Chapter Eighteen: Not Advancing

Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the ball—would it go in or not?

Simon Yench was sprinting with all his might, his gaze locked firmly on the ball. Pizarro lay sprawled on the ground, craning his neck to watch as the ball flew toward the net. Was it in?

Just as everyone believed the goal was a certainty, an astonishing scene unfolded.

“Simon Yench! Simon Yench pulls off an unbelievable save, he arrives just in time, shattering Bayern Munich’s hopes!”

Pizarro’s eyes widened, and he pounded his fists into the turf, throwing back his head to roar, “No!”

A split second before the ball rolled across the line, Simon Yench managed to get his hand under it, tipping it over the bar. It was a Bayern Munich corner!

“I’m almost speechless—Simon Yench is magnificent! That’s his fourth miraculous save! Bayern Munich takes the corner, it’s a tricky angle! Elber! Elber goes for the header!”

Elber surged out of the crowd, leaping high, but unfortunately, the ball soared over the crossbar.

“It’s a corner for 1860 Munich now. You can see Bayern’s head coach, Hitzfeld, doesn’t look pleased.”

After this spell of intense pressure, Bayern Munich’s tempo eased, perhaps from fatigue, and 1860 Munich could finally catch their breath. Momo’s presence had been barely felt, as he hadn’t had a chance to touch the ball.

Their team had been under a relentless bombardment from Bayern, but as the pace slowed, an opportunity for counterattack emerged. Thomas Hassler intercepted a pass, and without hesitation, launched the ball forward to Momo!

“Momo! Momo receives the ball near the center circle—not the best position, Scholl closes in for the challenge! Beautiful!”

Momo controlled the ball with his chest, then surged forward into Bayern’s half. Scholl was just steps away, and as Momo turned, the two faced each other head-on.

Scholl moved in first, stretching his right leg for a fierce tackle. Momo reacted instantly, cutting the ball inside with his left foot and shifting his weight, the two skimming past each other left and right.

Now Kufour appeared on Momo’s right flank, with Lizarazu and Link also eyeing him hungrily.

“Momo’s dribbled past Scholl! You can really see how much his technique has improved lately!”

Kufour and Momo looked on a collision course; Momo, having just beaten Scholl, seemed to be losing control of his speed. Kufour’s timing was perfect for a challenge, but Momo’s reactions were lightning-fast.

The ball had been rolling toward Kufour’s side, but as Kufour lunged, Momo deftly nudged it away with the outside of his right foot, slipping past him.

At that moment, Lizarazu and Link hesitated. Link decided to step up for the tackle—he thought it was an ideal opportunity! It seemed he’d succeed, but Momo beat him to it, pushing the ball through Link’s legs with the inside of his right foot!

The Allianz Arena erupted with gasps, mingled with cheers and jeers.

“Momo! Momo is so agile—he’s like a butterfly weaving through flowers, rampaging through Bayern’s defense!”

Sweat poured down Momo’s brow. He resembled a hockey player, deftly manipulating the ball—not with a stick, but with his own two feet! His footwork was rapid, his running cadence relentless.

But after this string of dazzling moves, Momo began to lose control. At that moment, Lizarazu struck, executing a precise sliding tackle that sent the ball flying away. Momo was startled but powerless to react.

To the untrained eye, a new star seemed to be rising, but others saw only one thing: Bayern Munich’s defense had grown old and brittle.

Many had already advised Hitzfeld to give players like Philipp Lahm a chance, but he remained stubbornly loyal to his old guard. How could anyone doubt them? They’d already led Bayern to three consecutive league titles.

“Lizarazu steals the ball from Momo, sending it flying back toward 1860 Munich’s half. We’re now in the forty-fourth minute, with no stoppage time to be added.”

The 1860 Munich players didn’t hurry back to defend, having grown somewhat relaxed after Bayern’s earlier fruitless attacks. Bayern, at this stage, usually slowed the game with long passes.

But this time was different. Bayern acted swiftly, slicing open 1860 Munich’s defense with a sharp through ball.

Kurtz, thirty-three and highly experienced, was marking Pizarro. When the pass came, Kurtz’s positioning was textbook—his plan was to slow Pizarro just enough for his teammates to help snuff out Bayern’s attack.

The last time Kurtz saw Pizarro, he was on his right. The next instant, Pizarro, having received the ball, suddenly flickered onto his left, and then vanished from his sight altogether.

A wave of astonished exclamations swept through Allianz Arena!

“Pizarro’s speed is incredible! With the ball at his feet, 1860’s veteran defender Kurtz tried to block him, but Pizarro danced back and forth behind Kurtz, whose head couldn’t keep up with his movement!”

Pizarro glided past with ease; by then, Kurtz was left staring at him over his shoulder. Come on, then! Come on!

Simon Yench’s eyes were wide with tension, locked on Pizarro. He’d lost count of how many times he’d faced him, but even so, Yench was determined not to concede.

Pizarro felt the pressure mounting as well—how many golden chances had he squandered already?

Simon Yench, tall and commanding, excelled at high balls and one-on-ones. Arsenal had long considered signing him to succeed the aging David Seaman.

Yench himself hoped to join Arsenal, and he knew Arsenal’s scouts were watching him in this crucial derby.

“Pizarro shoots! Once again, he’s denied by Simon Yench!”

This time, Pizarro tried a delicate shot from a tight angle. Yench’s eyes widened in disbelief as his hand brushed the ball but failed to fully stop it. He crashed to the turf as the ball rolled slowly toward the post, seemingly bound to go out.

But then Yench sensed someone leap over him—a flash of red, number fourteen, Claudio Pizarro!

“It’s a goal! Pizarro! Pizarro equalizes for Bayern Munich!”

Pizarro’s face twisted with emotion; he kicked the ball into the net again and again, as if venting all his pent-up frustration.

When he first joined Bayern in 2001, Pizarro had continued his prolific Bremen form, scoring with any partner. But soon, his inconsistency was laid bare—he’d go on scoring sprees, then plunge into barren spells.

Top clubs crave consistency, and Bayern was on the wrong path, trusting veterans too much and refusing to give youth a chance.

Bayern’s fans roared in delight, affectionately calling Pizarro “The Inca God.”

Pizarro felt as if he’d returned to his very first season—unstoppable, brimming with confidence.

The referee blew for halftime.

Packult frowned, knowing he needed to make changes. His defense was aging, the whole team growing old, and tactical options were dwindling. 1860 Munich was no longer a young side; they were truly past their prime.

Momo’s expression turned somber—he’d hoped to hold the lead until halftime.

But what he failed to realize was that the real danger wasn’t just the goal. It was Bayern Munich’s morale, which had now awakened and was ready to tear them apart.