CHAPTER 426: I WANT TO TIED HIM DOWN

"¡No es falta! ¡No es falta! He touched me!" Illgner froze when the red card appeared, then stormed toward the referee, shouting and pointing frantically at Ronaldo, who was still on the ground.

His teammates swarmed the official—Redondo and Hierro pleading, Roberto Carlos yelling until the veins on his neck bulged—every Real Madrid player protesting furiously.

But the referee shook his head firmly and gave his explanation:

"Number 1, Illgner, deliberately charged out of his area and collided with number 9, Ronaldo, who was in clear possession and moving directly toward goal. The challenge was reckless, endangered the safety of the opponent, and denied an obvious goal-scoring opportunity. According to Law 12, this constitutes serious foul play and denial of a goal-scoring opportunity. Therefore, I have shown the red card."

The referee stood firm, eyes locked on Illgner. The German keeper’s protests grew more animated, his voice cracking with rage—until suddenly, in a fit of despair, he ripped his gloves off and hurled them to the ground. The Amsterdam arena roared, half in anger, half in shock.

Illgner kicked the gloves away, shaking his head furiously as Sanchís tried to calm him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and guiding him toward the tunnel. He left the pitch muttering, cursing under his breath, knowing the damage was already done.

On the Madrid sideline, Cañizares had already leapt to his feet the moment the red card came out. He tugged at his shorts, bounced on his toes, and clapped his gloves.

Beside him, the fourth official raised the substitution board—number 8, Mijatović.

Reluctantly, Mijatović trudged off, receiving a sympathetic pat on the back from Seedorf as he passed.

"Ohhh, and the referee’s gone to his pocket... it’s a red! A straight red card for Bodo Illgner! My word, Real Madrid are down to ten men! But it’s harsh, isn’t it? Illgner was only trying to close the angle, and perhaps there was just the slightest touch..."

"Intent doesn’t matter here. Ronaldo had the ball, heading straight toward goal. Illgner challenge was reckless, outside the area, and it left the referee with no alternative. This is exactly what Law 12 stipulates...."

The Laws of the Game were very clear about denying an obvious goal-scoring opportunity (DOGSO) and serious foul play.

If a goalkeeper—or any player—fouled an opponent outside the box, preventing a clear scoring chance, the referee was required to show a straight red card.

DOGSO + serious foul play = automatic red.

While the players were still arguing on the pitch, another loud "AAHH!" was heard, startling those in the middle of the commotion. The referee quickly pushed his way through and moved toward the sideline.

There, José Martín and Delgado Muñiz were struggling to hold back Jupp Heynckes, who was completely losing his temper. As fresh chaos broke out, the referee left the protesting players behind and made his way toward the Real Madrid technical area.

After the referee explained what had happened, he reached into his pocket.

Muñiz, suddenly panicked, shouted, "No, no, he only—"

...But it was too late.

Yep—a yellow card...a red card...and a penalty!

Up in the VIP’s seat, Richard shot up from his seat the moment the referee pointed to the spot. His fist slammed the railing in sheer exhilaration.

"This is it!" he muttered under his breath.

When Ronaldo stepped forward, Richard didn’t sit. He leaned so far over the edge of the balcony that Miss Heysen, Marina, and the others feared the man might actually tumble into the crowd.

The stadium itself seemed to hold its breath. A stunned hush fell, broken only by the shrill whistles of Madridistas, thousands protesting the decision with furious lungs.

Down on the pitch, Ronaldo carefully placed the ball on the penalty spot. His expression was calm—almost unreadable—as the referee marched the Madrid players back, ushering them to the edge of the box like angry schoolboys. Hierro lingered an extra step, shaking his head, before finally retreating.

Between the posts stood Santiago Cañizares, hurriedly thrown into the fire after Illgner’s dismissal. He tugged at his gloves, stretched his arms wide, and bounced on the line, his eyes locked on the Brazilian.

He knew what everyone in the stadium knew—Ronaldo could hammer it with brutal force, curl it with precision, or... worse... try something audacious.

The whistle blew.

Ronaldo began his run, short steps at first, shoulders loose, his gaze fixed on the keeper. Just as Cañizares committed to his right, Ronaldo slowed—then scooped the ball delicately down the middle.

"..."

He chose the most audacious option of all—a Panenka!

Gasps erupted around the Amsterdam Arena. The ball seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, arrogance stitched into its flight. Cañizares was already sprawling to his side, powerless to react.

The ball dipped—agonizingly slow—clipping the underside of the crossbar before bouncing just over the line and smashing into the roof of the net.

Goal.

For a split second, silence. Then chaos.

Ronaldo wheeled away, arms spread wide, his eyes blazing with fire. The small pocket of Barcelona supporters exploded in delirium, drowning beneath a storm of whistles from the furious home crowd.

Behind him, Cañizares slapped the turf with both palms, cursing himself for being duped. Hierro raised his arms in disbelief, shouting toward the referee, while Roberto Carlos kicked the post in frustration.

The scoreboard flickered to life: Real Madrid 1 – 1 Manchester City

It wasn’t just a goal—it was humiliation, the sort that cut deep at the Amsterdam Arena. And in that one daring touch, Ronaldo had turned the tension into triumph.

While City players swarmed Ronaldo in celebration, only Javier Zanetti showed no interest in the party. The Argentine’s face remained stern as he jogged straight into the net, scooping the ball up with both hands.

He didn’t waste a second—no fist pumps, no embraces—just a quick wave of his arm, urging his teammates to hurry back into position. "Go back, on position!" he barked, cutting through the roar of the stadium.

To him, one goal was nothing. There was still time, still a match to be played.

As Zanetti sprinted toward the center circle with the ball tucked under his arm, Richard, from his balcony seat, immediately turned toward Marina.

"Help me draft a new contract for Zanetti. Right now. I want him tied to City for a long, long time. Put it in writing: he’ll be our main captain. If possible, make it happen as soon as possible."

Marina blinked, caught off guard. "What? But what if we lose this match? Do you still want me to draft the contract?"

"With that kind of personality, what more could you want in a captain?" Richard muttered, half to himself. "He doesn’t sulk, he doesn’t break. He just leads. We need that energy here for ten years, twenty if possible."

He slammed his fist lightly on the railing. "I want Zanetti tied down long-term. Whatever it takes. Make it happen."

Yeah—with that kind of personality, what more could you possibly want in a captain?