Astonishing season soared still higher at Barcelona, with a muted response to his equaliser just a prelude to late ecstasy
It was like Jude Bellingham knew. He had just scored his first clásico goal, a cartoon kick ripped from Roy of the Rovers, Hot-Shot Hamish battering the ball through the net from 28 yards, but he didn’t do his thing, not this time. There was a tug at the Real Madrid badge on his shirt, a hint of frustration let loose, but no smile and no celebration, arms open wide. Instantly iconic, a ritual performed at the Cathedral, the church of Maradona and everywhere else, given 11 outings already, this time it was absent. There was no greater stage than the one he trod, no moment like this, absurd enough as it was, but his work here was not done.
Not yet, but it would be. There is always time for more even when it is slipping away, especially when it is slipping away. If Madrid’s fans had missed the celebration then, Bellingham doing That Bellingham Thing, there would be another chance, an opportunity to do it better, and he would do all he could to make it so. So too would Antonio Rüdiger.
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