The final pre-match preparations were done, and the starting eleven were fully geared up.
Suker slid his shin guards into his socks, pulling them up over his knees.
He took a deep breath to calm himself.
All eyes naturally turned toward Maldini.
Tightening the captain's armband on his bicep, Maldini looked around and declared loudly:
"To make it to the Champions League semi-finals again—we've already done exceptionally well. But now that we're here, I don't believe anyone wants to back down!"
He paused, watching their expressions sharpen, before nodding in satisfaction.
"There's nothing to fear! Even if we're at their home ground—we are AC Milan!"
Bang! Bang!
Maldini pounded his chest.
"Look at the badge on your chest—it carries over a century of honor and belief. We are warriors from the Apennines. We didn't come here to taste defeat—we're here to make them afraid!"
"Whether it's Manchester United or Ferguson, we fear no one!"
"Forza! Milan!"
"FORZA! MILAN!" the squad roared in unison.
Following that final rallying cry, the Milan players marched out of the dressing room behind Maldini, stepping into battle.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the corridor, Giggs, wearing the captain's armband, led United's squad forward.
The two sides met at the tunnel corner, standing in two solemn lines, eyes fixed ahead, expressions grim.
Even the head referee could feel the pressure in the air—he licked his dry lips nervously.
A voice came through his earpiece:
"Teams ready. Send them out."
The ref turned and shouted the call.
Suddenly, both teams let out a loud shout and—
WHOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAA—
Old Trafford erupted.
The stands boiled over, 80,000 fans roaring and chanting.
United fans were shouting wildly, supporting their team and booing the visitors.
In the away section, only about 2,000 Milan fans, led by Bob, fought to make their voices heard.
Despite being vastly outnumbered, their chants still reached the pitch, faint but unwavering.
Suker, walking out of the tunnel, turned and looked toward the away section.
Among the enormous sea of red, that tiny square of red-and-black Milan flags stood out—those fans had come a long way just to support them.
The stadium announcer began calling out the player names over the loudspeaker.
Each time a United player was named—cheers exploded.
Each Milan player—met with a wave of boos.
Suker didn't mind. Applause in an away game, especially at Old Trafford, was rare.
He also noticed Modrić wearing United's #8 shirt—a number reserved for central midfield generals.
It was clear Ferguson trusted Modrić immensely to give him that jersey.
Suker realized he hadn't paid attention to Modrić's number before. But now he knew—Modrić was thriving at United.
Starting Lineups:
Manchester United (4-3-3):
GK: Van der Sar
DEF: O'Shea, Ferdinand, Vidić, Evra
MID: Modrić, Carrick, Scholes
FWD: Cristiano Ronaldo, Rooney, Giggs
AC Milan (4-4-2):
GK: Dida
DEF: Cafu, Nesta, Maldini, Jankulovski
MID: Gattuso, Pirlo, Ambrosini, Seedorf
FWD: Kaká, Suker
WHOOOOOOOOAAAAA——WHISTLE!BOOOOOOO!!
Old Trafford was a storm of sound.
Rooney and Giggs stood at the center circle, ready for kickoff. Milan players prepared to press hard.
As the ref backed away, the noise grew even louder.
BEEP!
The match began—United kicked off, Milan immediately pushed forward.
"The Champions League semi-final first leg has started! United at home against AC Milan—both teams are red-hot from earlier rounds, where they annihilated their previous opponents. Will that momentum continue tonight?"
Suker immediately sprinted toward Modrić.
Modrić knew Suker well—his speed and pressing were no joke.
Without hesitation, Modrić passed the ball backward and watched Suker blaze past him.
"So fast," he muttered, already sprinting into space.
When Suker closed in on Ferdinand, the defender coolly sent a pass forward into space—to Modrić again.
Modrić took the ball, shifted sideways, and before Suker could close in again, passed it once more.
Suker kept chasing.
"One-man pressing won't work!" Modrić shook his head, continuing to maneuver and receive passes.
He stopped the ball, half-turned, scanning the field, all while keeping Suker in his peripheral vision.
Suker paused and smirked—he knew Modrić was still aware of him even if he didn't look directly.
Suker feinted a move forward—Modrić instantly passed.
"Walking the dog, huh?" Suker grumbled in Croatian.
Only Modrić understood—and didn't reply.
He continued orchestrating play.
Suker gave up chasing—enough warm-up running.
He moved toward the United back line—Ferdinand and Vidić quickly shadowed him.
United still held possession.
Modrić played smart—calling plays and distributing with calm poise.
Suker watched him swivel his head constantly—even under pressure, Modrić never stopped scanning.
That's what English football had trained into him—the awareness, the composure.
Suddenly, Modrić sidestepped Kaká's pressure, then lashed the ball with his laces.
It pierced through between Maldini and Jankulovski—a perfect through ball into Milan's half.
"Watch it!"
Maldini yelled and chased back.
Jankulovski and Cristiano Ronaldo were already battling near the ball.
CR7's explosive speed overwhelmed Jankulovski, who clumsily managed to shield the ball and pass it to Maldini—but then collapsed onto the turf, clearly struggling.
Under pressure, Maldini regained control and sent the ball to Pirlo.
Now it was Milan's turn to attack—Suker and Kaká were both primed and ready.
Pirlo received the ball, turned as Giggs came to press, and calmly sidestepped him.
Then, with a flick of his foot—a beautiful long pass toward the left flank, behind the defense.
Suker burst into motion, sprinting to meet it.
But right behind him, Vidić chased with all his might.
Just as Suker was about to reach the ball, Vidić crashed into him with full force.
Even with good balance, Suker flew forward, sliding across the grass.
His white jersey was stained green.
He sat up and raised a hand, signaling a foul.
No whistle.
"What the hell? That wasn't a push?!"
Suker shouted in frustration.
Vidić stormed past, glaring.
"What are you looking at?!"
Suker shot back in Croatian.
Vidić understood.
"Clown! All you do is dive!"
He shoved Suker.
Suker slapped Vidić across the cheek.
Vidić snapped—ready to throw a punch—
But Modrić grabbed him from behind.
"Cool it!"
At the same time, Kaká pulled Suker away.