"Right, well, let's talk about this Dortmund side then," Derek Morrison said. "Thomas, what they've achieved this season... I mean, where do you even start?"
"With the boy, Derek. Has to be." Thomas Hitzlsperger's tone carried genuine wonder. "Luka Zorić. Seventeen years old, thirty-four goals, thirty assists across all competitions. Those aren't normal numbers."
"The Champions League run alone, destroying PSG in the round of sixteen, that hat-trick at the Parc des Princes that announced him to the world. Then absolutely dismantling Chelsea over two legs, making them look like they belonged in the Championship rather than challenging for European glory."
"And Liverpool!" Hitzlsperger's voice pitched higher with remembered excitement. "Extra time, penalties, Jude Bellingham playing like a man possessed, Haaland with that penalty that sent them through. The kid was lying in a medical facility weeks ago, everyone writing him off for the season. Now he's back, supposedly enhanced, ready for a Champions League final against Real Madrid."
Morrison shuffled through his notes, the papers crackling with nervous energy. "Fifteen goals, fifteen assists in the Bundesliga alone. At seventeen! When I was seventeen, I was worried about passing my driving test. This lad's rewriting record books every time he steps on the pitch."
"What gets me is the maturity, Derek. The way he handles pressure that would break seasoned professionals. That free-kick against Chelsea at Stamford Bridge, ninety-third minute, everything on the line, and he steps up like he's been doing it for decades."
"Speaking of stepping up..." Morrison gestured toward the stadium, where warm-up music was beginning to filter through the evening air. "I believe we're about to see the teams emerge for their pre-match preparation. And frankly, after three weeks away, I imagine Luka Zorić is rather eager to feel that Dortmund grass beneath his feet again."
—
The tunnel mouth at Signal Iduna Park yawned like a concrete throat, fluorescent light bleeding into the gathering dusk as players began their emergence into the cathedral of their profession.
The sound hit them first, not quite the full-throated roar that would come later, but the building hum.
Luka walked in the middle of the group, his yellow training shirt loose against his frame, black shorts and socks completing the uniform that had become his second skin. The synthetic grass of the tunnel gave way to natural turf that felt different beneath his boots, springier, more alive, carrying the memory of countless matches, goals, celebrations, heartbreaks.
The air was crisp, carrying the scent of evening and anticipation. Seven degrees Celsius, but the stadium's atmosphere made it feel warmer, the collective body heat of passion creating its own microclimate.
"LUKA! LUKA! LUKA!"
The chant started somewhere in the South Stand and spread like wildfire, individual voices merging into the concrete beneath his feet, through his bones, through whatever part of the soul responds to mass human devotion. He looked up, squinting slightly against the floodlights that bathed the pitch in harsh perfection.
The Yellow Wall was already filling, twenty-five thousand people dressed in identical colors, scarves raised like battle standards, faces painted with hope and desperation in equal measure. Three weeks ago, they'd been singing his name while he lay on a medical table in Romania, wondering if his season was over.
Now...
Now they were welcoming him home.
He raised his hand, just slightly, acknowledging the sound without quite believing he deserved it. The response was immediate and overwhelming, voices lifting to new levels, flags whipping in evening air that tasted like possibility.
A smile tugged at his lips despite himself.
Wow, he thought, stopping mid-stride to take it all in.
The noise, the color, the sheer scale of devotion that had somehow arranged itself around his return. For a moment, just a moment, the weight of it threatened to overwhelm him. All these people, all this hope, all this belief in something he wasn't entirely sure he could deliver.
A tear tracked down his left cheek before he could stop it.
This noise, this belonging, this home, was worth every moment of pain, every hour of rehabilitation, every day of uncertainty about whether he'd ever play football again.
"Oi, Luka!" Jude's voice cut through the emotional moment. "Stop crying and come warm up, you soft bastard!"
The spell broke. Luka wiped his face with his sleeve, grinning despite himself, and jogged to catch up with his teammates who were already beginning their preparation.
Rose stood in the center circle with a bag of balls, his tracksuit zipped against the evening chill, whistle hanging around his neck like a badge of office. "Right then," he called out, voice carrying easily across the pitch. "Let's remember what we came here to do."
The shooting drill started simply, players taking turns from outside the box, testing their touch, their timing, their muscle memory. Palmer went first, side-footing a ball that Rose had rolled into his path. Clean contact, but the shot sailed just over the crossbar, bringing groans from supporters who were watching every movement with intensity.
Jude stepped up next, his approach more deliberate. Rose rolled the ball, Jude met it with his laces, sending it low toward the near post. Bürki, stretching in goal, made a comfortable save, gathering the ball with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this thousands of times.
Haaland's turn. A quick adjustment of his shorts, a roll of his shoulders. When Rose released the ball, Haaland's contact was pure violence, the shot arrowing toward goal with enough pace to break fingers. It crashed against the crossbar with a sound like thunder, the rebound bouncing harmlessly into the stand behind the goal.
"Erling," Palmer laughed. "Save some power for the actual match."
Then it was Luka's turn.
He stood twenty-five yards from goal, feeling the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders like a familiar coat. The stadium had quieted slightly, not silent, but attentive, waiting to see what their returning hero might produce in his first touch of the ball since injury.
Rose rolled the ball toward him, pace and weight perfect for what was essentially a penalty in reverse, a chance to announce his return with authority.
His body positioning was perfect, slightly sideways to the goal, weight on his right foot, left foot cocked like a loaded weapon. The contact was pure and sweet. The ball rose quickly, clearing an imaginary wall before beginning its descent toward the top corner.
The trajectory was gorgeous, a perfect parabola that had Bürki scrambling across his goal line, fully extended but knowing he had no chance. The ball nestled in the side netting with a sound like silk tearing, the net bulging beautifully before settling back into place.
The crowd erupted. Their boy was back, that the magic hadn't been lost in Romanian recovery rooms.
Luka grinned, jogging back toward the center circle where his teammates were offering fist bumps and shoulder slaps. "Still got it then," Reus observed dryly, though his eyes carried genuine relief.
"Never lost it," Luka replied, the confidence in his voice surprising even himself.
The drill continued, cone work next, players weaving through orange markers with increasing speed and complexity. Luka's movements were fluid, economical, his enhanced proprioception allowing him to feel exactly where each cone was without looking, to judge distances and angles with computer-like precision.
His touches were getting sharper with each repetition, his timing more precise. The ball seemed magnetized to his feet, responding to subtle adjustments in pressure and angle that spoke of thousands of hours of practice, of muscle memory operating at levels below conscious thought.
Agility ladders came next, quick feet exercises that would have looked like choreography if performed at normal speed. But these weren't normal athletes, and this wasn't normal speed. Luka's feet blurred through the squares, in-out-in-out patterns that required perfect balance and timing.
The final warm-up was simple passing, short, sharp exchanges between players that gradually increased in pace and complexity. Nothing fancy, just professionals preparing their bodies and minds for what lay ahead. But even here, Luka's quality was evident, every pass weighted perfectly, every touch contributing to the collective rhythm that good teams develop through repetition and trust.
—
The Dortmund dressing room carried the familiar scent of liniment and nervous sweat, fluorescent lights casting everything in harsh clarity that made yellow shirts seem to glow against dark wooden benches. Players settled into their assigned spaces with the practiced routine of professionals who'd done this hundreds of times before, yet never quite like this.
Marco Rose stood in the center of the room, clipboard forgotten on the tactical board behind him.
"Right then," he began, his voice carrying easily through the room without need for volume. "We've worked hard to get here. Every training session, every match, every moment when things felt impossible. You've shown what this team can be."
He moved slowly between the benches, making eye contact with players.
"I won't pretend this is just another match. Bayern have won eleven consecutive titles. Eleven years of dominance that people said would never end. Today, we have the chance to prove that football still has room for surprise."
Hummels nodded from his corner position.
"The team," Rose continued, consulting the sheet he'd committed to memory hours ago, the players already knew—this was a simple reminder. "Kobel in goal. Defense: Guerreiro, Akanji, Hummels, Meunier. Midfield: Can, Jude, Reus as captain. Front three: Palmer, Malen, Haaland."
Luka remained seated on the bench behind the starting eleven, his position requiring no explanation. Three weeks away from competitive football demanded careful reintegration, regardless of talent or desire.
"Play your game," Rose concluded, stepping back toward the tactical board where formations and set-piece routines were sketched in blue marker. "Trust each other. Remember that belief becomes reality when enough people share it."
—
Jude adjusted his shin guard for the third time in five minutes, never quite feeling right against his skin despite years of wearing it. The tunnel was beginning to fill with officials, Hertha players in their blue and white stripes, cameras positioning themselves for the traditional walkout shots that would be replayed endlessly if today went according to plan.
The referee checked his watch, nodding to both captains before raising his hand to signal readiness. Behind him, the tunnel mouth revealed Signal Iduna Park in all its concrete and steel majesty, floodlights creating perfect visibility across grass that had been manicured to absolute precision.
The first notes of "Heja BVB" began echoing from the stadium's sound system, quickly overwhelmed by voices that knew every word, every pause, every moment where collective breath should be held before the next crescendo.
"Heja BVB, Heja BVB, Heja BVB Borussia!"
The walk from tunnel to center circle felt simultaneously eternal and instantaneous.
Grass beneath his boots was perfect, unmarked by the chaos that would soon unfold across its surface.
"Oh wie ist das schön, oh wie ist das schön, so was hat man lange nicht gesehen!"
The song crashed over them in waves, timing perfectly with their emergence into the arena where everything would be decided.
Handshakes with Hertha players were perfunctory but respectful. The coin toss was won, lost, irrelevant except for the marginal advantage of choosing which goal to defend first.
Haaland jogged toward the center circle, his long stride eating up ground with the movement of someone conserving energy for the explosive moments. Around him, teammates found their positions with the practiced precision of a formation they'd rehearsed countless times.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips, pausing for effect that stretched seconds into eternity. The stadium held its collective breath.
Tweet.
The referee's whistle cut through the din of Signal Iduna Park like a blade through silk.
Haaland tapped the ball sideways to Reus, who stood three yards to his right. The captain's first touch was clean, immediately laying it back to Can who had positioned himself fifteen yards behind the center circle.
The opening exchanges were deliberate, almost ceremonial. Hertha's players held their shape, allowing Dortmund to circulate the ball without immediate pressure.
This was normal, teams rarely pressed from kickoff, preferring to settle into their defensive structure and wait for the game to develop its rhythm.
Can received the ball with acres of space, Hertha's striker Kanga staying twenty yards away, not bothering to close him down. The German midfielder took a touch, scanning left and right. Guerreiro was showing for the ball near the touchline. Akanji stood unmarked on the right side of defense.
The crowd's noise was constant now, not the explosive roars that would come with goals or near-misses, but the steady backdrop of a city that had waited eleven years for this moment. Yellow scarves swayed in the stands like wheat in wind, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a drum kept relentless time.
"BVB! BVB! BVB!"
Can stepped on the ball, letting it sit motionless for a moment while he raised his hand toward Meunier. The Belgian fullback began jogging forward down the right flank, but the pass didn't come. Instead, Can chose the simple option, rolling the ball back to Hummels.
The center-back controlled it with his left foot, taking a moment to feel the weight of the ball, the texture of the grass beneath his studs. Everything felt normal, familiar, exactly as it should. He looked up to see Kanga still hanging back, Hertha's midfield sitting compact about thirty yards away.
Hummels drove a pass forward toward Can, who had moved into space between Hertha's lines. The ball traveled twenty-five yards, crisp and accurate. Can's first touch was with the outside of his right foot, taking him away from Dardai who was approaching at a leisurely pace.
Now Palmer began to move, checking toward Can before spinning away from Zeefuik down the right wing. Can saw the movement, weighted the pass perfectly to find Palmer's feet as he accelerated into the space.
Palmer's touch was clean, but Zeefuik had recovered well, forcing him inside toward the crowded central areas. Palmer looked up, seeing Jude making a run between Ascacibar and Tousart in Hertha's midfield.
The pass was struck with Palmer's left foot, aimed for the space Jude was running into. But Ascacibar read it perfectly, stepping across to intercept with his thigh. The ball deflected toward the touchline where Plattenhardt gathered it calmly.
First real possession for Hertha.
Plattenhardt took his time, feeling no immediate pressure from Palmer who was jogging back to recover his position. He looked forward, seeing Jovetic dropping deep to show for the ball.
The pass was simple, fifteen yards along the ground. Jovetic received with his back to goal, immediately feeling the presence of Can behind him. The Montenegrin striker's touch was heavy, the ball bouncing away from him as he tried to turn.
Can was there immediately, winning the loose ball with a sliding challenge that was perfectly timed.
Can rose to his feet and immediately looked for the forward pass. Jude was available, pointing to the space behind Tousart. The ball was played with Can's right foot, driven hard along the ground.
Jude's first touch was perfect, using the inside of his foot to cushion the pass while turning his body toward goal. Ascacibar was closing quickly, but Jude had the yard of space he needed. His second touch was more ambitious, a chipped pass over Hertha's defensive line seeking Malen's run down the left.
The ball was perfectly weighted, dropping just behind Pekarik who was sprinting back to cover. Malen got there first, controlling with his chest before driving toward the byline. His cross was struck hard and low, aimed for the near post where Haaland was making his move.
But the ball struck Pekarik's outstretched leg, deflecting wide for a corner kick.
First real chance of the match, and the crowd responded with a surge of noise that seemed to lift the stadium roof.
Palmer jogged over to take the corner, the ball positioned perfectly on the quarter-circle. The crowd's noise reached a crescendo as he raised his hand to signal his intention.
"Oh wie ist das schön!"
The song erupted from the South Stand, spreading around the stadium like wildfire. Palmer waited for it to reach its peak before beginning his run-up, letting the voices wash over him like a blessing.
The cross was whipped in with pace, curling toward the penalty spot where bodies converged in a tangle of yellow and blue. Hummels rose highest, his timing perfect, but his header was directed straight at Schwolow who gathered it calmly.
Still 0-0.