Man-marking broken.
Strong, clever, relentless.
Those words perfectly described Giorgio Chiellini.
If you analyzed his strengths in detail, the list seemed endless.
Standing at 187 centimeters and weighing 88 kilograms, his power and speed were immense. Yet, he also possessed intelligence on the pitch. His mentality was a fusion of fierce competitiveness, boldness, and an unyielding fighting spirit.
On top of that, his anticipation, positioning, and aerial ability made him one of the strongest defenders in aerial duels.
He might lack a bit in agility or acceleration, but his straight-line speed was exceptional, worthy of his origins as a left-back. Among centre-backs, he was easily one of the fastest.
He was also remarkably versatile, capable of playing multiple positions across the backline, truly shining when facing strong opponents in knockout stages.
If you asked football fans to name the best defender of this generation, Italians would mention Maldini and Nesta, while the English would likely say Rio Ferdinand and John Terry.
But if the criteria were pure man-marking, the rapidly rising Chiellini would be at the top of that list.
Moreover, at only 24 years old, his potential for growth was still immense.
A player so versatile, so complete—could there be anyone else like him?
Yet even with all those strengths, he had one fatal flaw.
"Figlio di puttana!"
A fiery temper.
If Edgar Davids was known as "The Pitbull," then Chiellini was "The Mad Dog."
It was true that most Italian defenders were tough and occasionally unhinged, but Chiellini's intensity was on another level.
He wasn't as reckless as Pepe or as ruthless as Materazzi, but he wasn't far off either.
"Damn it, I'm going crazy."
Right now, he wanted to grab Ho-young by the collar and throw him out of the stadium.
But there was something unique about him.
He wasn't always that aggressive. Off the pitch, he was calm and gentle.
It was only during matches that he turned into a firestorm of willpower and rage—a true embodiment of competitive spirit.
And strangely enough, he had his own way of managing it.
Once he shouted a curse or two, he could immediately refocus on the game. That was his true strength.
He was calm and composed when it mattered.
'Focus. The fans still believe in me.'
No one in the crowd blamed Chiellini.
That last goal wasn't really his mistake. It was just Ho-young's brilliance.
There was no reason to lose confidence over that.
Besides, there were still seventy minutes left to play.
If the opponent was good, he simply had to be better.
That was what Chiellini believed.
And at that moment, a teammate came over with words of encouragement.
"Chiello."
"Ah, captain."
It was Juventus's eternal fantasista and captain, Alessandro Del Piero.
At thirty-four, he still possessed extraordinary class, and his personality was as elegant as his play.
"You played well. The kid's move was just perfect. Now that you've seen it once, you'll be ready for it next time."
"Do you really think so, captain?"
"Of course."
Del Piero added a small white lie.
"You can do better. There's something you missed, I'm sure of it."
"But I can't figure out what it was."
"Then think about what your idol would have done in your place."
His idol.
Chiellini had two—Paolo Maldini of AC Milan, and of course, Fabio Cannavaro.
He had learned more from Cannavaro than anyone else after turning professional.
To him, Cannavaro was both mentor and role model.
'If I were Cannavaro…'
He thought for a moment.
'Damn it, even he probably couldn't have stopped that. What the hell.'
As he watched Ho-young celebrating in front of the away section, Chiellini gritted his teeth.
Something felt off.
To be honest, Ho-young didn't have the intimidating presence of Raúl or Van Nistelrooy.
Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi might receive high praise today, but even they hadn't yet earned the legendary reverence given to Zidane or Ronaldinho.
They might surpass them in current ability, but not in career or legacy.
Experience and maturity were things that couldn't be overlooked.
One season? A month? One match?
A flash of brilliance meant nothing.
If Zidane or Ronaldinho had only shone for a single season, they would never have become legends.
'Yeah, it was just once. He spent 20 minutes doing nothing and only beat me once. I got unlucky, that's all.'
Convincing himself of that, Chiellini started thinking about how to stop Ho-young next.
Raúl and Van Nistelrooy were being handled by others. That was fine.
If he could just shut down Ho-young, the spearhead of Madrid's attack, the entire system could collapse.
Then, suddenly, clarity hit him.
'Right. I'll stick to him like glue this time. Attack and defense are just two sides of the same coin. I just need to focus.'
That was the only way to turn this around.
Chiellini clenched his fist in determination, ready to test his resolve.
And that opportunity came soon enough.
[We're now approaching the 30th minute of the first half. Still no significant changes in play.]
[The midfield remains a battlefield. If it was fierce before, it's even more so now. Since Ho-young's opening goal, neither side is giving an inch.]
[Exactly. Every ball intended for Ho-young is being intercepted in midfield, mainly by Nedvěd.]
[But Zidane isn't backing down either. Both veterans are showing their class tonight.]
The midfield was a warzone.
Mohamed Sissoko, standing at 191 centimeters, was sweeping through the center like a human vacuum cleaner.
He clashed head-on with Madrid's defensive midfielder Diarra, their physical battle alone drawing gasps from the stands.
"You bastard!"
"Hey, is that body for show? You think you can take the ball from me like that?"
The two midfield enforcers not only possessed immense athleticism but also exchanged heated words.
And they weren't the only ones.
"Close the gaps! Don't give them an inch! If they show, you grab them! Die here if you have to!"
Normally calm off the pitch, Pavel Nedvěd turned into a battlefield commander once the whistle blew.
Thud!
"You son of a—!"
"You're weak."
Nedvěd went after Sneijder relentlessly, his fiery competitiveness fully on display.
Meanwhile, Chiellini tried every trick to break Ho-young's focus.
"Hey, Asian boy. You eat a banana before the match? You stink up this sacred pitch."
But Ho-young didn't respond.
"What, you deaf? Or just too scared to answer?"
Still, Ho-young didn't even glance his way.
It was as if he was completely locked in his own world.
But it wasn't a perfect poker face.
Chiellini could see the tension in his clenched jaw.
"Look at him biting his teeth. You think this is funny, huh?"
Yet there was no reply.
No reaction at all.
It frustrated Chiellini to no end.
So he pushed harder.
"Never thought I'd see the day I'd get ignored by some scrawny little Asian."
Chiellini wasn't a racist. In fact, he was generally considered kind and humble.
But under the banner of "provocation," he would do whatever it took to win.
This was the Champions League. Winning was everything.
Ho-young felt the same way.
With Nedvěd's talent on the line, he couldn't afford to lose.
So he didn't take the bait.
Normally, he might have fired back, but not today.
Last night's words from Cannavaro echoed in his mind.
'Chiellini clings to opponents when he's struggling. He'll talk nonstop, trying to rattle them, then exploit any weakness he finds.'
It was Chiellini's trademark move, his specialty.
That was why Ho-young stayed calm, refusing to respond to the provocation.
Still, he wasn't completely immune. His emotions occasionally flickered across his face.
'When that happens, use the mantra,' he reminded himself.
The mental technique most footballers swore by—the placebo effect.
Ho-young muttered softly.
"Ho... woo..."
"Huh? What'd you say?"
A chant toward victory.
And soon, his chance came.
Smack!
"Ah!"
"...!!"
[A long diagonal pass from Zidane toward the right flank!]
[Chiellini reacts a bit late! Can he catch up?]
[Ho-young! He escapes Chiellini's tug on his jersey by the narrowest of margins!]
"Shit."
He missed.
The one who lost focus wasn't Ho-young—it was Chiellini.
Meanwhile, Ho-young was already sprinting down the wing like a predator spotting prey, eyes locked on Van Nistelrooy, who was positioning himself in the center.
The cross came immediately after.
Smack!
"Oh no."
Chiellini knew instantly.
He was finished.
And he realized something else—Ho-young's cross was perfect.
Thud!
[Goal! Van Nistelrooy with a brilliant header! Ho-young's run and cross were top class!]
[Ah, Chiellini will be disappointed. He lost focus for just a moment and let Ho-young slip past him.]
Real Madrid's second goal.
The score was 2-0.
The shield that was supposed to block everything had shattered completely.
And in front of it stood Ho-young.
After providing the assist, he turned toward the scoreboard, leaped into the air, and roared.
All Chiellini could do was watch him walk away, staring at his back in disbelief.
(To be continued.)