Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

After throwing out a sharp retort to Costa, Leon didn’t bother reacting to the fierce glare his opponent shot him. He turned instead and gave a playful wink to Khedira, who had been glancing over from nearby.

The head referee had been far away during the play, and Leon’s little defensive trick had been subtle enough to escape notice. Costa had just suffered a silent loss.

And Khedira? He was downright moved by Leon’s actions.

See? This is what a true ”hao houmi” looks like!

He joined the rotation squad with him, stood up when he was getting bullied… If that’s not a good partner in the midfield, what is?

Granted, the first reason for Khedira’s appreciation might’ve been a bit off.

But if Leon knew what Khedira was thinking, he might just go along with it anyway.

With that successful counterblow, Leon adopted the lowest expectations of Costa’s sportsmanship and prepared to engage in a battle of wits across his own half.

Physically, Costa was slightly bulkier, but compared to the nightmare that was Martínez, Leon actually found him manageable.

But he wasn’t defending Costa’s direct challenges—he was guarding against the dirty tricks.

Right now, Costa was still in the developmental stage of his career.

But all the sneaky little fouls and torment tactics he’d picked up in the lower leagues?

They were already on full display—just as mature as they’d be at his peak.

These methods had worked well for him in the past.

Mix a little physical violence with some psychological taunts—throw the opponent off their rhythm, bait them into a mistake, maybe even get them to lash out and pick up a yellow card.

Plenty of defenders with weaker mentalities had crumbled under this kind of pestering.

But today, Costa had run into a brick wall.

Leon had earned widespread praise from both fans and the media for his calm, composed performances on the pitch and in training.

That cool exterior? It came from a real mental fortitude—a ”big heart” for the big moments.

Even in his past life, Leon had been known for his resilience under pressure. He rarely let his emotions get the better of him.

Costa trying to provoke him?

Heh. Try dealing with cutthroat business clients in China for a few years, then come talk about mental games.

Five minutes passed. They’d elbowed each other and earned some invisible achievements. Leon remained unbothered by Costa’s verbal taunts.

Ten minutes in, Leon had already stolen the ball from Costa twice.

Costa, annoyed, tried copying Leon’s earlier move and reached for his waist—only to have Leon preemptively yank at his pant leg.

”You son of a—!”

Costa’s face turned green. As he felt Leon tugging at the hem of his shorts and risking an exposure of his underwear to the crowd, he backed off fast.

One hand clutched his waistband, the other smacked Leon’s arm away in frustration.

”What, not playing dirty anymore?” Leon grinned.

”You’re filthier than I am! Aren’t you afraid of getting carded?!”

”If you don’t care about your public image anymore, then hey—taking a yellow card’s just part of the lesson.”

”Damn it! Are you even a Real Madrid academy product?!”

”Sure am. But I played in Segunda. Even Segunda B. You think you’re the only one who knows how to rough someone up?”

Leon chatted close and personal, all smiles.

Costa was dumbfounded. He quickly pulled up his shorts and stepped away.

The match continued. Their duel was just a short interlude, one that started fierce and ended fast.

Leon, the smart one, used clever tactics to show Costa he could keep up with this nonsense all game long.

They’d both played in the lower leagues—no point in trying cheap tricks here. They wouldn’t work.

Costa, also no fool, loved provoking others—but he had a clear head.

Seeing that Leon was just as dirty, if not dirtier, and way calmer, Costa wisely chose to cut his losses.

I mean, who seriously pulls down an opponent’s shorts during a live match?

Costa had thick skin, but even he didn’t want to become the guy whose boxers ended up on every front page tomorrow.

Fine. He gave up. He’d just play the game properly now. He was out.

Leon saw Costa retreating to the top of the center circle to receive the ball and let out a quiet ”tch.”

He rubbed his right ribs with a grimace. That elbow from earlier had landed hard.

He’d gotten his payback on the spot, sure—but the ache lingered.

Still, the storm had passed. Khedira hadn’t taken the bait, and Costa hadn’t gained anything from the scuffle.

With the game back to normal, Madrid was bound to regain more control in midfield.

The longer the match went on, the more chances Madrid’s midfield and forward lines would generate.

Forget the usual defensive contributions from Callejón and Lucas Vázquez.

Even just counting Leon, Khedira, and Granero—their individual quality far exceeded Rayo Vallecano’s midfield.

Once the tempo stabilized and the midfield trio found their rhythm, the momentum clearly shifted.

Leon now focused less on defense and more on orchestrating attacks.

Granero acted as the connection between defense and midfield, using his excellent short and long passing to get Khedira and the fullbacks involved.

And the one driving the ball forward in possession? That job fell to Khedira—still fuming from Costa’s antics.

The roles were clear, the transitions fluid. Mourinho nodded in satisfaction on the sidelines.

A lot smoother than watching Lassana Diarra muddle through dribbles during attacks, that was for sure.

This was the beauty of a well-balanced midfield trio—where 1 + 1 > 2.

Leon was especially appreciated by the coaching staff for this. He could complement anyone he played with.

Otherwise, why else would Mourinho drag him into every match and never leave him out to rest?

As the midfield began operating smoothly, Callejón and Vázquez started drifting inside, while the ultra-offensive fullbacks bombed down the flanks.

Marcelo and Carvajal—Real Madrid’s legendary fullback duo from the future Champions League three-peat—were already teaming up years ahead of schedule.

With a reliable defensive midfielder covering their backs, their offensive thrust became even more lethal.

Letting them charge the flanks was far more effective than having Callejón and Vázquez dribble through by themselves.

Rayo’s backline—already the worst in the league with 35 goals conceded—was in deep trouble.

If Madrid had focused on central penetration, Rayo might’ve held for a bit.

But once Madrid chose to stretch the field wide and attack with one-on-one flank duels, Rayo couldn’t cope.

Especially with Marcelo. Twice he blasted past defenders to the byline and fired in threatening cutbacks.

Rayo was forced to shift their entire defense to contain him.

Leon, pressing higher with the advancing formation, drifted into Rayo’s half.

Seeing the defense lean to one side, he raised his hand and called for the ball, quickly switching play with Granero to the opposite wing.

Carvajal didn’t waste the opportunity created by Marcelo’s rampage on the left.

He first sidestepped left-back Casado, then beat center-back Pletikosa’s challenge and squared the ball into the right half-space just outside the penalty area.

There, Callejón—who had pulled defenders toward him on purpose—didn’t shoot.

Instead, after drawing their focus, he scooped the ball gently to the far post.

And Morata, having shaken off Rayo’s other center-back Arribas, darted in.

His pace and agility served him well, but his jumping ability made the real difference—he soared above the crowd and connected with a perfect header before any defender could react.

The distance was simply too short—Rayo Vallecano’s goalkeeper Rubén Martínez had absolutely no chance with that ball!

”Callejón with the cross—at the far post! Morata! Oh! The young Morata! With excellent off-the-ball movement and a brilliant header, he puts Real Madrid ahead in the first half!”

”Rayo Vallecano’s backline was completely ripped apart by this switch-and-drag play from Madrid!”

”1–0! Real Madrid strikes first away from home, and now they can drag Rayo straight into the tactical trap they know better than anyone!”

He Wei was in great spirits, playfully referring to Real Madrid’s classic strategy with the nickname popular on Chinese sports forums: Mourinho’s never-failing ”Fishing Technique.”

As long as Real Madrid scored first, they’d bait the opponent into pressing higher and sending more players forward. And then—bam! A quick counterattack would almost always result in a second goal.

It was an open secret, this tactical trap—everyone knew about it. But even knowing it, teams couldn’t help but take the bait.

Unless they were willing to just lose 1–0, any attempt to push up for a goal would end up playing right into Real’s hands.

That said, for the rest of the first half, Madrid didn’t manage to extend their lead the way they usually would.

Because Morata, instead of going for a header again, completely botched a golden half-breakaway chance with a limp side-footed shot.

If that opportunity had fallen to Callejón—or even Lucas Vázquez—it might have ended in the back of the net.

Mourinho covered his face and rolled his eyes on the sideline. Leon, more accustomed to this, just gave a familiar shake of the head.

He had seen enough of Morata’s games in his previous life—over a hundred, at least. The man didn’t earn his nickname ”Ambidextrous Disaster” for nothing.

Before the second half began, Mourinho subbed on Cristiano Ronaldo for Vázquez—clearly aiming to increase efficiency up front.

Morata, in turn, looked visibly relieved. He happily took on the role of a battering ram for CR7.

And the in-form Ronaldo did not disappoint.

In the 57th and 71st minutes, he netted twice—first from a knockdown header by Morata, and then from a through ball delivered by Leon.

Two goals in just about 26 minutes. Ronaldo didn’t just destroy Rayo Vallecano’s hopes—he incinerated them.

Unfortunately, in the final minutes, Rayo clamped down and refused to let Ronaldo get another clear shot. The final score stayed at 3–0.

It was a clean and complete victory for Real Madrid after their loss to Levante—no chance for Barcelona to close the gap.

With those two goals, Ronaldo also overtook Messi on the scoring chart again—29 league goals to Messi’s 28, after the latter had scored four in his last match.

He now stood alone at the top of the scorer’s table once more.

Naturally, Ronaldo was in an excellent mood after the game. His media interviews were noticeably more upbeat.

Mourinho had granted him full shooting rights this season and encouraged him to go toe-to-toe with Messi in the stats race—and Ronaldo had delivered.

By round 23, both of these monstrous stars were already pushing 30 goals each.

Falcao, third in the league with 16 goals, looked downright awkward by comparison.

Fans across Spain were now obsessed with how insane these two might get by the end of the season.

In terms of goals plus assists, Messi still held the edge with 28 goals and 10 assists compared to Ronaldo’s 29 goals and 6 assists.

But purely in terms of goalscoring efficiency, Ronaldo was winning—especially considering his regular rest days.

Their head-to-head stats battle was more thrilling than the actual title race.

Because, right now, Real Madrid had 22 wins and 1 loss in 23 matches—an insane record.

Barcelona? 15 wins, 6 draws, 2 losses.

That was 66 points to 51—a gap of five full wins.

Barça fans could hardly stand to look at the standings anymore.

They weren’t used to this. For the past three seasons, they’d been the ones pulling away from Madrid by 7, 8, even 10 points mid-season.

Now the tables had turned—they were the ones being dragged 15 points behind. The bitterness? Only they knew.

Meanwhile, Real Madrid fans were partying again.

Ronaldo had reclaimed the scoring lead. Madrid maintained a massive lead in the league standings.

Their mood? Could be summed up in three words:

This feels great!

With the Copa del Rey temporarily out of the way, and the remaining schedule focused on La Liga and the Champions League, Madridistas were fully confident Mourinho would crush Barça all the way to the end.

The players felt the same. And the next match was just against Racing Santander—a relegation-zone team. What was there to worry about?

And so, on February 25th, a well-rested Real Madrid side hosted what would become their perfect Waterloo.

Leon, for once, had been given the rare privilege of watching from home—he wasn’t even on the 18-man squad. Mourinho had personally approved his rest.

From his couch, Leon witnessed firsthand how Racing Santander used dirty tactics to completely throw off Madrid’s stars.

To make things worse, the referee on duty that day was oddly lenient—barely whistling for any fouls.

So Racing dug in hard, throwing everything behind the ball and fighting tooth and nail.

They didn’t stop even after three yellow cards in the first half.

In the 49th minute, they scored off a corner—towering center-back Espinosa rose above everyone to bury it past Madrid’s keeper.

That goal pushed Racing’s players into full berserker mode.

They tightened their defense even more, committed tactical fouls without hesitation, and chopped up Madrid’s rhythm at every opportunity.

Mourinho responded by throwing on Callejón, Kaká, and Morata all at once in a last-ditch bid to equalize—but the impact was limited.

Finally, in stoppage time, Di María forced his way into the box, beating two defenders before crumpling to the turf with a pained scream.

The assistant referee’s flag went up immediately—signaling a stamp on Di María’s foot by a Racing defender.

The Bernabéu, sunken in frustration all match long, suddenly erupted into roars of hope.

The culprit, defender Sisma—already on a yellow—was shown a second, and then a red.

With a penalty awarded in the dying seconds, Cristiano Ronaldo stepped up and coolly slotted it home to tie the match.

But he didn’t celebrate.

He was visibly frustrated—not just with the team’s overall performance, but with his own.

As the final whistle blew, Racing’s players celebrated like they’d won a title, marching off the Bernabéu pitch with heads held high.

Barça fans, of course, couldn’t contain their schadenfreude. They flooded social media with jabs, laughing at how Madrid couldn’t even beat a bottom-tier team.

Leon, browsing the day’s headlines and online comments, finally typed a calm message on his personal social media:

”Don’t panic.”

Barça fans swarmed in with mocking replies.

But a few hours later, when Barcelona played Atlético Madrid… the match ended 2–2.

Leon sent out one more tweet.

A single line, sharp as a dagger to every Barça fan reading it:

”Don’t panic. Barça will deliver.”

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