When the moment came it seemed to strike referee Daniele Orsato like a surge of static energy. Orsato had been phlegmatic at the Bernabéu. He shrugged. He jogged. But this place does something to you. As Karim Benzema fell, ankle tapped by a lunge from Rúben Dias, even before his body hit the turf referee Orsato’s arm was springing out from his side, ramrod straight, possessed with the voodoo of another of these absurd electrical storms, these nights of white noise, white light, where nothing is ever done until it’s done.
Benzema stepped up and rolled the penalty kick into the empty corner of the net, ran to the crowd and began slapping hands, reaching out, like a demented papal walkabout. And so it came to pass. With 89 minutes and 40 seconds of this semi-final second leg gone, Real Madrid had been on their way out of the Champions League in sickly fashion, pushed to the edge of things by a City team that had been more efficient, more coherent.
With 95 minutes gone they were 3-1 up on the night and the Bernabéu was floating up off its moorings, writhing, singing to itself, high on that regal will to power.
Related: Real Madrid in final after Rodrygo and Karim Benzema stun Manchester City
What to make of all this? There has been a great deal of myth making around the Bernabéu on this run. This is a magical place. A terrifying place. An enchanted canyon. A place where witches skirl about in the skies above casting dark magic.
And there was the usual white noise and white light at kick-off, those craning ends creating a kind of noise funnel effect, dissolving into a barrage of whistles as the name Josep Guardiola appeared on one of the screens. They hate Pep here. He represents, well, all of it. Catalanism, Messi‑ism,
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