Madrid has more spotlights than switches. More material authors than intellectuals. This always produces a certain uneasiness: there are many Michael Corleones ready to kill Sollozzo, but few Clemenzas who leave the gun in the bathroom. The main facilitator, and the comparison with the fat Clemenza is not about physicality, is Jude Bellingham. The more the ball passes through him, the better Madrid play and the more disconcerted the opponent is. He is only an electric circuit, a nervous system. He got rid of the sticky markings in the 25th minute of the match, a red cage placed in his area of influence, and Real felt that they had to put the trumpets in the direction of Stuttgart’s goal, which by then could already be two goals ahead: should to be two goals ahead if it weren’t for the fact that the dice, in Madrid’s area, are falling less and less mysteriously in Madrid’s favour; if it’s not Courtois, it’s the post, luck or life whispering things.
Bellingham plays and the team plays; the ball doesn’t go through Bellingham, or through whoever best imitates him, and the lights want to turn on by themselves. A difficult task that requires spirit, that of the lights turning on by themselves. But one appeared: Kroos. In the form of Tchouameni, who released a well-shaped pass to Rodrygo to leave him alone with the whole mountain in front of him. Twenty seconds into the second half, Mbappé was alone in front of the goal (and his marker was losing metres with each stride) trying not to be offside when Rodrygo released the ball, who rushed so hard that the Frenchman, off balance, finished almost from the ground. A wonderful run by the Brazilian, a perfect assist and a goal. But not a victory, at least not yet: Stuttgart deservedly equalised, returning to Germany with a little picture from Courtois, and Rüdiger appeared to break the deadlock with a header.
Madrid has resources, but they draw on them because the game is not working: there is no speed of ideas in the centre, there is confusion (a lot) in the last passes near the area, and there is a profound irregularity in the game with the ball and without the ball. Stuttgart reached the white goal as many times as they wanted: they seemed to be having a break. In a couple of plays, so many Germans were left alone against so few Madrid players that it seemed as if the referee had blown the whistle. There is a lot of dynamite up front and few match players; down below there are some squalls that sometimes, with the centre of the field sinking, the team breaks up, raising its stern like the Titanic.
It is usually summer, and a little bit of autumn, the season of worrying victories. Those points that are won leaving bad feelings, an extraordinary expression. Winning without convincing, Madrid’s guard philosophy while it searches for itself. The team does not buckle up but protects its position in Spain and Europe. A switch, a devilish and imaginative mind, waited this Tuesday for his few minutes for what the game asked of him: Arda Güler. Madrid needs him on the field creating spaces. And what do you say about Endrick’s absurd play? A counterattack with Vinicius and Mbappé running away, meters ahead and you decide to hit from outside the area a shot so crazy, so crazy, so senseless, that the goalkeeper (the ball was not even positioned, but it was powerful) swallows it. You have to care very little about anything to end a play like that after hitting the air with your previous shot. All or nothing, Russian roulette. “If he misses, I’ll kill him,” said Courtois. Well, he scored.