There is something profoundly depressing about the spectacle of twenty-two multimillionaires chasing a bladder of air around a manicured lawn, but it takes a special kind of existential dread to find meaning in Real Madrid’s 6-1 demolition of Monaco. The European Champions League has long since ceased to be a sporting competition; it is now a series of high-budget advertisements for various authoritarian regimes and beverage conglomerates, occasionally interrupted by some sweating athletes. On Tuesday, we were treated to the latest installment of this grotesque theater, an event that the sycophantic press is hailing as a 'statement win' rather than what it actually was: a forensic dissection of a lesser organism by an apex predator fueled by an unsustainable wage bill and the tears of socio-economic reality.

Let’s discuss the 'pressure' at Real Madrid. We are told that Alvaro Arbeloa, the latest soul to occupy the managerial revolving door, has 'eased the pressure' with this second victory. What pressure? The pressure of being the wealthiest sports franchise on the planet while the rest of the world wonders how to afford heating? The pressure of having a squad so deep that their bench could likely annex a small European nation? It is the pressure of the spoiled child who only got ninety-nine diamonds for their birthday instead of the full hundred. Arbeloa’s success is not a triumph of tactical genius; it is the inevitable result of handing a man the keys to a fleet of Ferraris and asking him not to drive them into a ditch. For now, he hasn't hit the wall, so the Madridistas can pause their habitual white-handkerchief-waving for another week.

Then we have the protagonist of this vapid drama: Kylian Mbappe. The man who treats football clubs like temporary parking spaces for his immense ego and even larger bank account. Scoring twice against Monaco—the very club that nurtured him—is framed by the media as a 'bittersweet narrative.' Let’s be honest: there is nothing bitter or sweet about it. It is the cold, clinical efficiency of a mercenary returning to burn down the village that gave him his first sword. Mbappe’s brace was not an act of sporting prowess; it was an act of asset management. He didn't celebrate with 'too much' gusto, we are told, as if this performative restraint makes the 6-1 humiliation any more palatable for the fans in the principality. It’s the ultimate modern athlete’s move: destroy the opponent, then offer a hollow gesture of 'respect' for the cameras to maintain the brand's viability.

Vinicius Junior also found the net, because of course he did. When a team is winning 6-1, everyone wants a slice of the statistical pie to boost their Instagram engagement metrics. The match was less of a contest and more of a training exercise conducted in front of a paying audience. Monaco, a club that exists primarily as a tax haven’s weekend diversion and a conveyor belt for talent to be sold to the highest bidder, performed their role as the sacrificial lamb with depressing predictability. They were not there to win; they were there to be the canvas upon which Madrid could paint their latest display of unearned superiority.

We must also address the 'top-eight league-phase' finish that Madrid is now supposedly boosting their hopes for. This new Champions League format is a bureaucratic nightmare designed by people who hate the concept of jeopardy. It is a system built to ensure that the giants of the game can lose a few matches, play like amateurs for a month, and still find themselves safely ensconced in the knockout rounds. It is the 'too big to fail' doctrine applied to sport. Real Madrid’s 6-1 victory doesn't represent a surge in form or a strategic masterstroke; it is simply the natural order reasserting itself in a competition that has been rigged to favor the wealthy since its inception.

As the final whistle blew, the fans at the Bernabéu cheered as if they had witnessed something courageous. They hadn't. They had watched a steamroller crush a grape and then clapped for the steamroller's technique. The 'pressure' may be eased for Arbeloa and his band of Galacticos, but the void at the heart of modern football only grows wider. We are expected to care about these numbers—6-1, two goals for Mbappe, a second win for the new boss—as if they signify anything other than the continued dominance of capital over competition. But in the end, it’s just more noise in an already deafening world of useless information. Another Tuesday night, another lopsided victory, and another step toward the heat death of the sport.