Fede Valverde wakes up in the morning. He had a dream. It's the dream of a child scoring three goals at the Bernabéu in the Champions League, but not just any goals. No. Goals that are dreamt of, with Cruyff's self-passes, Maradona's running controls, or Pelé's chip in the World Cup final in Sweden. Those things don't happen. They are dreamt of.
Valverde wakes up and checks his phone. Turns on the radio. It can't be. He reads his dream, hears it, even better than he can remember. A hat-trick with which Madrid defeats Manchester City of Pep Guardiola, no less, the Bernabéu's anti-Christ.
The narrative he hears is filled with adjectives he never thinks of, he just runs, like an antelope in the Serengeti, letting his body think, letting the instinct of a hard-to-classify footballer decide. Perhaps that explains why he felt out of place in the classification intended by Xabi Alonso and instead thrives in this chaos that suits Madrid so well. Chaos, in reality, is a different order that allows you to be everywhere, and that's what the Uruguayan does, in defense and in attack, in his own area as well as the opponent's. He's no stranger to scoring goals, not at all, but they were different goals, explosions of his own physique. These goals are something else. They are dreamt of.
Turning them into reality doesn't only depend on determination and desire. They need an atmosphere, a telluric force. Only the combination of both can turn a great player into the Chinese shadow of the best in history in one night. The control and self-pass to Donnarumma in the first goal and the chip over the defender in the third are among the best you can find in the archives, in black and white or technicolor. To these, Valverde added the precise shot for the second goal, more fitting to his human condition. For a reason, destiny also chose him for that luck.
It's true that there were mistakes from the opponent, from O'Reilly and Donnarumma himself, miscalculations in the first goal, and a rebound that enabled him in the second action. However, none of that diminishes the merit and mystique of what the Uruguayan achieved.
The goals came early, two before the half-hour mark and all three before halftime, to boost the morale of a Madrid depleted by absences, with Mbappé like a frantic tourist in the VIP stands after his controversial stay in Paris to recover from an injury. Guardiola smelled blood and came out with all his batteries. Maybe even too many. He overindulged. The overcrowding of forwards pushed the coach and his team away from their preferred state, away from the long possessions of their midfield. Rodri didn't seem like the reborn Rodri, but more like a traffic cop at a roundabout in the early hours at Cibeles. By the time the coach wanted to correct it, with the entry of Reinjders, they were already three goals down, playing on the edge.
Guardiola sought Madrid's Achilles' heel, Trent's back, persistently. He did it with Doku, a devil. The attacks caused vertigo at the Bernabéu, fear of what was coming, but then Courtois made a decision against the grain. He launched a very long ball for Valverde's run. Everything else happened in his dreams.
In the Bernabéu, they were so real that they ended up changing reality. The goal further energized a Madrid that had started intense but not dominant. From there on, they dominated the game, with constant support to assist Trent, whether from Valverde himself or from a hard-working Thiago Pitarch, from side to side, unstoppable. The effort and physical display of the academy player justify Arbeloa's choice as a starter over Camavinga, who came on in the second half. One comes with the commitment that Madrid needs today. Today and always. The other is halted. The only mistake of Thiago Pitarch found the saving leg of Courtois, the guardian angel in Madrid's goal.
The goals continued to ignite the white soul, with a third one being exquisite, where Brahim made an initial chip for Valverde to complete the second and final strike. The Malagan was a recovered asset for the team, after returning somewhat downcast from the Africa Cup. In the biblical plague that Madrid is going through, his return is like water.
For City, what was happening wasn't real either. It was a nightmare, with a sterile attack, Haaland isolated, like a lighthouse keeper on an islet, and Guardiola with his hands on his head. The corner of reflection awaits him. Vinicius, at the penalty spot, missed the final blow, although with this Madrid and this City, perhaps it won't be necessary to take the sword to Manchester.