When Luka Modric ghosted into the Celtic penalty box, found the sliver of space he needed, and curled his shot past Joe Hart with the outside of his majestic right boot, you had to sit back and admire a genius at work.
Thirty-seven on Friday, the great man is still a thing of wonder. All those league titles and all those Champions Leagues and yet he remains as hungry and as classy as ever.
In that moment – and to borrow a line from Muhammad Ali, who delivered a knockout blow or two of his own in his time – he handcuffed Celtic’s lightning, threw their thunder in jail. In his orchestration of this Madrid team, Modric’s so mean he makes medicine sick.
At 2-0 there was no way back for Celtic. Long before it became three – death by passing leading up to Eden Hazard’s goal – a stadium that had been gloriously raucous had been reduced to near silence, a home support that spent the first half in thrall to their deeply impressive team now knew that the game was up.
The lesson, not that anybody needed reminding of it, was writ large across the Glasgow sky. If you don’t take your chances when you are on top – and Celtic were most definitely on top in the opening half – then you’re liable to suffer when playing against the elite.
Allow a champion off the ropes and they’re going to take you out – and Real did. First through the slickness of Federico Valverde linking with Vinicius Junior – the double act that came up with a Champions League-winning goal last season – then through Modric and, finally, through that blizzard of passing and movement finished off by Hazard.
Fine margins make difference in brutal terrain
Cruel? Perhaps, but this is brutal terrain Celtic are exploring now. Savage and yet, in the minutes leading up to kick-off, utterly compelling and ear-splittingly loud.
The big-time had returned to Celtic Park, and how Celtic Park basked in it. Zadok the Priest blasted out across the east end of Glasgow and, in the those early moments of giddy hope, there was something celestial about the place.
We wondered if Celtic could impose their style, Ange Postecoglou’s style, on a team with all the trophies in the world, players replete with La Ligas and Champions Leagues, Bundesligas and English Premierships. There was a World Cup winner in there in Germany’s Toni Kroos, a Copa America winner in the shape of Brazil’s Eder Militao.
Pretty much every individual bauble known to man had been won by one or other of the visiting superstars, but it was Celtic who set the agenda from the get-go.
They had a chance inside 40 seconds, Liel Abada’s shot being deflected wide. They won two corners inside a minute. They were sharp and relentless and should have gone ahead. That’s what will hurt them. The could’ves and should’ves will have frustrated them massively.
Abada had a second chance after 13 minutes. What a moment. Jota to the Israeli and into a wide open expanse he went. The speed of thought was electrifying and too much for Real.
The Israeli went in on Thibaut Courtois but going one-on-one with Courtois is different gravy than going one-on-one with Jon McLaughlin or any of the other Premiership goalkeepers that Abada has routinely beaten in his season and a bit in Glasgow. He couldn’t execute – and it was costly.
In real time, and with Celtic playing with such verve, you thought another moment might soon follow and it did, but they were denied again. Reo Hatate drilled one at Courtois, who punched clear.
Celtic worked like dervishes to get it back and Callum McGregor lashed a shot off the inside of a post. The goalkeeper was frozen to the spot. Helpless. The woodwork saved him. Celtic Park reverberated to the sound of 60,000 angst-ridden souls.
Their tempo was exhilarating in these minutes. We were getting an insight on what Celtic might be capable of against the greatest sides on the continent, albeit without the succour of that breakthrough goal.
When Karim Benzema went off injured after half an hour, the occasion was robbed of one of the world’s finest players, but his exit looked to be good news for Celtic. More Los Blankos than Los Blancos. When you’re breathing a little sigh of relief that Hazard is coming on instead of Benzema, you’re reminded that life is different now, though.
Celtic kept Real pretty quiet for 45 minutes. Vinicius Junior had a chances that Joe Hart dealt with but beyond that they didn’t throw many shapes. Postecoglou’s side defended well, battled hard and played their football. They stayed true to the manager’s philosophy. No sign of a bus being parked. This was a team having a go.
Early in the new half, Daizen Maeda had a wonderful opportunity, close to goal and in as much space as he would have dared to dream about. He mis-hit it. Painful.
Eight minutes later, Real came out of punching and when they punched, those punches landed. They blew Celtic away in four gorgeous minutes. The stuff of champions. The very reason why they are the best.
There was no real calamity by any Celtic player in any of this, no howler. They were moved slightly out of position and that’s all Real needed. Fine margins. Little lapses of concentration. The game was done at 2-0. The third was mere decoration.
Postecoglou shouldn’t worry a heap about this. He saw enough from his players to suggest more productive nights may lie ahead against Shakhtar and Leipzig.
They were beaten, handsomely in the end, but they’ll have learned a tonne from this. Next stop, Shakhtar. A winnable game against a fellow mortal. Another shot. A night of opportunity.
