Chapter 162: Real Madrid cuts off both wings, Simeone launches the roasted chicken wing tactic

As the match reached a fever pitch.

Another storm is igniting simultaneously.

Today’s mockery was clearly a bit late.

But never late.

Because Real Madrid and Cristiano Ronaldo feel unfamiliar.

The live chat and comment sections on major global live streaming platforms fell silent for less than a few minutes after Cristiano Ronaldo’s goal, then was completely drowned out by a flood of mockery.

Not bro, standing for fifteen minutes just to touch a ball. What is this called? Called the ‘Bread Eating Man,’ everyone.

So at thirty-nine, he really can’t keep running, right? He has to rely on Modrić to feed him with all his might to get a spot.

A tactical post forward—just missing the words ‘Please feed’ on his forehead.

Real Madrid spends this salary on a stake instead of buying a real pillar to insert into the penalty area, at least without paying social insurance.

Hilarious, the pension robot is online, standing mode activated, and teammates are asked to deliver ammo themselves.

The last time he played like this was Inzaghi, but at least he ran a few steps, while Cristiano Ronaldo didn’t even need to run.

The live comments were flooding rapidly, with malicious labels densely plastered.

Mobile refrigerators, the tactical burdens of a thirty-nine-year-old, the most expensive hangers—each one precisely hits the exact spot.

He was old and could no longer run; he could only stand and wait for death.

But what these people don’t know is.

Cristiano Ronaldo is not running fast.

He couldn’t move.

Inside the Metlands.

The game continued, and the pace kept getting dirtier.

Simeone stood at the edge of the technical zone, two veins bulging from his neck, commands popping out one after another.

Every sentence locked him in with the same meaning.

Atlético’s five defenders executed flawlessly.

When the ball finally reached Atlético’s attacking third, Jiménez pressed against Cristiano Ronaldo’s left shoulder, Savicka on the right, and Vitsel blocking the front.

When the ball shifted to the wings, two full-backs simultaneously pulled in, and five men surrounded Cristiano Ronaldo in the center, with a ring no larger than three meters in diameter.

Even when the ball was cleared and sent to the other half, these five didn’t spread out even a little.

Death orders.

In the truest sense, it is a death order that treats a person like a nuclear bomb to defend against.

This is the execution of Atlético Madrid players.

The muffled sound of muscle collisions never stopped.

Elbow strikes, knee strikes, heel steps—every physical contact carried more force than necessary.

Cristiano Ronaldo now has a red mark on his left arm, and the sock crack on his right ankle is widening.

But he stood there, unmoving.

Nailed there.

Time ticked by, second by second.

Twenty-seventh minute, twenty-eighth minute, thirtieth minute.

Real Madrid’s possession is rising, but effective progress is almost nonexistent.

Because the formation was off.

Cristiano Ronaldo held the front without retreating, leaving Carlo Ancelotti’s step-by-step progression missing the first receiving point.

The midfield was forced to take a few more horizontal passes, the tempo couldn’t pick up, and the attack was sticky and hard to push.

This made Kylian Mbappé increasingly annoyed.

In the 32nd minute, he called for the ball on the left. Modrić passed over, but the space ahead was tightly blocked by Atlético’s right-back.

Kylian Mbappé forced a change of direction and dribbled past a man and was knocked down.

A free kick didn’t threaten either.

In the 33rd minute, another attack was organized, but the ball was dropped fourteen times in the midfield and defense, but still couldn’t advance into the threat zone.

Kylian Mbappé shrugged his hands, cursed under his breath, and turned to look at the bench.

His gaze was complicated, impatient, restless, and there was something hidden deeper inside.

A desire to prove oneself.

Recently, rumors of a coaching change have stirred up a storm throughout the city, with Mourinho’s name circulating in the dressing room.

To be honest, everyone knows in their hearts that the new coach’s appointment means a reshuffle.

And the prerequisite for shuffling is that you must prove your irreplaceability at the table.

Kylian Mbappé needs stats, performances, and many goals or assists to secure himself.

But Cristiano Ronaldo didn’t drop back, so there was no deep support up front; he was like a frozen orphan on the left wing.

This suffocating feeling peaked at the thirty-fifth minute.

Thirty-fifth minute.

During a set-piece break, Atlético players delayed and slowly threw a throw-in.

In those few seconds,

Kylian Mbappé’s gaze crossed half the pitch and met Vinícius Júnior on the right.

The two of them were separated by dozens of meters, their eyes meeting for less than a second.

But that one second is enough.

They saw the same thing in each other’s eyes.

Impatience, impulsiveness, and a decision that doesn’t follow the coach’s arrangements.

The moment the throw-in was taken.

Kylian Mbappé didn’t run forward; instead, he turned and dropped back fifteen meters toward his own half, deliberately landing in the left midfielder position.

At the same time, Vinícius Júnior on the right did exactly the same, dropping deep into the right half to seek the ball.

Two sharp blades were drawn at the same time and sheathed back into their swords.

Real Madrid’s already barely holding 4-3-3 formation completely collapsed at this moment.

The front line became a desert with only Cristiano Ronaldo alone.

The midfield became a quagmire of five or six people squeezed together.

From the top view of the tactical board, this is no longer called 4-3-3.

This is called 4321.

An extremely bloated, extremely deformed, extremely foolish fake 4321.

Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo, standing deep in Atlético’s defense, felt a sense of emptiness he had never felt before.

That kind of tactical isolation was utter and complete.

Originally, Kylian Mbappé and Vinícius Júnior were pulling on the wings up front, at least distracting Atlético’s defense and creating gaps and passing routes.

Now both of them have withdrawn.

Atlético’s five defenders no longer need to focus on the wings.

All your attention, all your physical contact, all your defensive resources—you can use it all on one person.

Cristiano Ronaldo was completely isolated.

Surrounding them was an iron cage made up of five burly men.

There was no teammate within thirty meters behind.

No passing, no screen, no one can get the ball here.

Even the space for breathing was drained.

“¡Hijo de puta.”

Spanish, cannot be described.

Carlo Ancelotti’s shout came from the technical area on the sidelines.

To be honest, this sentence was so dirty that even the fourth official was stunned.

No one has ever seen Carlo Ancelotti curse like this; this man is always the one chewing gum in public.

An old gentleman with hands in his pockets, calm and composed.

But at that moment, his face was flushed bright red, and he kicked the water bottle at his feet away.

The bottle swirled in the air several times, splashing water all over the fourth official.

Carlo Ancelotti was completely unaware, his gaze fixed on Kylian Mbappé and Vinícius Júnior, who had dropped back to midfield.

“Go back, get back to the front court.”

His arms wildly swung in the air, wishing he could drag these two back from fifty meters away.

But amid the noise of 58,000 people, the players on the court couldn’t hear what he was shouting at all.

Or rather, they simply don’t want to listen.

Meanwhile, in the technical zone on the other side.

Simone saw everything.

Real Madrid’s wings are dropping back, their formation is disrupted, and their front line is empty…

It took him only a second to get this information into his mind.

The old fox smelled blood.

He turned to face the bench and clapped his hands three times.

That is a signal.

Then he extended four fingers and slashed to both sides.

The four midfielders smelled meat and almost simultaneously changed their running direction.

From contracting centrally to wildly pulling apart on both wings.

Koke pulled forward fifteen meters to the right, De Paul sprinted twenty meters to the left, with two defensive midfielders—one filling the left and the other filling the right.

This is Simone’s trump card.

Real Madrid’s wings have become a complete mess due to the drop in the attack.

The full-back didn’t know whether to press forward or retreat, and suddenly two more people were fighting for territory in the midfielder’s position.

Atlético Madrid is looking to take advantage of this chaos.

Using their unstoppable stamina advantage, they completely crushed Real Madrid’s two flanks.

The terrifying wing-burning tactic arrives.