Rice, Twice, Baby ('24-25 Real Madrid Home, 3-0)

Images courtesy Arsenal.com/Getty Images

First Half‍

30 seconds in, Kiwior misses a simple clearance as the ball ping-pongs around post kick-off. He’s a Poland international, a freak athlete, but he’s not Gabriel. After a dodgy showing against Mo Salah earlier this season, I’ve been worrying about his occasional twitchiness. He’s started unconvincingly.

The ball breaks to Mbappe, who tries one from 30 yards. Luckily, his effort is more Saudi Ronaldo than Prime Ronaldo.

Madrid are in grey tonight, their kit featuring a vintage Adidas logo instead of the three stripes. I hope that the banality of the grey will diminish their aura, giving our human beings a chance against their demigods.

A cynical early foul from Rodrygo on the unflappable Miles Lewis-Skelly.

Our captain is their reject, but in the early seconds he looks hungry, quick, caffeinated. Ødegaard buzzes around the right channel, interchanging with Saka, and wins a free kick at the edge of their box.

As the ball is repelled, Saka plays it blind, straight to Vini Jr., who shows nous to anticipate the pass. He doesn’t see a streaking Mbappe, and instead tries to take on Timber alone.

Then, a massive tackle from Saliba as the ball is about to break to Mbappe in midfield.

Madrid settle into comfortable possession after an impressive first 25 minutes from us. We’re losing steam.

Next to beautiful, burly Declan Rice, Luka Modric looks like some kind of wizened child, a 20 year-old Benjamin Button, shoulder height. Rice’s nickname in the squad is horse, apparently, and Modric looks like a jockey beside him.

Saka plays a gorgeous, teasing ball across their six-yard box, but no one’s there to finish it.

Madrid are very good at weathering punches, like a veteran boxer waiting to dish the knockout blow. After Bellingham releases Mbappe, the Frenchman can’t open his hips enough to find the far corner, and Raya manages to smother the ball.

Double-save from Courtois, absolutely world class. We do not fear them!

This is the best football match I’ve seen in years – electric, confident, propulsive. Both teams attack with courage and poise, neither willing to accept the role of underdog.

Valverde is an inspiration to guys with skinny legs. How does he run so far, so fast, and kick the ball so hard?

Second Half

Bellingham drifts to the edge of the box and, as the ball is pinged in to him, plays it first-time, who shifts it to his left, but finds the side netting. Jude, who in major matches like this, seems to spend a lot of time doing nothing, before doing something substantive, twice.

David Alaba tries to keep up with a surging Bukayo Saka run, out to in, but can’t, eventually bundling him over. Thirty yards out, just wide of the right hand post. I like the look of this.

57 MINUTES! PEAK DECLAN RICE! IS THIS HAPPENING! 100 MILLION POUNDS, PAID BACK IN THIS MOMENT!

The camera cuts to Roberto Carlos, looking disgruntled. Am I dreaming?

Prior to the strike, Bukayo and Declan were stood either side of the ball, whispering. I’ve never seen Rice shoot from a free kick before, and I wonder what he’s feeling right now. I’m touched by the trust his teammates clearly have in him, surely built by the things he can do with a football, behind closed doors. He’s living his potential, now. Maybe he always knew he was capable. Maybe this is a piece of destiny.

Courtois is some kind of cyborg, repelling two Merino strikes either side of an Alaba goal-line clearance. Tonight, he’s playing with aristocratic competence. Menacing shades of his 2022 match-winning final performance against Liverpool.

Another goal-line clearance, this time from Bellingham. We’re all over them, the Emirates pulsating with the same fury that blew Manchester City away in the second half of our Premier League fixture.

Another foul, a similar position.

OH MY GOD! RICE AGAIN! SAME CORNER! OH MY GOD!

The technique, incredible, and Courtois had taken a micro-step to his right as the ball flew to his left, true and perfect, the definition of Top Bins.

‍

Trossard, just on for Bukayo, finds Lewis-Skelly, sharp pass across the box, MERINO! MIKEL MERINO! WE’RE RUNNING RAMPANT! Was Trossard offside? No!

Madrid’s aura is gone, they are just a collection of stars, bereft of synchronicity. There is no plan, there is no mutual trust, and when Vini runs 60 yards, he doesn’t release the ball quickly enough, before running into traffic. They are the football equivalent of a corporate email chain.

Jurrien Timber. Always sharp, secure, precise. What a brilliant footballer. His every choice fills me with confidence.

Declan exits, his ankle bleeding, but there’s enough time for a Kieran Tierney cameo, our tireless, sadly expendable Scotsman popping up at centre forward, closing down Courtois. Perhaps Johan Cruyff is smiling down from heaven, watching his vision of total football realised, in the form of a third-choice left-back, pressing the greatest goalkeeper of the past decade.

Camavinga is sent off for kicking the ball away, and it’s done, this dream, 3AM Indian Standard Time, on the morning of April 9th, 2025.

It really happened. It really did.

*Special mention for Thomas Partey, quietly indispensable.