El Clasico: A Story of Urgency, Imperfection, and Inevitable Triumph

There are nights in football when the tension has been stored for far too long — and the first roar is more a release than a celebration. For Real Madrid supporters, this Clásico was that catharsis. A top-of-the-table side, Barcelona’s season marred by uncertainty, and a home crowd desperate to break the mini-drought in Spain’s most political football rivalry. Everything suggested that this match had to be the one.

Yet modern Clásicos are never about inevitability. They’re about survival.

Madrid began the afternoon short of a natural right-back, forced once again into invention. Dean Huijsen, undeniably raw yet equally fearless, stood alongside Éder Militão — Valverde took the armband, and with it, the burden of command. The plan was simple: intensity first, patience later.

Barcelona tried to set the tone physically — perhaps compensating for their lack of control — and an early Madrid penalty shout foreshadowed the chaos ahead. Then came Kylian Mbappé’s looping finish, disallowed by mere inches. The stadium erupted; VAR inhaled. Madrid’s momentum, briefly stolen.

But this is Kylian. He hunts for repetition. When Jude Bellingham split Barcelona’s fragile defensive line, Mbappé corrected the error by driving the ball low, decisive, inevitable. The Bernabéu finally had a goal that counted.

Madrid looked ready to surge — Valverde’s effort threatening orbit — but arrogance remains the game’s slyest antagonist. Arda Güler, eager to flourish, lost the ball in a zone no player should tempt. Barcelona pounced, stunning Courtois and the crowd alike. The punch landed softly, but its timing hurt.

Then came a moment that summarized both the match and Barcelona’s current era: desperation disguised as defending. Pedri clutched Vinícius’ shirt like a drowning man reaching for driftwood. Madrid’s response was merciless. With Militão still stationed upfield, Vini looped a defiant cross toward the towering Brazilian, and Bellingham — Madrid’s new author of decisive chapters — turned it home. The halftime whistle served as temporary reprieve: Real Madrid 2, Barcelona 1 — advantage earned, not gifted.

The Long Middle Act of a Story That Refused to Slow

The second half offered Madrid the opportunity to kill the game. Handball given, Mbappé standing over the penalty, clarity within reach. But his strike, full of power yet lacking precision, was denied. As was Bellingham’s later finish — the third “goal” chalked off in a night where belief and bureaucracy seemed locked in a dance.

Barcelona grew only in appearance. Possession without purpose. Territory without danger. Lamine Yamal, whistled and restrained, flickered briefly — a reminder of a talent that one day may define this fixture. But not today.

Madrid controlled the decline of chaos. This is what championship sides do: they suffocate risk.

And yet, football never fully surrenders to logic. Koundé — alone, unmarked, fate begging — miscontrolled what could have been the equaliser. Rodrygo nearly punished them twice on the break. And Pedri, exhausted to the core, launched one final sprint deep into added time before collapsing into an emblematic dismissal: reckless, avoidable, symbolic.

As the red card rose, the match dissolved into pushing and confrontation — the typical release valve for decades of Catalan–Castilian animosity. But beneath the noise was a truth:

Madrid had outlasted their rivals.

Not magnificently. Not flawlessly.

But completely.

Victory, Finally Defined

This wasn’t merely a win after five Clásicos without triumph. It was a reminder of the shifting balance of power:

• Madrid: ruthless in transition, physically superior, psychologically hardened.

• Barcelona: trying to remember what dominance felt like — once king, now hopeful interloper.

Three goals given, three scratched off, a penalty missed, and still the scoreboard told only part of the story. Madrid didn’t just win — they enforced a new order.

The Bernabéu roared at full-time, not because Real Madrid were perfect, but because perfection is irrelevant in battles like these.

El Clásico rewards those who endure.

And on this long, loud afternoon, Madrid endured more convincingly than they have in years.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The End of the Illusion: Arsenal Expose Real Madrid’s Limitations in a Tactical Masterclass

For Real Madrid, the Champions League often resembles a familiar stage—a place where memory meets inevitability, where their white shirts glisten under the pressure and where comebacks are not miracles but rituals. But not this time. On this night, under the lights, against a well-coached Arsenal side that refused to be overawed by history, Madrid ran out of magic.

The script leading into this second leg at the Bernabéu was almost cruelly simple: Madrid needed a 4-0 win, the kind they have conjured before in this arena of miracles. The tone was not romantic—it was corporate. Cold. Businesslike. The message was clear: win, restore the natural order, and move on to the semi-finals.

Carlo Ancelotti trusted Lucas Vázquez and David Alaba as his full-backs—both veterans of stormy Champions League nights. Vázquez, wearing the armband, embodied that Madridismo spirit of grit and defiance. And yet, this wasn’t a night for heroics.

The Illusion of Early Dominance

Madrid started with intent. There was an early flash—Mbappé had the ball in the net just two minutes in, but his positioning was as reckless as it was desperate. The disallowed goal was a mirage, not a message. Arsenal, seemingly rattled, earned a penalty minutes later after a chaotic sequence. Martin Ødegaard, the prodigal son once discarded by Madrid, handed the spot-kick to Bukayo Saka. His miss felt symbolic—as if the ghosts of Madrid’s past refused to let the door close just yet.

Madrid thought they had a penalty of their own when Declan Rice’s arms tangled with Mbappé’s elegant run, but VAR, in its cold impartiality, denied them. The first half ticked by with Madrid pushing, but never piercing—an illusion of dominance without the incision.

A Tactical Reality Check

The second half began with more Madrid pressure. But Arsenal stood firm—not just physically but tactically. Their shape, their discipline, their transitions. Everything Arteta had worked on clicked. And then, in a moment of poetic symmetry, Ødegaard—Madrid's former discarded hope—pulled the strings. A flowing move ended with Merino threading the needle and Saka finishing with clinical ease. Arsenal’s goal was everything Madrid had lacked: structure, coordination, and purpose.

Vinícius Júnior, brilliant but alone in his chaos, found the net immediately after, pouncing on a rare Arsenal lapse. But the goal, rather than fueling a comeback, felt like a belated protest. Arsenal were never truly shaken.

In added time, Gabriel Martinelli crowned Arsenal’s performance with a composed finish that silenced the Bernabéu. It wasn’t a shock—it was confirmation. Arsenal hadn’t just eliminated Madrid. They had outplayed them, outthought them, and in Ødegaard’s case, even out-Madrided them.

Beyond the Final Whistle

Full-time: Real Madrid 1, Arsenal 2. Aggregate: exit. The numbers do not lie. But what lingers is the meaning. What now for Madrid?

Elimination might once have provoked a crisis for a club so intertwined with the Champions League. Not anymore. Ancelotti’s men still lead the league, and their squad, though ageing, is balanced with youth. But a season without continental success doesn’t sting like it once did. Perhaps that is the real story: the slow dilution of myth in the face of modern football’s ruthlessness.

Madrid will recover, as they always do. But tonight, they were forced to accept a truth Arsenal made painfully clear: history can no longer mask tactical frailty, and destiny does not substitute for design.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

A Duel Deferred: Real Madrid Edge Atlético, But the Battle Remains

Football, at its highest level, is a game of measured risks, of moments seized and others carefully postponed. On a night where caution often outweighed chaos, Real Madrid edged Atlético 2-1 in the first leg of their European showdown, yet neither side left the Santiago Bernabéu with an air of finality. The duel will be decided 14 kilometres east, where the Metropolitano will serve as the stage for a reckoning—one that promises to be more explosive, more desperate, and ultimately, more decisive.

The game unfolded in phases, like a piece of theatre where each act was defined by a singular stroke of brilliance. Rodrygo, Julián Álvarez, and Brahim Díaz each etched their names onto the scoreline with goals that mirrored one another in aesthetic and execution—a subtle step inside, a curling shot beyond the outstretched fingertips of fate, the net billowing as if absorbing the inevitability of artistry.

Yet, for all the individual magic, the match was an exercise in tactical restraint. "We could not have expected to end it here," Carlo Ancelotti admitted, fully aware that a 2-1 lead is an advantage measured in degrees, not in certainties. Ever the pragmatist, Diego Simeone lamented the defensive lapses but saw promise in how his team had controlled large swathes of the encounter. "It had been very tactical," he remarked—a statement as much as a reflection of a contest played on the margins of space and patience.

A Battle of Control and Sudden Instincts

The opening moments were deceptive. Atlético, so often a team of structure and attrition, were rattled early. The first pass of real intent from Real Madrid carved them open—Fede Valverde’s simple delivery found Rodrygo, who ghosted past Javi Galán, shifted away from Clément Lenglet and curled home a sumptuous finish. In an instant, Madrid led.

For a fleeting moment, Atlético looked overwhelmed. Galán, once more, was left scrambling as Rodrygo surged into the box and went down, though the referee deemed it an embellishment rather than a foul. Vinícius then escaped on the opposite flank, forcing José María Giménez into an emergency intervention. There was a sense that, should Madrid apply sustained pressure, Atlético might crack.

But Simeone’s men did not panic. Instead, they settled into possession, occupied the midfield where Madrid had left a void, and found composure in the familiar rhythm of Rodrigo De Paul and Antoine Griezmann. Their patience was rewarded when Julián Álvarez, stationed on the left side of the area, wrestled back a loose ball, evaded Eduardo Camavinga, and lashed a ferocious strike in off the far post. The equalizer was both defiant and deserved.

The match then entered a state of equilibrium, a holding pattern of calculated moves. Atlético probed, Madrid absorbed. The game slowed, until it didn’t.

The Moment of Separation

Real Madrid’s greatest weapon is not merely their talent but their inevitability. Even when controlled, even when seemingly subdued, they lurk on the periphery of danger, waiting for the moment when the collective inertia tilts in their favour. And so it did.

Díaz, in a moment of instinctive sharpness, combined with Ferland Mendy and Vinícius before slicing away from Giménez and curling the ball home—a strike reminiscent of what had come before, yet significant in how it altered the evening’s trajectory.

Simeone, seeing the shift, responded with pragmatism. He introduced Conor Gallagher and Nahuel Molina to reclaim the midfield, then turned to defensive reinforcement in Robin Le Normand. At first glance, it was a gesture of restraint, an acknowledgement that the second leg awaited and caution must prevail. But then came a counterpunch—Ángel Correa and Alexander Sørloth, two strikers with a penchant for late-game heroics, entered the fray. Atlético were not retreating; they were recalibrating.

The Final Glimpse of Chaos

For all its tactical rigidity, the match still had room for one last chaotic flourish. In the dying moments, Kylian Mbappé should have squared for Vinícius to seal it, but Marcos Llorente intervened with a desperate lunge. Seconds later, Vinícius surged again, only for Giménez to fling himself into a last-ditch block. Madrid, tantalizingly close to a decisive third, were denied. Atlético, staring into the abyss of a heavier defeat, clung to the narrowest margin of hope.

And so, both sides emerged neither triumphant nor vanquished. The first leg had served its purpose—not as a conclusion, but as a prelude. "That could have knocked us out," Simeone admitted, his words tinged with both relief and anticipation. "Maybe that leaves the door open to hope."

Hope, however, is a fragile thing. When the second leg arrives, there will be no room for measured risks and no safety in the knowledge of a return fixture. The Metropolitano will not tolerate hesitation. This time, it will be all or nothing.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar

Real Madrid's Eternal Script: A Night of Defiance, Drama, and Destiny

Real Madrid entered the dressing room trailing 2-0, reeling from the sharp blows inflicted by Dortmund’s youthful dynamism. Donyell Malen’s finish had drawn first blood, followed by a goal from Jamie Bynoe-Gittens, the Reading-born prodigy who played with the audacity of a veteran. It was a lead Dortmund had thoroughly earned, embodying a performance both elegant and efficient. Yet, as the two teams retreated at halftime, questions lingered: Could this finally be Dortmund’s night? Or would history, so often punctuated by Madrid’s defiance, once again lean toward the familiar?

Before the match, a banner declared the stage belonged to Madrid—"This is our crown, our cup, always has been, always will be." And yet, for 45 minutes, that crown looked perilously close to slipping. Dortmund seemed poised to defy both script and expectation. But the Santiago Bernabéu, with its atmosphere thick with legacy, knows only one plotline. The improbable is ordinary here; the miraculous, routine. Madrid's history doesn’t just suggest comebacks—it demands them.

What unfolded in the second half was both an assertion of Madrid’s myth and a performance that reaffirms their unique relationship with chaos and glory. Within 103 seconds, the impossible was undone. Antonio Rüdiger crashed home the first goal, and before Dortmund could even comprehend the blow, Vinícius Jr. restored parity. What had seemed a lost cause moments earlier was now suddenly, and predictably, within Madrid's grasp.

Lucas Vázquez added a third with seven minutes remaining, a swift counterpunch just as Dortmund had dared to threaten again. Thibaut Courtois had moments earlier denied Dortmund a lead with a save that felt as crucial as a goal itself. And then, as if completing a familiar dance, Vinícius struck twice more—his second a thunderous finish that embodied not just skill but inevitability. With that, he completed his hat-trick, sealing yet another comeback in a stadium that thrives on them.

The crowd erupted in delirium, chants filling the night air: "Así gana el Madrid!" – This is how Madrid win! It wasn’t just a victory; it was a reaffirmation of identity. Only one team in history had overturned a two-goal deficit to win by three in the Champions League—and that team, of course, was also Madrid. The Bernabéu doesn’t simply host games; it stages epics, where no lead is safe, and no opposition triumphs without first surviving Madrid’s final, furious act.

In the end, the match was all thunder, a storm unleashed in the second half. Yet, the spark that ignited it was delicate—a touch so subtle it felt almost absurd in the chaos to follow. Serhou Guirassy’s flick, gentle as if delivered in carpet slippers, had opened the game’s story. But Madrid, true to form, had seized the narrative, reshaping it in their image.

Madrid do not merely win; they conjure victories, reminding the world that for all the tactics and talent in football, there is no substitute for the belief that the story will always bend to your will. And in Madrid’s hands, it always does.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

A Night of Grit and Glory: Brazil’s Resilience at the Bernabéu

The Estadio Santiago Bernabéu is a theatre where dreams are made, broken, and often reborn. Beneath the stadium lights and the gentle breeze that whispers through its towering stands, the air brims with passion, competitiveness, and the kind of tension that only football can conjure. When Brazil and Spain locked horns in this iconic arena, the stage was set for a clash that tested not just skill but spirit.

A Dominant Spain, A Faltering Brazil

Spain seized control early, asserting their authority with precision and relentless pressing. Their dominance in the midfield was almost suffocating, with their wide players exploiting the flanks to devastating effect. Brazil, in stark contrast, appeared disjointed. The midfield struggled to find its rhythm, their passes astray, their structure unsteady. At the back, the Canarinhos crumbled under Spain’s consistent pressure, conceding two goals that seemed to put the game out of reach.

At halftime, the scoreboard read 2-0 in Spain’s favour, and the narrative seemed destined to highlight Brazil’s shortcomings. But football, like life, often reserves its most dramatic twists for when hope seems lost.

Rodrygo Goes: A Flicker of Light

Enter Rodrygo Goes, Brazil’s number 10, and a player steeped in the mystique of Real Madrid’s royalty. While not his most polished performance, Rodrygo was Brazil’s spark, tirelessly seeking the ball and crafting opportunities. In the 39th minute, his opportunistic instincts shone through. Capitalizing on a goalkeeper’s error, he finished with composed precision, dinking the ball delicately over the onrushing Spaniard. The goal breathed life into Brazil’s faint hopes and energized a team that had been listless.

Yet, even Rodrygo’s efforts couldn’t mask the inefficiencies of Brazil’s play. Vinícius Júnior, typically a dazzling presence, struggled to make an impact, his finishing betraying his usually clinical nature. Brazil’s midfield woes persisted, with Lucas Paquetá and his counterparts unable to match Spain’s fluidity and coherence.

Endrick: The Spark of a New Era

The tide turned decisively at halftime, not with a tactical overhaul but with the introduction of 17-year-old Endrick. In a team searching for inspiration, the Real Madrid-bound prodigy provided it in abundance. Just four minutes after his introduction, he delivered his second goal for the national team—a clinical strike that underscored his uncanny ability to thrive under pressure.

Endrick’s impact is becoming emblematic of a brighter future for Brazilian football. Unlike some predecessors who chose paths that stunted their growth, Endrick’s decision to align with Real Madrid promises refinement under the tutelage of one of football’s most demanding institutions. He has the hunger and raw talent, and the Bernabéu promises to sculpt him into a champion.

A Test of Character

The match’s closing stages were a testament to Brazil’s indomitable spirit. Trailing 3-2, the Canarinhos threw caution to the wind, committing bodies forward in search of an equalizer. Their persistence bore fruit in the dying moments, as Lucas Paquetá—despite an otherwise underwhelming performance—slammed home the equalizer, rescuing Brazil from defeat.

Lessons Beyond the Scoreline

The 3-3 draw at the Bernabéu was not a masterpiece, but it was a narrative rich with lessons. Brazil’s performance was far from flawless, yet it highlighted a critical quality: resilience. In the face of adversity, they fought with grit and determination, refusing to capitulate to Spain’s dominance.

The Brazilian Football Confederation’s (CBF) decision to arrange friendlies against elite European teams like Spain reflects a welcome shift in strategy. No longer content with hollow victories over weaker sides, Brazil is embracing challenges that expose their vulnerabilities and compel growth. These matches may not always yield wins, but they forge a team capable of competing at the highest level.

A Glimpse of Hope

Brazil may still be a team in transition, but the signs of revival are undeniable. Rodrygo’s leadership, Endrick’s precocious talent, and a collective refusal to accept defeat point to a future filled with promise. As the Bernabéu bore witness to their struggles and triumphs, one thing became clear: the Samba Boys are learning to dance to a tougher, more demanding rhythm—one that may yet lead them back to the pinnacle of world football.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Real Madrid Crowned Super Cup Champions

Real Madrid wrested Spain’s Super Cup through a mixture of ruthless opportunism and Barcelona’s own failings, prevailing on away goals after a frenetic 2-1 victory produced a 4-4 aggregate. The night’s narrative, though graced by moments of artistry, was ultimately defined by fragility: Barcelona’s in defence, Madrid’s in possession of nerve.

Not even Leo Messi could script a different ending. His free-kick, bent exquisitely into the corner on the brink of half-time, suggested another chapter of resurrection. And in the final minute, as the ball once more found its way to him, the stadium held its breath. Yet his strike veered just beyond the post—an allegory for Barcelona’s evening: tantalising, close, but undone by inches.

A Tale of Two Gifts

This contest, in truth, was shaped days earlier. A slip of Víctor Valdés’s boot in the first leg had transformed Madrid’s deficit into hope. From the brink of 4-1, Ángel di María’s opportunistic finish turned the tie into a live contest at 3-2. The away-goal lifeline was the thread Madrid clung to, and here in the second leg, they yanked it tight.

Blitzkrieg Beginnings

The opening half-hour was a storm. Madrid abandoned subtlety for speed and steel, pressing Barcelona to the brink of suffocation. Their attacks carried the directness of cavalry charges, finding Barcelona’s high defensive line vulnerable.

The first goal was absurd in its simplicity: Pepe’s clearance, more hopeful than crafted, arced over a defence stationed recklessly high. Javier Mascherano misjudged, and Gonzalo Higuaín, sharp and merciless, struck past Valdés. A mistake, a punishment.

Minutes later, another long ball exposed another weakness. This time Gerard Piqué faltered, misreading the flight of Sami Khedira’s delivery. Ronaldo needed no invitation. With instinctive improvisation, he flicked the ball over his own head and burst clear. Valdés’s attempted save only served to redirect the ball inside his near post. Two errors, two goals, and Barcelona staggered like a boxer reeling against the ropes.

Collapse and Response

By the half-hour mark, the Super Cup looked destined for Madrid. A Pepe header ruled out, Adriano’s desperate red card for hauling down Ronaldo, and Barcelona’s tactical retreat all suggested implosion. Tito Vilanova sacrificed Alexis Sánchez to restore order at the back, a symbolic concession of ambition.

But if Madrid’s opening was fire and fury, Barcelona’s reply was finesse. Montoya’s forays down the right offered brief relief, and then, as halftime approached, Messi intervened. His free-kick was more brushstroke than strike—an arc of defiance that bent into the top corner. Suddenly, it was 2-1, aggregate level, and the air shifted from inevitability to suspense.

Holding the Line

The second half became a chess match of mismatched pieces. With ten men, Barcelona circulated the ball but always at risk of the counterattack. Madrid, their early firebanked into calculation, defended deep and struck in bursts. Casillas embodied their resolve, denying Pedro twice and intervening with authority as Messi and Alba probed. Sergio Ramos, too, snuffed out danger with a sliding block that spoke as much of defiance as of skill.

Luka Modrić, Madrid’s new arrival, was given a cameo to taste the ferocity of the clásico, while Higuaín struck the post to remind Barcelona that the margin for error remained perilously thin.

The Final Breath

And yet, Barcelona endured long enough to dream. In the final moments, as though ordained, the ball fell to Messi. Time slowed, expectation crystallised. This was his stage, his inevitability. But the shot curled wide—fractional, fatal. The whistle blew, and with it, Barcelona’s chance dissipated into the Madrid night.

The Super Cup was not so much won as it was survived. Madrid were clinical, their goals born of speed and directness, but their triumph was inseparable from Barcelona’s lapses. Valdés, Mascherano, Piqué—each offered Madrid the keys to victory.

This clásico was thus a parable of contrasts: Barcelona’s artistry undermined by fragility, Madrid’s efficiency elevated by resolve. In the end, away goals crowned them champions, but the night’s true revelation was simpler still: beauty can thrill, but mistakes decide.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Pjanic’s Puncture: Lyon Shatter Real Madrid’s Illusion of Glory at the Bernabeu

In the cold, clear air of the Estadio Santiago Bernabeu, where legacy often turns into a burden, Real Madrid once again found themselves trapped in a haunting cycle of European collapse. Olympique Lyonnais, poetic in resilience and surgical in execution, scuppered Madrid’s dream of a homecoming finale with a late dagger from Miralem Pjanić, sending the French side into the UEFA Champions League quarterfinals and leaving the Spanish giants in the wreckage of their own expectations.

It was supposed to be the night that signalled Real Madrid’s rebirth on the European stage. With a final scheduled for their fortress, the narrative had been written in royal ink. But destiny, as it so often does in football, proved indifferent to script and spectacle.

The match had begun with electric urgency. Cristiano Ronaldo, defiant as ever, ignited the Bernabéu within six minutes, seizing onto Guti’s measured through-ball, bursting past Cris, and slipping a composed finish between Hugo Lloris’s legs. In that moment, the aggregate score stood level at 1-1, and the stadium trembled with belief.

What followed was a first half dominated by Madrid’s frantic pursuit of a second goal—a goal that might have secured both momentum and margin. Gonzalo Higuaín twice danced on the edge of redemption and regret. First, he rounded Lloris with brilliant poise only to be denied by the inside of the post, the ball ricocheting away like fate spitting in his face. Then Lloris, acrobatic and assured, deflected another effort wide with a sprawling, one-handed save. Kaká, too, tested the Lyon keeper, but the elusive second goal never came.

But football, like time, punishes hesitation.

Claude Puel, Lyon’s pragmatic conductor, adjusted his orchestra at halftime. On came Kim Källström and Maxime Gonalons, and with them, a new rhythm. Lyon emerged as a transformed force—no longer the cautious visitors, but bold marauders of space. Govou threatened, Lisandro awakened, and Casillas’s gloves began to sting.

The dam finally broke in the 75th minute, in a move of almost orchestral beauty. Källström and César Delgado interchanged swiftly down the left, feeding Lisandro, whose first-touch layoff was the flicker of imagination the game needed. Pjanić, ghosting in from midfield, met the pass with conviction—his strike roaring past Casillas at the near post. One moment of collective incision undone Madrid’s evening of individual ambition.

Stunned, the Bernabéu fell silent. Even Ronaldo’s defiance could not resurrect the dying embers of Madrid’s campaign. Pellegrini’s side, for all its expense and star power, looked suddenly brittle. Their Champions League exit—six consecutive seasons at the Round of 16—was no longer an aberration, but a pattern.

For Lyon, the victory was not merely tactical. It was psychological. They absorbed the storm, recalibrated at halftime, and then struck with elegance and steel. The final whistle rang like a liberation anthem for the travelling supporters, their voices echoing through the marble corridors of a silenced coliseum.

Madrid’s defeat was not just a footballing failure—it was a rupture in identity. For a club that defines itself by continental conquest, to fall once more at the Round of 16—this time on home soil, with a final in their grasp—is to confront an existential void.

And as Pjanić wheeled away, arms wide, into the cool Madrid night, he did more than score a goal—he wrote a line in the growing legend of Lyon, and another in the lament of Real Madrid’s modern European tragedies.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar