At some second, someplace amid the mayhem, that image of the ridiculousness of Actual Madrid returned. The gamers who had simply made one other European Cup closing had sprinted from one objective to the opposite, throwing themselves to the ground in entrance of their followers; Carlo Ancelotti had belted out the membership’s anthem with its line about historical past made and historical past to be made, the good cat wanting as if he was about to cry this time; and now they had been doing a lap of honour. As they did so, Toni Rüdiger briefly ducked out. When he got here again, he was carrying a white plastic chair, stolen from a steward.
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