Where is your magic now? As the night wore on at an increasingly sullen Bernabéu, as the latest keepers of the Real Madrid shirt tried and failed to crank their way up through the emotional gears, this felt a bit like watching a conjuring act gone wrong. Pick a card. Any card. No. Not that one. Wait. Keep your eyes on the ball. The glass. Hang on.
Such is the voodoo around Real Madrid, the white magic stuff, it had been necessary to process quite a lot of this chat in the buildup. Had Arsenal won too well at the Emirates Stadium? Was a three-goal advantage further proof of their naivety?
Perhaps not. By the time Gabriel Martinelli went skittering through on goal at the death to complete Arsenal’s hugely deserved 2-1 victory here, the crowd had at least offered up an obliging glimpse of what lies beneath the magic, a cut to the bone of this mythical footballing beast. The answer, it turns out, is a lot of empty plastic seats. That curtain has now been swished back. And yes, it turns out the emperor isn’t wearing any trousers after all.
It felt significant that it should be Arsenal conclusively outplaying Real Madrid, led by brilliant performances from Bukayo Saka and Declan Rice. Even more so for a side that has been repeatedly and unfairly accused of not quite being there, of being a little fey, built on hot air and slogans.
For Mikel Arteta’s team a Champions League semi-final is a standalone achievement in itself, a sign of the right kind of progress. This is how sport is meant to work. Teams are built, slowly sometimes. This might just be the making of this one.
In isolation this game was a tale of Saka and two dinks. The first was a truly abysmal missed penalty, awarded with 11 minutes gone after a confusing VAR-based fudge. Saka stepped up to take it with a slightly alarming sense of rakishness, then produced a stubbed panenka, dinked straight at Thibaut Courtois as he dived, Courtois who is vast, with arms like the sails of a windmill.
There was a sense of Bond‑style drama about this. You’ve literally got Real Madrid right there, tied to a chair. So, yes, why not bring on the overly complex revolving blade death-scheme. Is this really the best option here? Put the shark tank away. Forget about the room full of deadly snakes. You don’t get another chance with these guys.
Bukayo Saka clips home Arsenal’s opening goal at the Bernabéu. Photograph: Lee Smith/Action Images/Reuters
Except, it turns out sometimes you do. The game was still 0-0 when Saka scored on 65 minutes to make it 4-0 on aggregate. This was a beautiful thing, all craft and patience with a single killer thrust. Best of all it was made by Saka and Martin Ødegaard doing that thing they do on the right side, fluttering around one another like a pair of butterflies in a summer embrace, the pass-and-move love affair that was missing from this team as the title challenge died in mid-season.
Rice stepped in as Ødegaard fed the ball across, allowing him to creep inside, shadowed by a run from Saka behind the defence. Mikel Merino produced the key prompt, finding Saka’s run with a perfect pass, the angle and weight on the ball demanding he produce that second dink, a delightful little flicked finish over Courtois.
It was in its own way a perfectly understated show of sporting will, and of strength too. Anyone can miss a penalty. What you do afterwards matters. And Saka was sensational here, beating David Alaba repeatedly with that same little step inside, passing and holding the ball, leading from the flank.
Inside him Rice was sensationally good once again, and good when it mattered, while the air was still crackling with possibilities at the start. Rice is an endearingly unusual shape, with a long torso, short legs, broad shoulders, the build of a very tall centaur, source perhaps of his remarkable running power.
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With an hour gone he still hadn’t misplaced a pass. Mainly he just ran, and blocked and covered and led his team out of difficult holes, running right at this game from the start. These two games have given a glimpse of his ultimate levels as an outstanding all-round midfield leader.
The main thing for Arsenal here wasn’t so much that they beat this Real Madrid team, but they beat the ghosts too, some of them their own. The Real Madrid plan is always the same. That plan is: we will be Real Madrid. And you will allow us to be Madrid. It is the footballing version of Authority Bias. People basically want to be told what to do. Act like you’re in control and suddenly you are.
The experience, it is often said, begins with the buses in the streets, the feeling of being a sacrificial goat at someone else’s coronation. Madrid was a cold, damp, gusty place before kick off, the streets shiny with April rain. There were cheers and shouts. The crowd surged. Madrid’s social media feed did its best through the day, like an angsty host talking too loudly to cover the party silences. Ninety minutes at the Bernabeu are very long, the club admin had warned. Well, yes. Must have felt like old boy.
Madrid are a weirdly configured team right now. At their best they flow like smoke all over the pitch. This version feels fractured and two-tier, built around surely the most self‑absorbed elite footballer ever to make it to this level, with an attack for whom defensive duties seem like a curiosity, a fish out of water comedy setup, like a reality TV show where Jacob Rees-Mogg becomes a binman for a day.
Arteta had looked small and a little frantic out there at the start, all in black like some evangelical curate pounding his fists at the sky. But victory here is an outstanding achievement, and vindication for the ultimate systems man, the team with a midfielder in attack, pilloried for failing to take the final steps, for shrinking under the harshest of lights. There is still time for that. But not here and not this night.
