Rodrygo is the silent assassin who drips with Madrid’s terrible purpose

On a night when the Santiago Bernabeu shuddered with the tremors of another impossible glory, even the silence was deafening. 

Jack Grealish’s shot ball bobbled towards the goal. The grand old stadium walls held their breath and so did every one of the 61,000 people held in their cavernous embrace. It was over. Eighty-six minutes gone. The ball going in to make the aggregate score 6-3.

Then, from somewhere, out of the aether, Ferland Mendy appeared to knock it away. Real Madrid relief. But only temporary.

Manchester City came once more, wielding their diamond-encrusted blade, attempting to deal the killer blow. Grealish nipped in again and shot again, his strike perfectly placed in the far corner of the net. Somehow, somehow, Thibaut Courtois stretched out a leg. One stud of his left boot was all the contact he could make. Yet it was enough.

And there it was. The door to destiny had been nudged ajar. Rodrygo, standing at the other end of the pitch, saw the near future unfold, his terrible purpose set out ahead. This was his night.

After those two moments of excruciating silence, the heat and light that had defined the previous 87 minutes returned to the Bernabeu. Even Carlo Ancelotti had begun to fidget. Yet Rodrygo remained cool and calm, a silent, unflinching assassin sharpening the tools of his trade.

In this Madrid team, there are more eye-catching and rowdier players. The royal aura that surrounds Karim Benzema is suffocating. The terrifying, light-speed rampages of Vinicius Jr are impossible to ignore. The sheer elegance of Luka Modric crashes over your senses like a 60-foot wave over a dinghy.

Rodrygo – and Rodrygo’s skillset – is less immediately obvious. Or it is until he is sliding his knife into your back.