Benzema, with the outside of his right boot, flicked the ball into the far corner.
Real Madrid were drowning.
Anfield went silent.
Three days later, in the cauldron of Anfield, Liverpool dominated the first twenty minutes. Salah hit the post. Mane forced a save. The English fans sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at deafening volume.
“Escucho muchas tonterías afuera.” (I hear a lot of nonsense outside.) zidane avisa estais avisados
Zidane stopped. He smiled—a rare, mysterious smile that showed nothing and everything.
Then, at minute twenty-three, a moment of silence. Not from the stadium—from the Real Madrid bench. Zidane stood perfectly still. He didn’t give instructions. He didn’t wave his arms. He just looked at his players. And every single one of them remembered the press conference. Benzema, with the outside of his right boot,
He didn't look angry. He looked serene. He placed his hands on the wooden podium, leaned into the microphones, and spoke in that low, hypnotic tone that made everyone lean forward.