"And for the visitors, Luís Castro has deployed Shakhtar Donetsk in a 4-1-4-1 system," Rob Palmer continued.
"Anatoliy Trubin starts in goal."
"Viktor Korniienko, Davit Khocholava, Valeriy Bondar, and Dodô across the back."
"Maycon anchors the midfield."
"Manor Solomon, Marcos Antônio, Marlos, and Tetê provide the width and creativity."
"Dentinho is tasked with leading the line on his own."
"The lineups have been read, the anthems sung, and the players are ready!"
Peep! The referee blew his whistle.
The Champions League campaign was officially underway.
From the very first second, Shakhtar Donetsk showed absolutely zero respect for the Santiago Bernabéu.
The Ukrainian champions seized the initiative, immediately launching a ferocious assault.
In the center circle, Marcos Antônio collected a loose ball and instantly sprayed a pass out wide to the right flank.
Tetê was waiting.
The twenty-year-old Brazilian possessed blistering acceleration and lethal one-on-one ability. The moment he gathered the ball, he found himself isolated against Marcelo.
Tetê had no intention of deferring to his legendary compatriot.
He dropped his shoulder, knocked the ball five yards ahead, and simply engaged his turbo. In a pure footrace, the aging Marcelo was completely outclassed.
Three seconds.
It took Tetê exactly three seconds to leave the Real Madrid captain for dust.
Having torched his man, Tetê didn't opt for the traditional winger's cross.
He abruptly chopped the ball inside onto his favored left foot, driving diagonally toward the penalty area.
He looked up, spotted the angle, and pulled the trigger.
The shot was struck with venomous swerve.
The ball whipped past Raphaël Varane.
Unfortunately for Real Madrid, Varane's positioning inadvertently screened Thibaut Courtois' line of sight.
Because his vision was blocked, Courtois reacted a fraction of a second too late.
By the time he saw the ball curling toward the far post, he couldn't extend his massive frame in time.
Swish.
"GOAL!" Palmer shouted, stunned. "Shakhtar Donetsk strike first at the Bernabéu!"
"Tetê with a sensational solo effort!"
"Only four minutes on the clock, and Real Madrid are behind! Unbelievable start from the visitors!"
In the broadcast booth, Terry Gibson shook his head in disbelief. "Shakhtar have come out with no fear whatsoever. That was a razor-sharp attack, perfectly executed."
The Santiago Bernabéu fell into a shocked, eerie silence.
Conceding inside four minutes at home in Europe was practically unheard of.
In the press box, Ma Fanshu gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white, feeling an intense wave of anxiety for Theodore and the team.
Down on the touchline, Zidane was already screaming instructions, furiously waving his arms, demanding his players push higher.
Shakhtar Donetsk, displaying vast European experience, knew exactly what was coming.
Having secured their precious away goal, they instantly retreated, compacting their lines and parking a solid orange-and-black bus on the edge of their penalty area.
Real Madrid were forced into a grinding siege.
Before the match, Luís Castro had meticulously analyzed every minute of Real Madrid's season.
His conclusion was simple: the entire attacking tempo flowed through Theodore Bjorn.
Castro's tactical instruction was clear: smother the Number 10.
When Madrid pushed forward, the Shakhtar midfield completely collapsed around Theodore.
Inevitably, Modrić attempted to thread a pass into Theodore's feet in the central channel.
Instantly, Marcos Antônio and Maycon swarmed him.
The two Brazilians executed a flawless pincer movement, utilizing aggressive physicality to prevent Theodore from turning.
Caught slightly unaware, Theodore took a heavy first touch.
It was the only invitation Maycon needed.
The holding midfielder lunged in, poking the ball away and sparking an immediate counterattack.
"Theodore Bjorn dispossessed!" Gibson noted. "That is a rare sight indeed. Castro has clearly instructed his midfield to double-team the teenager every time he touches the ball."
Maycon scrambled to his feet and instantly fired the ball out to Tetê on the right wing.
The scenario repeated itself. Tetê isolated Marcelo, knocked the ball past him, and utilized his terrifying pace to leave the veteran behind.
Just like the opening goal, Tetê cut inside onto his left foot, preparing to unleash another curling strike.
But this time, the landscape had changed.
As Tetê raised his head, a white shirt materialized directly in his path.
It was Theodore.
After losing the ball, Theodore hadn't thrown his arms up in frustration. He had instantly engaged in a brutal recovery sprint, tracking back forty yards.
Before Tetê could even cock his leg to shoot, Theodore was in his face.
The Brazilian winger hesitated, slightly unnerved by the teenager's sudden, aggressive presence.
Theodore didn't wait.
He stepped into the challenge violently, using his upper body strength to knock Tetê completely off balance, simultaneously hooking the ball away with surgical precision.
Theodore had reclaimed possession with effortless brutality.
He didn't look for a simple pass. He turned and drove straight back toward the Shakhtar half.
The Ukrainian midfield, recognizing the danger, threw bodies in his way.
Maycon, Marcos Antônio, and Marlos converged, forming a three-man barricade.
It didn't matter.
Theodore lowered his shoulder and smashed straight into the gap between Maycon and Marcos Antônio, utilizing his immense core strength to literally bounce the two Brazilians out of his path.
Breaking free of the midfield trap, Theodore engaged the afterburners.
With his Bale-esque explosiveness fully activated, he devoured the turf, arriving at the top of the Shakhtar penalty arc in seconds.
Center-backs Khocholava and Bondar, terrified of his long-range shooting, broke ranks and rushed out desperately to close him down.
Theodore didn't give them the chance to set their feet.
Without breaking stride, he pulled his right leg back and unleashed a thunderbolt.
The strike was hit with such pure, unadulterated power that it flashed straight through Khocholava's legs before the defender could even react.
Anatoliy Trubin stood completely frozen on his goal line as the net bulged behind him.
"WHAT A GOAL!" Palmer roared. "Theodore Bjorn equalizes with a moment of absolute savagery!"
"He loses it, he wins it back, he destroys three men, and he buries it! Unstoppable!"
The Bernabéu erupted, the silence shattered by a deafening roar.
"When he gets up to speed, there isn't a defensive line in Europe that can contain him," Gibson marveled.
"That is pure power and precision."
The momentum had shifted.
Following the restart, Shakhtar attempted to establish possession in the midfield.
Marcos Antônio received the ball and, brimming with confidence, attempted to drive forward through the center circle on his own.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
Within two seconds, he was confronted by a terrifying wall of white.
Casemiro and Theodore converged on him simultaneously.
Facing two of the most physically dominant ball-winners in world football, the Brazilian panicked.
He frantically shaped to play a lateral pass.
Before his foot could even strike the ball, Theodore launched himself through the air.
Utilizing the perfect timing of the Gattuso Peak Card, Theodore executed a ferocious, skidding slide tackle.
He swept the ball cleanly away from Marcos Antônio's feet, leaving the Brazilian in a heap on the turf.
"Brilliant tackle!" Palmer yelled. "Clean as a whistle from Bjorn! Madrid transition again!"
The crowd roared in approval of the defensive masterclass.
Before the cheers could even subside, Theodore sprang to his feet. He took one glance upfield and launched a raking, 50-yard diagonal pass.
The ball bypassed the entire Shakhtar midfield and defense, dropping with terrifying accuracy right onto the penalty spot.
Karim Benzema, having peeled off the shoulder of the center-back, didn't even need to break stride.
He leaped into the air and snapped a powerful header downward.
Thwack!
The ball rocketed past Trubin.
2–1!
In less than ten minutes, Real Madrid had completely flipped the match on its head!
The Bernabéu was shaking.
The fans began belting out "Hala Madrid y nada más," the famous anthem echoing into the Madrid night sky.
Benzema sprinted toward Theodore, grabbing the teenager in a massive hug.
"Theo, I swear to God," Benzema laughed, his chest heaving. "Your passing is illegal. You're the best long passer I've ever played with!"
Theodore offered a sly grin. "So tell me, Karim. Between me, Luka, and Toni… who has the best technique?"
As he asked the question, Modrić and Kroos jogged over to join the celebration, arriving just in time to hear it.
Benzema's eyes widened, trapped. "Uh… you're all top level!" he stammered awkwardly, avoiding eye contact with the veterans.
"Honestly, if you three keep serving me like this, I'm winning the Golden Boot and the Ballon d'Or!"