Rudiger had already threatened to turn the big match into a madhouse when he got a yellow card in the second half, with Militao already booked, for protesting. For protesting, which is easier said than done. You have Olise, Kane, Díaz, or Musiala in front of you, and you run to the center of the field to say a few silly things to the referee.
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But that was just the prelude. Rudiger was only warming up Camavinga. He came on in the second half to refresh the midfield, organize the ball distribution, and show physicality in recovery, and received two yellows that will haunt him for a significant time. Is a second yellow fair for holding onto the ball to prevent the opponent from restarting when the tie is still level, not even winning? Can someone be sent off for that? Could Camavinga have avoided the childishness in those minutes under that pressure?
It seems the referee didn’t remember that the Frenchman already had a yellow, and when he showed it, he realized he had sent him off: it was too late for anything, even to hide under the bed. It is known that Champions League matches are decided by details.
Until that moment, Madrid saw it as possible, close, within reach of a counterattack, one of the many chances wasted in the German area. The two giants were measuring each other’s legs and lungs, glancing sideways at an overtime that looked legendary (4-4 on aggregate), until the sending off came. Madrid just unbuttoned their shirt for a moment and Bayern executed with the urgency of a demon.
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The third goal for Real in the first half in Munich is all that could have been this year and will no longer be. Something better, or at least something simpler. An electrified ball that Vinicius carries down the wing, feinting his marker while waiting for news through the center, where Mbappé accompanies at a slow trot, looking from a distance like a wary fish. The Bayern defensive line shakes a little, trembling. And Mbappé, as if awakened by a bucket of water, starts sprinting. He has seen a space, a corridor, a gap to occupy alone. And no one runs faster than Mbappé on the field, so without the ball, he launches himself like a madman into the center of the area leaving everyone behind. Vini only has to pass it to him for Kylian to finish. A few years ago Cristiano said Mbappé lacked pure number 9 movements, the instincts of a goal area animal; it’s true, but the Frenchman finally read Vini at the Allianz and didn’t look for the ball, but the space. Spaces in football are created, like Butragueño or Romario, or attacked, like Ronaldo, any Ronaldo.
Before halftime, Bayern and Madrid had already left a memorable exchange. It all started with a beautiful ode to football: Neuer’s mistake. Manuel Neuer, one of the best goalkeepers in history, has been playing football for about six hundred years and not just anywhere: at Bayern and the German national team. He played a science fiction match in Madrid, where he almost had to set up the goals himself and sweep the stands. And it turns out that in a Champions quarterfinal, with his stadium going crazy, his foot or brain trembled at thirty seconds, and he handed the ball to Arda Guler. Is there a greater tribute to football? Is there a better way to tell anyone who last Sunday, in the corporate league, experienced something similar, that the God Football does not heed reasons or prestige? That in imperial settings, against terrifying rivals, Neuer fails like a rookie means football is more alive than ever: it remains a child’s game with the wonderful ability to get nervous.
And that’s it. Real Madrid leaves as they should always leave Europe: when there is no other choice, playing big. In Munich, with one less, and in the final minutes. They left everything there, even three great goals in the first half. They didn’t take their eyes off Bayern for a second. It wasn’t enough.
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