The whistle's echo was still rattling inside his ears when the red tide came crashing. Bayern's press had returned with a vengeance, suffocating, relentless, each pass from Barcelona hunted down with teeth bared. Mateo tore forward, legs pumping, the rhythm of his boots thudding against the grass. His chest heaved, breath rasping and hot, a sharp huff, huff, huff that cut through the roar of the Allianz. He chased the ball as it rolled loose near the halfway line, vision narrowing, every fiber in his body burning toward one target.
Just as his toes stretched out to snatch it, a flash of red darted across. A Bayern shirt — ruthless, precise — arrived first. One touch, calm and dismissive, and the ball was swept safely back into their lines.
Mateo's jaw clenched. He skidded to a half-stop, frustration lacing the sweat that clung to his skin. Then — a shout.
"PULL BACK! Pull back, tighten with the midfield!"
The voice ripped through the chaos. Mateo turned his head just slightly, enough to catch sight of Antoine Griezmann a few yards left, arms flailing, face sharp with urgency.
Mateo's lungs screamed, his shoulders rose and fell violently. But he lifted one hand, thumb flicking upward in quick acknowledgement, no words needed. His legs slowed from a full sprint to a jog, turning inward, drifting back toward the midfield line. His eyes, though — they stayed locked on the ball, tracking it like a hawk even as he pulled into shape, resisting the urge to chase blindly.
Each step felt heavier now, lungs dragging air in harsh bursts, huff, huff, huff, as his thoughts fought to keep pace with the game. What's the best way I can help here? The question pounded in his head with each stride. No more charging aimlessly — he forced himself to scan, to read, to think like the player They wanted him to become, the player he knew he could be. His gaze flicked left, right, forward, tracing the angles, measuring the gaps, searching for where his body could be more useful than his instincts.
And above it all, the voices of the commentators spilled into the fever of the night, folding into the chaos as though they were narrating destiny itself.
Guy Mowbray's voice carried a sharp edge, slicing through the noise: "What a rough start to the second half it's been for Barcelona — they've barely had a touch, barely had a moment to breathe."
Tony Jones followed, his tone heavy with awe and warning: "Flick may not have changed the lineup, but you can feel it, can't you? These aren't the same men we saw in the first half. The mindset, the intensity, everything about Bayern feels reborn."
Mowbray came again, quicker, almost breathless as Bayern swarmed forward: "Ten minutes since the restart, and it's been all Bayern Munich. They were good before — but now? Now they're something else entirely. Sharper, harder, ruthless."
And then Jones, the words almost a verdict: "Barcelona are being outplayed. Outfought. At the moment… it looks like torture."
The Allianz was a furnace now, red banners snapping in the night air, every Bayern surge greeted with a roar that rattled the bones of the pitch. Barcelona, penned back, shuffled frantically from side to side, their defensive line creaking under the pressure.
The commentary rose and fell with the rhythm of the storm.
Guy Mowbray's voice was steady at first, analytical, but tinged with concern: "It's all Bayern. Look at the shape — Kimmich sitting deep, dictating, Pavard and Davies already pushed into midfield. They're practically playing with five forwards."
Tony Jones picked up seamlessly: "And you can see how sharp it is. They're dragging Barcelona's lines apart, pulling Busquets into areas he doesn't want to be. Pedri's chasing shadows. This is suffocation of the highest order."
Then suddenly, as Bayern pieced a move together, both voices spiked, charged with urgency.
Guy Mowbray surged: "Here they come again — Müller dropping off, slips it into Sané — quick turn, away from Alba, he finds Coman cutting inside—"
Tony's voice overlapped, rising in pitch as the move unfolded: "Coman, looking for the angle — finds Goretzka,! First-time pass, Choupo-Moting in space—"
Even Mateo was dragged into the chaos, sprinting from his striking post all the way back into his own half. His lungs burned, each step heavier than the last, but he still dropped deep, desperate to offer numbers, to fill gaps. It wasn't enough. Bayern swarmed around him, red shirts popping passes like lightning, each touch one step closer to breaking Barcelona open.
And then — the strike. A low drive from the edge of the box, fizzing past Piqué's outstretched boot. The Allianz rose as one — the commentators' voices cracking with the crowd.
Guy Mowbray nearly shouted it out: "SHOT! Ohhh—just wide!"
The ball skimmed the turf, spinning inches past the post, and the stadium groaned in unison.
Tony Jones exhaled hard into his mic, his voice dipping now, reflective. "That's been the story of Bayern in this second half. Everything up to the finish has been near perfect — the press, the speed, the movement. But the final touch… it just isn't clicking."
Guy Mowbray added, almost disbelieving: "And that has to be a first for Hansi Flick. His Bayern side are pouring forward, wave after wave, yet somehow the net stays untouched. You feel the goals should already be there — but they aren't."
Ter Stegen placed the ball carefully, stepping back to eye his options for the goal kick, shoulders tight under the weight of expectation. The camera lingered on him as Mowbray's voice returned, sharper now.
"Barcelona need to tighten up. It's only a matter of time before Bayern work out the finishing touch, and when they do… those two goals up might not be nearly enough."
...
Mateo stood near the halfway line, just slightly inside Bayern's half, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his breath. His eyes never left the ball at Ter Stegen's feet. The keeper placed it down carefully for the goal kick, and in those few seconds of waiting, Mateo scanned the pitch like a hunter.
The red shirts were unnervingly high. Bayern's backline, daring as ever, had crept almost into midfield. Hernández and Süle were up near the circle, their chests puffed out, their boots ready to spring. Mateo's brow furrowed. They've pushed even higher. If we can break free from their press, if I get the ball in space, I can run. I can destroy them.
His gaze flicked left. Messi was there, not hugging the touchline but drifting in that way he always did, just off the shoulder of Kimmich, eyes narrow, waiting for a spark. Further wide, Jordi Alba tried to inch forward, only to be shadowed tightly by Pavard. In the middle, Busquets was barking at Pedri, urging calm:
"¡Mantén la calma! Keep it tight, keep it tight!"
But Bayern's press was suffocating. Goretzka and Müller were already gesturing with their arms, pressing higher, voices ringing in German above the noise. "Weiter! Weiter! Press!"
And above it all, the Südkurve roared louder, a fresh wave of chants rolling down from the stands like thunder. Flags whipped violently. The stomping and clapping of fifty thousand boots rattled the concrete. Barcelona's voices — faint, scattered — were swallowed whole.
Guy Mowbray's voice layered into it, sharp and clinical:
"Barcelona are trying to steady themselves here, but Bayern's line… just look how high it is. They're squeezing every blade of grass, daring Barca to play through."
Tony Jones followed, a growl of awe:
"And it's suffocating. You can see it — Barça are gasping for breath every time they get on the ball."
The ball was struck. Ter Stegen's boot sent it long into the crisp night, spinning toward midfield. Frenkie de Jong leapt to meet it, chesting under pressure.
"Vamos, Frenkie!" shouted Mateo, already darting forward.
But in a flash, Müller closed the space, poking it loose. The ball ricocheted into Messi's feet. The captain dropped a shoulder, twisted left to wriggle free. For a heartbeat, there was hope. Mateo surged closer, Pedri came inside, and Griezmann shouted over his shoulder:
"¡Sígueme! Follow me, one-two, one-two!"
But Bayern's press was merciless. Davies snapped in, nicking it away from Messi with that impossible burst of pace. Suddenly, red shirts swarmed. The ball zipped from Davies to Kimmich, to Müller, to Sané wide left. One, two, three quick touches — Barcelona carved open again.
The commentators' voices rose as if dragged by the attack:
"Müller, sharp into Kimmich — Bayern flowing here!"
"Kimmich finds Sané on the left, Alba scrambling to close him down!"
Sané cut inside, skipped past Alba's desperate lunge, and let fly with a curling shot. The Allianz erupted as the ball soared… but it bent wide of the post, shaving the air by inches.
"OHHHHHHH!" roared the crowd. A guttural wave, hands in the air, bodies on their feet.
The commentators screamed with them:
"So close! Bayern ripping Barcelona open again — Sané with the strike!"
"And listen to that crowd! They thought it was in!"
Their voices dipped, tension settling.
"But despite all the pressure, all the chances… Bayern still lack that final touch. It just isn't clicking yet."
"And you can see Flick on the sideline — this must be agonising for him. His side have poured forward all half, but the finishing hasn't matched the build-up."
Ter Stegen was already lining up the goal kick again, wiping sweat from his brow. The camera cut to Flick on the touchline, arms crossed, muttering furiously to his assistant.
"Barcelona need to tighten up," Guy Mowbray insisted. "Because with the way Bayern are playing, it's only a matter of time before that finishing touch does click. And if it does, those two goals really won't be enough."
59th minute. Barcelona finally tried to breathe. Mateo dropped deep, demanding the ball, linking with Busquets. Messi drifted into the middle, his touch as soft as silk, sliding it into Pedri. The ball moved quickly — Pedri to Alba, Alba back inside — one of the first genuine spells of possession they'd had since halftime.
"Sí, sí, rápido!" Messi urged, urging tempo.
Mateo spun off his marker, gesturing for the ball. "Antoine, send it!"
Griezmann saw him, shaped the pass… but again, Bayern snapped the trap. Hernández stepped in, poking it away just as Mateo made his run. Kimmich was there instantly, snapping at heels, shoving Pedri aside to recycle the ball.
"Nein, nein! Schneller!" Kimmich roared at his teammates, fists clenched. His voice cut through the stadium. He was a man possessed, veins bulging in his neck, every command spat with fury.
Koeman threw his arms wide on the sideline. "¡Más juntos! Close the gaps!"
But Flick struck first. In the 60th minute, the fourth official's board lit up.
"Substitution for Bayern Munich…" announced the stadium PA.
Goretzka trudged off, scowling, while the crowd roared approval for the new arrival — young, fearless Jamal Musiala, just 18, tugging at his shirt, eyes alight with hunger.
The commentators jumped on it:
"And here comes Jamal Musiala. Just eighteen years of age — what a player he's becoming."
"And this is clever from Flick. Goretzka gives them steel, but Musiala offers energy, unpredictability, and most of all, more attacking drive. He's here to help break Barcelona down."
And it didn't take long.
By the 63rd minute, Musiala was already dancing. Receiving on the half-turn, he spun inside Pedri with a flourish. The two teenagers, prodigy against prodigy, clashed in the centre circle. Pedri stuck tight, jabbing a toe, body low.
"Vamos!" Pedri snarled, eyes wide, shoving his body into Musiala's.
But Jamal skipped away, light as air, threading the ball into Müller. The crowd roared. Kimmich, eyes blazing, pumped both arms, screaming at the top of his lungs:
"JETZT! BRINGT ES! Put it in!"
The intensity was suffocating. Bayern weren't just pressing; they were smothering, drowning Barcelona in waves of red.
Then came the 67th minute.
For the first time all half, Mateo saw daylight. Busquets slipped him a quick ball, and suddenly he was past the halfway line, his stride opening, grass ahead. His heart leapt.
"¡Corre!" Messi shouted behind him.
Mateo burst forward — but before he could stretch his legs fully, a blur of red came crashing in. Thomas Müller. Arms out, body angled. His thigh caught Mateo, his boot clipping him down. Mateo's legs buckled and he hit the ground with a guttural shout.
The whistle split the air.
"Foul! Foul!" screamed the Barcelona bench.
The referee stormed in, separating the players as Bayern voices barked around him. Out came the yellow card, flashed in Müller's face.
Müller, half-grinning, half-furious, jabbed his finger at his teammates. "Bleibt wach! Stay alert! Be ready, be focused!" His words rang even as he backed away, hands raised in faux innocence.
Mateo stayed on the turf for a moment, rolling his shoulders as a teammate crouched beside him. "¿Estás bien?"
"I'm fine," Mateo muttered, brushing the sweat from his forehead, forcing himself up. His chest heaved. He looked at the scoreboard. Still 2–0. Still there, at least for now.
Mateo, now you have to do something. You came into this half fired up — don't stay down.
The noise around him blurred — Busquets shouting instructions, the referee waving players back, Messi already standing over the ball.
It was far out, too far to think about shooting. But Messi placed it carefully, bent his back, and stared at the posts like he'd made them his own.
Mateo jogged forward, raising his voice above the chaos. "¡Me! ¡Me!" he shouted, sprinting into the box.
...
Messi took three steps and whipped the free kick toward the Bayern box. It carried, curling into the cluster of red and blue shirts — but it never found its mark. A defender's head rose high, nodding it away, the ball tumbling loose just outside the area.
It dropped to Mateo.
He shifted quickly, chesting it down, trying to bring it under his spell. For a heartbeat, hope flickered. The ball bounced against his ribcage, dropping into space in front of him. Control it. Spin. Shoot.
But the red wall collapsed on him at once. Two, three Bayern shirts smothered him — Hernández stepping in hard, Davies circling tight, Müller snapping from behind. Mateo barely touched the ground before the ball was stripped from his feet.
And then the storm broke.
Bayern launched forward instantly, passes crackling like fire across dry wood. Davies to Musiala, Musiala gliding past Pedri with a touch too sharp, too quick. Barcelona shirts scrambled, spinning, turning, shouting at each other — but every red shirt was one step ahead.
"Back! Back!" shouted Piqué, retreating as the ball zipped again.
Müller angled it forward, slipped it into Sané, who cut inside and squared to Musiala once more. The teenager's eyes widened; he didn't hesitate. Just outside the box, he wound up his right boot and let fly.
Mateo could only watch, still retreating, lungs burning.
But then — a flash of courage.
Piqué. The veteran hurled himself across the grass, sliding with every ounce of his aging body. His thigh caught the strike, the ball cannoning back with a thud that echoed through the stadium.
For a split second, relief washed over the blaugrana.
But only for a split second.
Because the rebound fell to Joshua Kimmich.
The midfielder didn't even think. He stormed forward, muscles tensed, and with the outside of his boot unleashed a vicious shot. The ball arced, swerving through the air like a missile, screaming past Ter Stegen's outstretched glove.
The net bulged.
The Allianz detonated.
"GOAL! Bayern are back in it!" Guy Mowbray's voice cracked through the roar. "Kimmich — with an absolute thunderbolt! Bayern 1, Barcelona 2!"
Tony Jones was already shouting over him. "That is extraordinary! Barcelona blocked the first, but the rebound falls to the one man you cannot leave space for! Kimmich — captain, leader, warrior — dragging Bayern into this tie!"
On the pitch, Kimmich lost himself in the eruption. He sprinted toward the Südkurve, fists clenched, veins straining, face contorted with fury and ecstasy. He screamed at the top of his lungs, spit flying, hammering his chest again and again.
The crowd mirrored him — a tidal wave of bodies surging, flags slashing the air, throats tearing as tens of thousands roared his name. "KIMMICH! KIMMICH! KIMMICH!" Drums pounded, smoke flares burst, the whole stadium seemed to quake beneath their ecstasy.
Barcelona players stood scattered, hands on hips, chests heaving, trying to swallow the noise. Ter Stegen kicked the post in frustration. Piqué punched the turf, grass sticking to his gloves.
But around them, it was madness. Screams, songs, banners whipping in frenzy. Bayern had cut the deficit, and the air inside the Allianz was molten.
The tie was alive.
"Fuuuckkk…"
The word tore out of Mateo's chest in a ragged sigh, the kind that carried both fury and disbelief. His knees buckled and he let himself drop onto the grass, sitting there helpless as the ball rippled the net behind Ter Stegen. All around him, Bayern players sprinted toward the corner flag, fists pumping, veins bulging with adrenaline as they celebrated.
Mateo sat in the middle of it all, the lone still figure on the pitch, staring blankly as red shirts swarmed together. The roar of the Allianz Arena was deafening — a red wall of noise crashing down on him, waves of voices pounding against his eardrums. His chest tightened. His jaw locked.
He hated this feeling. Hated the sight in front of him — the backs of the Bayern players, leaping into one another's arms, faces twisted in ecstasy, their crowd in delirium. Hated that, in this moment, he was the one on the grass, staring at the ground as if it could swallow him whole. Another heavy sigh fell from his lips, his breath fogging in the cool Munich night.
Then the shouts cut through.
"HEY!"
At first, he thought it was someone behind him in the stands, but then he turned slightly. On the touchline, Koeman was on his feet, his face flushed, his arms slicing the air with violent gestures as he barked instructions. His voice was hoarse, but desperate, commanding: Push higher! Stay tight! Don't crumble now!
And there was Messi. Always Messi. Pacing near the center circle, head up, arms wide as if to gather his teammates back together. His voice cracked but rang like iron:
"It's 2–1! Come on! The game's not over — vamos! VAMOS!"
Messi's urgency carried, and for a moment, it steadied the wobble.
But Mateo… Mateo felt none of the cushion of a lead. They were still ahead on the scoreboard, yes, but it didn't feel like it. Not with Bayern pressing, not with the wave after wave of suffocating pressure. The party mood from halftime, the adrenaline of being two goals clear — gone, snuffed out in an instant.
Then came a softer voice.
"Hey."
Mateo turned his head. Pedri had jogged over, bending down slightly, his grin completely out of place in the storm of noise and fury.
Mateo exhaled, shaking his head. "What are you smiling for?"
Pedri's grin widened, a cheeky glint in his eyes. "Dude… they're insane, yeah? But isn't this exciting?"
Mateo blinked at him, baffled — and then, somehow, the absurdity cracked something in him. He let out a short laugh, then sighed again as he grabbed Pedri's outstretched hand. Pedri hauled him up, and Mateo shook his head with a crooked smile.
"Why are you like this all of a sudden?"
"Because," Pedri said, slapping his hand against Mateo's chest, "my heart is pounding. And I can't lie, bro… it feels good."
Two Spanish-born teenagers — one from Tenerife, the other from Barcelona — standing in the fire of Bavaria, their pulse racing like war drums. Against all logic, against the bleakness pressing in on them, they felt it. Not despair. Not collapse. But life.
Mateo stood tall now, rolling his shoulders, wiping sweat from his brow. Pedri grinned and tapped him lightly on the belly.
"Dude… don't let up. Believe. And don't worry…" His voice dropped, then he raised it into a roar. "We are winning this!"
Mateo chuckled, then shook his head before snapping back with his own roar:
"Of course we are! VISCA BARÇAAA!"
Their voices carried, and like sparks in dry grass, it spread. Across the pitch, heads lifted. Barcelona's players, still shaking from the punch of Bayern's goal, began to straighten, eyes sharpening, lungs filling with fire once more. Koeman's shouts, Messi's defiance, Mateo and Pedri's laughter in the face of madness — it was contagious.
Bayern Munich had lit their fire. They had clawed one goal back. But Barcelona were not about to fold. If the Germans wanted more — if they wanted to win here, in their own fortress — they would have to kill the Spaniards first.
And too bad for Bayern.
Because the Spaniards had just been given another life.
This might be Bayern's sanctuary, their cathedral of dominance where teams usually crumble under the weight of red and white. But not tonight. Not here. The Spaniards had come to conquer, and they would not let up.
....
Koeman stood restless on the edge of his technical area, his arms folded, his eyes burning holes into the grass. His mind was racing. He glanced back at the bench, and the question clawed at him again: Do I bring on Dembélé?
But immediately came the doubt. And if I do… who do I sacrifice? His eyes darted toward the pitch, toward the figure of Mateo. The boy was still running, still fighting, but there was a weariness creeping into his stride, a heaviness in his breathing that only a coach's eyes could catch. Koeman knew the warnings from the medical staff — don't push him too far, he's not built to go ninety at this tempo yet.
Yet how could he take him off?
Koeman exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. In his gut, he knew the truth: right now, even a gassed Mateo King offered more than a fully fit Ousmane Dembélé. Mateo wasn't just running; he was bending the game, forcing Bayern to think twice, creating spaces just by existing. After Paris… after everything he's dragged us through… I'd be a fool not to trust him again.
Still, the advice of the medical team gnawed at him. Or maybe it's not about Dembélé. Maybe I should shore up the midfield… His thoughts flickered through the options — maybe Sergi Roberto could be the one, someone who could plug holes, add a little steel, give Frenkie and Busquets a breather. Another body in midfield wouldn't be the worst idea. At least it buys time…
His tactical map shifted, scenarios playing out in his head like a chessboard. But then a sudden scream from the pitch yanked him back to the present.
"VISCA BARÇA!"
Koeman's head snapped up. There, in the middle of the storm, were Mateo and Pedri. The two teenagers were side by side, grinning like lunatics in the fire of Munich. Their voices carried above the noise, young and defiant, as if daring the Allianz Arena itself to try and silence them. Koeman couldn't help the small shake of his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. These kids… they're doing it. They actually believe.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, almost laughing at himself. Then I'll believe too.
He strode to the touchline, motioning with his hand. "Leo!"
Messi broke off from jogging back into position, his armband catching the floodlights as he jogged toward his manager. Koeman leaned close, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the thunder.
"Compact the midfield," Koeman instructed, stabbing his finger toward the center. "Stay disciplined, stay narrow. Let them push numbers, and we wait. When the moment comes, we hit them — their high line is begging for it. Tell Mateo he doesn't need to track back so deep anymore. Let him save his legs. Wait for the chance. Then kill them."
Messi listened, his eyes calm but intense, and gave a single nod. No wasted words. He turned to go — but Koeman's voice caught him again.
"Visca Barça!"
Messi looked back over his shoulder. For a moment, captain and coach locked eyes. The Argentine raised a clenched fist and gave a small pump in the air. Koeman smiled, the pride and stubborn hope flickering inside him. The club really is changing, he thought.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the opposite touchline. Flick was there, animated, calling over a couple of his men. The Bayern coach's gestures were sharp, urgent, precise. For a second, the two managers' gazes crossed across the battlefield. Koeman tilted his head slightly, almost an unspoken nod. Flick answered with the same — warriors who knew the weight of nights like these. Mutual respect, silent and heavy.
Koeman turned back toward the pitch, his jaw tight, his heart thumping. Under his breath, almost inaudible, he whispered a single plea into the roaring Munich night.
"You can do this."
...
Bayern might have scored their first goal, and belief had coursed through them like fire in iron. Their second, their third — it was already being written in their minds. The German machine knew what it was capable of; this was only the beginning. But football, cruel and beautiful, does not run on machinery alone.
Teenagers' freedom.
A coach's stubborn trust.
A captain's unshakable belief.
The Barcelona that Bayern were about to face now was not the one they had bullied for the last twenty minutes. They had fed on dominance, on pressing traps, on movements drilled into them until they were second nature — Flick's machines. But what rose before them now was something else entirely: Koeman's men, alive with chaos, spirit, and imagination. Robots versus dreamers. Flick's machine versus Koeman's faith.
Inside the stadium, fans could hardly believe their eyes. The game had already been an epic: the shock of Barça's two first-half goals, the storm of Bayern's dominance after the break, the inevitable claw-back that had come with Kimmich's strike. But now — now it felt like something else altogether. To be here, in the Allianz, to witness this… it was no longer football as usual. It was theatre, war, poetry. For those inside, for those glued to their screens across the world, the sense was undeniable: the real game after 3 goals had just begun.
A Bayern side fueled by rage, sharpened by fury, driven by the power of their fortress. A Barcelona side reborn on the edge of despair, spirits rekindled by youth and defiance. Two forces colliding.
And from the 76th minute, madness truly took hold.
Messi picked up the ball deep, his head low, defenders closing. He slalomed past one, then another, then two more Bayern shirts — a ghost in boots, leaving red jerseys in his wake. The stadium gasped as he slipped through them, only for Kimmich to lunge and block, Bayern scrambling bodies back to deny what could have been a dagger.
Back the other way, Bayern surged. Müller, chest heaving, eyes blazing, swung a pass wide to Sané. A low cross whipped through the area — but Busquets, calm as still water in a storm, collected, shuffled, glided past two pressing Germans, and carried the ball forward with the grace of a man playing in his backyard. The contrast was startling: Müller, red-faced passion incarnate, versus Busquets, composure itself.
And then — Mateo. He ghosted into space, eyes hungry, timing his run perfectly. The ball found him. For a heartbeat, it looked like freedom. One touch, two strides, he was through. The crowd rose — only for Neuer, immense and eternal, to fling himself low, pawing the ball away with a save that felt almost inhuman. Mateo fell forward, breathless, clutching his head in disbelief as the crowd roared their approval.
Still it did not stop. Bayern poured again. Musiala — eighteen years old, fearless, electric — wriggled between Jordi Alba and Lenglet, snapping past them like a spark. He cut inside, curled his body for the shot — blocked! The young bloods on both sides were writing their stories, reminding everyone watching that the future was already here.
For eleven minutes, from the 75th to the 86th, the pitch was chaos stitched with brilliance. Every tackle sparked a counter. Every pass felt like it might carve history. Feet flickered, minds raced, the ball never stilled. Those who watched forgot the commentary entirely, their ears deaf to Guy Mowbray and Tony Jones. Only the ball mattered now. The ball, and the twenty-two souls chasing it with everything they had.
And if you asked anyone there, anyone in that frenzy of noise and disbelief, they would swear those eleven minutes were the most thrilling of their lives.
And as the clock ticked into the eighty-sixth minute, the storm broke once more. What followed was not football — it was fury. The Allianz roared as if it had witnessed something it would never forget.
A/N
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