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After the astracanada against Alcoyano, Madrid became serious and sent Alavés to the gutter with as little chicha as football. El Real ventilated him with a clinical eye. He shaved him initially, tempered him, and delivered one thrust after another. In front, the backbone: Kroos, Modric and Benzema. Even some crumbs from the missed Hazard. Unbeatable for an anemic home team, no beats until the second act. It was late, too late.
Not five minutes did the bravery last for a local team that is assumed to be anything but a team without a saw. Nothing, nothing was Alavés, especially the one in the first act. It was enough for Kroos to warm up and give Modric time for Abelard’s boys to go to hell.
Neither centennial, nor glorious, nor bagpipes. An Alavés in the bones gave way to a Caesarist Madrid. The best way to redeem yourself after the chattering cup. Zidane, telematic by the covid, ordered to align the usual ones with one of those who never, Militão. Enough for a Madridista mental injection. Because Real went through Mendizorroza like a shot. A long way from a charred rival despite the recent change on the bench. Football and its intricacies. The babazorro painting was going wrong with Pablo Machín, the first pagan as the usual inertia in this shed. Abelardo arrived: overwhelmed by Almería in the Cup, then fossilized by Sevilla in LaLiga and moth-eaten by Bettini and Zidane’s Madrid.
Vitoria was a great walk for this leggy Real after his backfire in LaLiga, the Super Cup and the Cup. A Madrid in need of a shot to avoid complete disaster. This is how he took it on Alava soil, where he did not feel on Mars, but at pleasure for an hour. All from Modric and Kroos, whom the Blue and Whites let go for a snack. The Croatian and the German spoiled the ball, put the time in parentheses and Alavés actually died. Not by any means was Machín’s team that sent Real to the canvas in Valdebebas.
He didn’t bite the Alavés, stiff. He didn’t even huddle to defend a corner kick. It was executed by Kroos and Casemiro finished it off against Lejeune, who defended as an altar boy.
Before the 0-1, already between Pacheco and his left post they had avoided a goal from Benzema after a monumental assist from Modric, the visitors’ floater. It was not an enlightened Madrid, but it was more atomic and symphonic than Abelardo’s withered ensemble. Everything was pleasant for Real, only denied by the bad feet of Lucas and Mendy. They both ventilated the bands at the mercy, but in the final moment their boots were tied. The escape route was inside. Hazard warned, who with an exquisite touch of foot to foot almost defeated Pacheco. A bargain for Benzema, who as few experts on many rivals, especially those who, like Alavés, have the soul of plasticine. Lucas cited Hazard, who wanted to hit Benzema with a heel. The cue did not reach him, but the ball went to the Frenchman’s soles, who put together a destructive shot for Pacheco. A bombshell.
Sounded the local group, Madrid fanned as much as they wanted. El Alavés neither removed, nor proposed, nor exhibited. Denied, Abelardo’s boys, Kroos and Modric even made a gang with Hazard, lost since his arrival in Madrid. The game was a romance for the visitors, a caress for Hazard. The Belgian, with no crocodiles around, caught the 0-3 one step from the break. The appointment was from Kroos after the umpteenth kindergarten robbery to the premises. A moral plus for this Hazard who has been looking for months and months looking for Hazard, the Hazard of Chelsea. A couple of drops, no more. Nor did it last more than an hour. Bettoni, or ZZ perhaps, sent him to the couch on time.
By then, a more withered Madrid had already been crunched for once by its adversary. Abelardo intervened in the truce, with film for Manu and Lucas, two Praetorians, and Borja Sainz. Lucas launched a lateral free-kick and Joselu, the first-class header, executed Courtois without Militao knowing, who arrived at the close hours late. Madrid himself no longer appeared. Nomad team as it is, it took a while to shake off any ghosts in sight. If guys like Modric and Benzema hit the ball, everything is easier.
At last the Alavés was pressing when the Balkan put a mummified Real into orbit at that time. The French striker, who received the ball on the left side of the visiting attack, almost in midfield. There were no horizons. But it’s about Benzema. The man headed off, already feigned the pot, without further explanation. The end. A respite for Madrid. Another strike for Alavés.
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