"Arsenal is playing more and more passively. After the third goal, AC Milan started to control the midfield while maintaining solid defense. At the same time, Bergkamp was tightly marked!"
Just as Arsenal's Hleb received the ball, a roar erupted—
"F*** you!"
Hleb jumped in fright.
Gattuso came flying in with a crunching tackle and cleared the ball.
He pushed himself up with both hands and continued charging.
"I'll f***ing kill you!"
Gattuso again slid in hard and stole the ball from Gilberto Silva.
"F—!"
Suker barked from nearby. "Wake up, damn it, this is the final third—what, you gonna go tackle their defenders next?!"
Gattuso finally cooled down a bit, grunted heavily, and jogged back to his own half with a wiggle in his hips.
Suker sighed as he watched Gattuso retreat.
Only Gattuso could pull off something as insane as tackling all the way from his own half to the opponent's third!
Still, it wasn't a bad thing.
At least, Arsenal had clearly been rattled.
Their attacking rhythm started slowing down.
And Milan hadn't picked up any cards this match—that was great news.
At the 88th minute, Ancelotti made another substitution.
He took Suker off and brought on Serginho.
As Suker left the pitch, a storm of boos echoed through Highbury Stadium.
Boooooooooooooooooooo!
It didn't matter if Suker had once been linked to Arsenal—he had wreaked havoc this match, and the home fans vented their frustration with a chorus of jeers.
Suker strolled off slowly under the deafening boos.
"Get off already! Stop wasting time!" Fabregas shouted angrily.
Suker walked even slower.
Fabregas was furious.
Just as he was about to complain to the referee, Arsenal made a substitution of their own.
Fabregas was taken off.
He jogged quickly toward the touchline.
Suker turned his head.
The two locked eyes.
Fabregas snorted hard.
After the subs were completed, the match resumed.
In the final minutes, Arsenal tried to salvage the situation.
At this point, even a single goal would help.
At least it would ease the pressure going into the second leg.
They had given up hope of winning this match.
With less than five minutes remaining including stoppage time, scoring twice would only earn them a draw—and that was highly unlikely.
One goal—any goal—that was their best bet now.
But Milan had no intention of giving them that chance.
Their rock-solid defense repeatedly cut off Henry's threatening runs.
In these final minutes, the Italian catenaccio defense truly showed its calm and composure.
Full time.
Arsenal lost 1–3 at home to AC Milan.
They dropped the first leg of the UEFA Champions League semi-final.
"Full-time whistle blows! Arsenal fall 1–3 to AC Milan at Highbury. From the very start, Arsenal looked tired. Milan clearly did their homework tactically, which helped them score first. And after that, chasing the game became incredibly difficult for Arsenal!"
"Congratulations to Milan on this crucial win. One week from now, Arsenal will head to San Siro for the second leg of this semi-final matchup."
"Only one of these teams will advance to the Champions League final at the Stade de France in Paris!"
Suker was now being interviewed by the media.
English reporter: "How would you rate Fabregas' performance?"
A clear attempt to stir the pot.
But Suker smiled, showing composure and class.
"We have to admit, our tactics did target Fabregas. He's a great player, and we had to devote extra energy to dealing with him."
"I hope he doesn't lose confidence from this match. I believe he'll grow from this experience."
The English journalist was stunned.
Wasn't this the time for gloating and mocking?
Shouldn't he be rubbing it in?
This wasn't what he expected!
A minute later, the same reporter went to interview Fabregas.
"Suker? He's a clown! A diver! He plays like a savage, like some kind of caveman."
"This match doesn't mean anything!"
"He's a liar! A bastard!"
Fabregas unleashed his rage—but then noticed the reporters around him giving him strange looks.
Especially that English reporter holding the mic, who muttered, "Do you know what Suker actually said about you?"
Fabregas sneered: "He was definitely mocking me. Of course he would."
The reporter replied quietly, "You'll see."
Then turned and left, shaking his head.
This is the difference.
One wins with humility.The other loses and throws a tantrum.
When Fabregas heard from a close journalist what Suker had really said about him, his face turned green.
That hurt more than being punched!
"Stade de France!"
"Stade de France!"
"Ohhh Champions League~~ Final~~ Here we come~~"
On the team bus, Suker sang joyfully.
He had taken an Italian folk tune and made up new lyrics on the spot.
The Milan players smiled as they looked out the window.
This win lifted a huge weight off their shoulders.
The most crucial match before the final—won.
A great start.
"We~~~ are the champions!!"
Suker began leading a chant.
Clap clap! Clap! Clap clap!"We~~~ champions!!"
Clap clap! Clap! Clap clap!
The bus echoed with his cheerful voice.
Shevchenko laughed: "We're not champions yet!"
"We're close! Very close!" Suker winked. "With the Ukrainian nuclear warhead Shevchenko, how could we possibly lose?"
He shouted: "Guys! Is Andriy awesome or what?!"
"Awesome!!" the team roared.
"Is he strong?!"
"Strong!!"
"Harasho or not?!" (Russian for "good")
"Harasho!!"
Shevchenko couldn't take it anymore.
He waved his hands: "If I don't score in the final, you'll all blame—boohoo…"
"Ptooey! Ptooey!" Suker quickly covered Sheva's mouth.
"No bad luck talk! You will score. You must score!"
Suker was counting on Shevchenko to go full god-mode in the final.
Arsenal was just the appetizer.
The real boss was next.
Barcelona!Ronaldinho!
This was the era of the twilight of the gods—and Ronaldinho was the one true deity in Europe.
That guy was so good it felt inhuman.
Just a few weeks earlier in El Clásico, he had single-handedly torn Real Madrid apart, breaking their backline multiple times.
Even Zidane had to foul him constantly just to hold the midfield together.
Spanish media called that "the most humiliating match of Zidane's career."
If Ronaldinho could force a midfield master like Zidane to resort to fouling, you know he was on another level.
Still, Milan wasn't weak either.
Pirlo could hold his own at about 70–30.
And with Kaka and Seedorf, they could at least put up a fight against Barça's midfield.
But the key would be their attack.
Shevchenko's form would be everything.
If he played at his best, Milan had a real shot at toppling Barcelona.
They had come this far—they weren't turning back now.
Suker didn't even glance at the league or Coppa Italia.
He only had eyes for the Champions League.
—
That night, Milan arrived at the training center before dispersing home.
Kaka had things to do and couldn't drive Suker.
So Suker caught a ride with Maldini.
"This break, I have to get my driver's license!" Suker muttered.
Then he asked, "Does the club give out cars?"
Maldini nodded. "Of course. Don't you know? We have a car sponsor—if you want one, they'll be more than happy."
He pointed to his chest: "Our shirt sponsor 'Opel'—it's a car company."
Suker blinked. He had never looked into that.
Apparently it was a German brand called Opel.
He'd never heard of it—but free car? He was in.
After saying goodbye to Maldini, Suker returned to his villa.
He added "get driver's license" to his to-do list.
It wasn't that he couldn't afford a car—he just hadn't felt the need.
If he could hitch rides, why not?
But now that Kaka kept ditching him at night, even taxis were hard to get.
Time to get his own ride.
—
After a long day, fatigue set in.
Suker took a hot shower and drifted into a deep sleep.
That night, he had a beautiful dream.
In it, at the Stade de France, they lifted the Champions League trophy.
They became kings of Europe!