"Kaká heads the ball down to Suker, Suker accelerates again—beautiful dribble—tight angle shot! Puyol blocks it out for a corner! AC Milan wins another corner kick!"
"Milan takes the corner—again it's Kaká with the header! Valdés makes another brilliant save! He stops a point-blank header! Another corner for Milan!"
"Pirlo steps up again! Valdés punches the ball clear! Barcelona's counterattack—Deco—Gattuso! What a tackle! He intercepted Deco just as he turned—an incredibly accurate read of Deco's next move!"
"Gattuso passes it to Suker again, and Suker—"
Aldo Serena's commentary cuts off. He's clutching his head, gasping for breath.
Crudeli immediately takes over.
"Suker breaks down the wing again—Van Bronckhorst is nothing but a traffic cone! Look at that! I said he was a traffic cone! Suker burns him with a Marseille turn!"
"Suker crosses—Inzaghi lunges for the shot at the near post! Ahhhh—Valdés again! He reads the cross and smothers the ball under his body!"
"AC Milan is relentlessly attacking down the left wing. With Suker's brilliant performance, they're pushing the attack deep into Barcelona's penalty area!"
"Suker! That's Suker for you!"
In the south stand, AC Milan fans are wide-eyed. Even though Suk has had a strong season, this match—especially the second half—has been absolutely jaw-dropping.
"Why is this guy so good?!"
A clearly local Parisian fan sitting in the Milan section gapes in astonishment.
The surrounding Milan fans puff up with pride.
Why is he so good?He's always been this good!
He's Milan's golden boy!
Even Barcelona fans are stunned watching the game.
In the first half, it was clearly their team dominating, but after the break, everything flipped.
AC Milan is now in control and relentlessly attacking their defense.
Watching Suker's dazzling display, the Barcelona fans are filled with anxiety.
They raise their fingers to their lips and whistle at Suk.
Ffffffffwwwwwsssshhhhhh!!!
Barcelona fans: Boo him off the pitch!
Hearing the jeers, the Milan fans won't have it.
"C'mon boys! Louder!!"
Bob roars, leading the cheer.
The jeers are drowned out by thunderous cheering.
Suker continues to threaten Barcelona's goal with every possession. The constant pressure forces even Barcelona's forwards to track back.
Milan's defensive pressure instantly eases.
Even Ronaldinho is silenced by this wave of attacks. For nearly ten minutes, he's had no impact.
"Van Bronckhorst, mark him!"
But he realizes the man in front of him isn't responding.
"Hey! What are you doing?!"
Puyol runs over and pats his teammate, noticing Van Bronckhorst's pale face and rigid posture.
"Hey! Snap out of it!"
Van Bronckhorst finally comes to, his expression full of despair.
"I can't keep up. I just can't. I can't stop him. I can't even touch him!"
He's tried everything—even fouls.
But every time Suker blows past him, even reaching out can't stop him.
If Suker used fancy footwork to get past him, that would be fine—it'd be a matter of timing and technique.
But Suker isn't even doing that!
He's just physically overwhelming him!
For the first time, Van Bronckhorst truly grasps the terror of those words.
"I'll help you double-team. Stay focused!"
Now, Puyol's burden becomes even heavier.
He has to watch both Suker and Inzaghi.
Thankfully, behind him, Valdés is like a radar—constantly calling out Inzaghi's position so Puyol doesn't lose him.
Even so, Puyol's head is spinning.
One second watching Sukere, the next watching Inzaghi.
He's nearly twisted his neck into a pretzel when—Inzaghi breaks!
Puyol immediately chases and sticks out a leg to block the ball.
Valdés runs over and grabs Puyol in a celebratory hug.
But the first thing out of Puyol's mouth is:
"I can't keep up anymore!"
Marking both Suk and Inzaghi is too much.
Constant scanning and anticipation—it's draining him mentally.
"I'll take Inzaghi!" Márquez shouts.
Barcelona is already preparing substitutions on the sideline—Puyol breathes a sigh of relief.
Suker takes a few breaths, scanning Barcelona's back line—they're clearly disoriented.
"At the next aerial duel, I'll send it to you—be ready to shoot!"
Then he shouts to the defense:
"All of you, get in there for the header!"
"Nesta, screen for me. Boss, go to the far post—once it's over, fall back to defend, got it?"
Suk gives low-key instructions.
Nesta and Maldini nod instantly.
Suker has earned his stripes.
Milan is surviving on his brilliance—so even Nesta and Maldini defer to him now.
Performance dictates respect.
Even the hot-tempered Nesta listens at this moment.
Suk positions himself at the top of the arc, staying out of the crowd.
His eyes lock with Pirlo's—a silent understanding.
"Pirlo sends it in! Chaos in the box! Nesta draws defenders, Maldini runs to the far post—down he goes—Suker! He's got it!"
In Barcelona's penalty box—
Suker charges in during the chaos, shakes off his marker, and leaps.
With defenders distracted by Nesta and Maldini, Suker finds space.
But Puyol still manages to pressure him.
Suker heads the ball sideways and shouts:
Inzaghi sprints in, reading the trajectory.
Just as he's cutting into the box, someone clips him.
His right foot plants, and his body spins 180°—falling backward.
Just then, the ball hits the back of his head—
Inzaghi instinctively ducks his neck and leans back—
The ball smashes off the back of his head and into the net.
The entire stadium goes silent.
Then—out of nowhere—the French commentator roars:
"GOAL!!!!!! FILIPPO INZAGHI!!!!!!"
"71st minute—AC Milan equalizes!! Suker with the header assist, and Inzaghi finishes it!"
The Milan fans explode.
After that dreadful first half, they've fought back to level terms!
The match is still open!The title is still within reach!
MILAN!!!MILAN!!!MILAN!!!
The AC Milan fans erupt like thunder, shaking the Stade de France.
Inzaghi lies on the ground, clutching the back of his head.
Suker dives on top of him.
"I freaking love your head!!"
That back-of-the-head goal was unreal.
That's Inzaghi for you.
The ghost in the box—he misses easy chances but scores the impossible.
A header off the back of the head? Unheard of—but here it is.
Maldini, halfway across the pitch, sees the goal and sprints to the penalty area.
He leaps onto the pile, grinning like a kid.
"Milan! Milan! Milan!"
In the Italian commentary booth, Crudele chants "Milan" over and over, tears streaming down his face.
After a nightmare first half—they've equalized.
This is Milan.The Milan that never gives up.
After recalibrating in the second half, they're back in it.
The Milan players, smiling and laughing, jog back to their half.
Barcelona's players, on the other hand, wear anxious expressions.
They've conceded twice in a row—not a good sign.
And the momentum is clearly with Milan now.
Their full-back Van Bronckhorst has been completely broken by Suker.
"I can keep running! Keep feeding me the ball!" Suker shouts.
Right now, he's the lone pillar propping up Milan.
Seeing his fire, the rest of the team feels a surge of belief.
Maldini's chest heaves—he's overwhelmed too.
He takes a deep breath and claps his hands:
"Guys! Get ready to defend! Don't let those forwards look down on us old guys!"
Nesta raises his hand: "Captain, I'm still young!"
"Then go score!" Maldini snaps.
Nesta sheepishly drops his hand.
Maldini's voice turns firm:
"This is it—the final battle! Bring it on!!"