss's strategy during a match?
He wasn't Kepa.
He wasn't that brave—or that stupid.
As Leon and Essien pushed up aggressively, Valencia did start to find a few chances.
If they could play out of the press, Madrid's half would suddenly feel wide open—ideal for their wingers.
But that came with a heavy psychological burden.
Lose the ball in your own half?
That meant Madrid would be launching a full-power counter straight at your goal.
Mourinho was gambling.
Risking defense to ratchet up pressure on Valencia's backline—and on Emery.
Now it was on the Valencia manager to decide.
Make changes?
Wait for halftime?
He was stuck.
Go all-out attack? Too risky.
Add another defensive midfielder? He didn't want to.
He hesitated. And that was all Madrid needed.
Valencia's squad became divided.
Parejo and Aduriz wanted to go blow-for-blow with Madrid.
But Topal, Rami, and others wanted to stabilize the backline first.
Front and back didn't align.
Emery stayed silent.
Chaos followed.
Madrid's players sensed it immediately.
Leon dropped deeper, marking Parejo more aggressively.
Benzema began drifting left to help shut down passing lanes.
Parejo still tried to push forward, but his passes became more desperate—more ambitious.
Leon pounced.
A poor pass.
Coentrão intercepted it just ahead of Feghouli, and quickly fed Alonso.
Alonso, one touch to settle, one glance—then a long pass diagonally to Benzema, who had just dropped deep.
Leon and Essien surged forward again.
Benzema calmly passed to the charging Leon, then turned and sprinted upfield.
This time, Leon didn't give the ball back to Essien.
He looked up—and launched a long ball over the top.
Target: Ronaldo.
The timing was perfect.
Ricardo Costa, trying to match Ronaldo step for step, never had a chance.
He was 31.
Cristiano was 27—right in his prime.
The Portuguese phenom cut inside and charged into the box.
But this time, he didn't force the shot.
Too many defenders were closing in.
Costa, Rami, and Topal were all converging on him.
Ronaldo paused, drew them in, and—wait for it—bang!
Well then—Valencia had clearly shifted their main defensive force to their right side.
But just as a figure sprinted forward and silently filled the open space on the left edge of the box, Ronaldo caught sight of it. His eyes lit up.
In the next instant, Ronaldo dragged the ball back and laid it off, while the incoming figure—perfectly in sync with Benzema's run into the box—delivered a delicate chip through the seam.
"Leon's movement is excellent! He didn't crash into the crowded area where Topal was closing in on Ronaldo. No—he cut into the space! Ronaldo with the pass!"
He Wei was already shouting in praise the moment he saw Leon's smart off-ball run.
And when Xu Yang saw the chipped through ball, he practically exploded.
"Beautiful!!! Leon threads it to Benzema! Controls it—shoots!"
Faced with the split-second opportunity, the Lyon-born striker didn't choke.
A quick adjustment, then a firm low shot to the near post!
Sure, Benzema sometimes liked to "enjoy" the game with a few too many touches. And his heading was still a work in progress.
But when it came to technical finishes under pressure, he rarely disappointed.
There was a reason they called him the "White Ronaldo."
The ball, almost completely spinless, drilled cleanly into the inside netting at Valencia's near post.
Guaita dove, but he was a moment too late!
As the pristine white net rippled, the Bernabéu erupted in full-blown ecstasy.
"Little Lion! That's my brother!"
Benzema pointed both index fingers toward Leon, laughing as he backpedaled toward the corner flag.
Leon leapt onto Benzema's back and roared toward the fans with both fists raised in triumph.
Ronaldo, Di María, Essien, Coentrão, Alonso—one by one, the Real Madrid players swarmed in to celebrate.
Valencia were finished.
Madrid were going to take this win—and make a statement to Barcelona, to La Liga:
The king is back.
Mourinho glanced at Emery, who sat frozen on the opposite bench.
Though he was proud of his players, he didn't feel the usual surge of adrenaline.
It wasn't that he looked down on Emery—far from it.
In fact, he believed Emery was a capable coach.
Taking Valencia to third place for three consecutive seasons in his early forties? That took real talent.
But his match-day management was too inconsistent.
Sometimes bold and decisive.
Other times hesitant and muddled.
He was constantly oscillating between world-class and amateur-tier decision-making.
Mourinho thought Emery had real potential—if only he would go study under a master for a couple more years. Or perhaps try his luck in Serie A, where tactical duels were more unforgiving.
But at this stage?
Beating a coach still in his evolution phase didn't exactly give Mourinho a sense of conquest.
He calmly returned to his bench, motioned to his temples, and signaled his players to stay cool.
The players understood the message. The wild joy slowly settled.
Now it was about discipline. Finish the game. No errors. Just close it out.
Xabi Alonso took the lead here—cool-headed, as always.
Leon and Essien quickly retreated to reinforce the midfield wall.
Valencia's attack became disjointed, unable to string together consistent pressure.
Though credit must be given—Aduriz, the old-school target man, still managed to get a few chances.
In the 62nd minute, if not for Casillas being razor sharp, Ramos' lapse might've cost Madrid a goal.
Aduriz's clever movement reminded Madrid's defense to stay alert.
Ramos and Albiol locked down after that, double-marking Aduriz out of the game.
Some Valencia fans began to miss Soldado.
The striker—Leon's senior from Castilla—was another product of Madrid's youth system, and a proven La Liga scorer.
But honestly, in a match where the midfield had been completely dominated, even Soldado wouldn't have made much of a difference.
In the end, Valencia swallowed a 0–2 defeat at the Bernabéu.
Their gap with fourth-place Málaga shrunk to just a single point.
For Madrid, it meant the last real obstacle on their title run was now behind them.
Madridistas could barely contain themselves.
On April 9, outside the gates of Valdebebas, fans held up banners of support.
One small boy stood out—his sign read:
"We want to celebrate the title on April 14!"
Leon, on his way to the training ground for recovery, stopped his car and got out to sign the banner.
The crowd roared in delight.
He didn't say a word. Just gave them a wink and a knowing smile.
On April 11, Mourinho took a half-rotated lineup to the Calderón for the Madrid Derby.
Now managed by Diego Simeone, Atlético had shown a serious transformation since his arrival.
Before the game, Simeone boldly declared:
"We will give the Atlético faithful a derby they can be proud of."
The words were powerful. Atlético's unity was real.
Leon was cautious, maybe even overestimating their threat.
After all, the lineup had names like Courtois, Godín, Filipe Luís, Juanfran, and Gabi.
Surely under Simeone's command, they'd be a nuisance, right?
Wrong.
Just 19 minutes in, Leon watched Ronaldo cut past Juanfran, then Pereira, and unleash a thunderbolt that left Courtois stunned.
Maybe Ronaldo was just in god mode.
Maybe Atlético were still too "soft" under construction.
Either way, Leon realized he'd worried for nothing.
Ramos had been right all along.
Playing Atleti? Zero pressure.
Ronaldo bagged four goals.
Benzema added one more.
Madrid destroyed Atlético 5–1 at the Calderón.
Simeone's face was expressionless post-match, only managing a stiff smile as he shook Mourinho's hand.
The Madrid squad, elated, didn't dwell on the mood of their city rivals.
Three days later, they faced Sporting Gijón at the Bernabéu.
A relegation-battling team. Mourinho sent out his best eleven.
No complex tactics.
The instructions were simple: Get the ball to Ronaldo. Let him open the game.
When you have a megastar, you use him.
And it worked.
Gijón couldn't cope with Ronaldo and Marcelo's constant one-two down the left.
Once Madrid broke the deadlock, Gijón's fight visibly drained.
They knew their fate.
When the 3–0 win was finalized, the Madrid crowd didn't even react at first.
It felt too easy.
Until Leon, ever the emotional catalyst, jumped onto Ronaldo's back, tore off his shirt, and shouted with all his might:
"Barcelona—get ready to line up and salute the La Liga champions!"
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