He didn't shout. He didn't slam the table. He simply stood up, nodded once at the stunned room, and walked out. In the locker room, the players watched the replay on a tablet. Sergio Ramos grinned. Luka Modric adjusted his shin guards. Karim Benzema simply looked at the Champions League trophy painted on the wall.
Then Zinédine Zidane walked in.
“Escucho muchas tonterías afuera.” (I hear a lot of nonsense outside.) zidane avisa estais avisados
Final score: Part IV: The Aftermath Back in the mixed zone, microphones were shoved toward Zidane. A young reporter asked, “Mister, did you know this would happen?” He didn't shout
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. In the locker room, the players watched the
Before half-time, Vinícius Jr. scored a second. Then a third. Then, in the second half, a counter-attack so perfect, so cruel, that the Liverpool defenders simply stopped running. They knew. They had been warned.
The press room at Valdebebas was buzzing. Real Madrid had just lost the Clásico, and the vultures were circling. Sixty journalists sat with loaded questions about tactics, about the veteran squad, about the ghost of the Champions League.