Thomas Müller unleashed a primal roar, sliding on his knees across the Allianz Arena turf, tearing up the grass as the home crowd erupted into a frenzy.
The noise was like a wall of sound that vibrated in the chests of the Manchester United players.
Robert Lewandowski was the first to arrive, wrapping his arms around Müller's neck and screaming into the din.
"Ja! That is it! Well done, lads!"
"Let's make it another 6-0!" Joshua Kimmich yelled, running over with a radiant, almost arrogant smile plastered on his face.
"Show our guests some real German hospitality!"
Kimmich felt a rush of validation.
Before the match, the media had hyped up this United side, talking about their defensive solidity and Mourinho's tactical masterclass.
But five minutes in? They looked like paper tigers—all barks and no bite.
Hadn't Bayern already sliced through their defense like a hot knife through butter? And the goalscorer was Müller—the man known as the "Disaster Opener."
When he scored early, it usually signaled a massacre.
In the 2009 Champions League, after a Müller opener, Bayern had annihilated Sporting Lisbon 12-1 on aggregate.
Then there was the 7-1 against Brazil.
The Bayern fans in the stands sensed blood.
They raised their arms, their faces twisted with the thrill of revenge.
To them, their trophy room should have housed one more Champions League trophy—the one from 1999.
"Kill it off!" a Bavarian ultra screamed, leaning over the railing.
"Bury them now!"
The tragic ending of the 'Black Three Minutes' at the Camp Nou was forever etched in their collective memory.
No amount of Bundesligas could heal the scar of Solskjaer's toe-poke.
They were determined to crush Manchester United every time they met, to erase that ghost through sheer brute force.
"You Brits will never score at the Allianz!"
"Another one! We want another one!"
In the away section, the traveling United fans looked bewildered.
They were used to seeing their team control the tempo in the Premier League this season, usually grinding out a lead.
But this? This was a disaster.
The speed of Bayern's play was frightening.
"Wake up!" a lad from Salford shouted, cupping his hands. "Come on United! It's only one goal!"
They rallied their spirits, singing "United We Stand" to drown out the German drums.
A comeback? United could stage comebacks in their sleep.
They had done it in Turin in '99 and they could do it here.
....
The camera cut to the technical areas.
Jupp Heynckes stood with his hands in his pockets, his face full of serene composure.
This was the calm of a 73-year-old grandmaster who had seen everything football could throw at him.
"He took command when the army was defeated, and received his orders in times of crisis."
The description fit perfectly.
Last year, Bayern had been a mess under Ancelotti—draws, losses, a humiliating 3-0 defeat to PSG, and a dressing room on the verge of mutiny.
But Heynckes had returned for his third stint, and suddenly, the machine was fixed.
His gaze swept over the pitch; seven of these starters were with him for the 2013 treble.
He knew exactly what they were capable of.
On the other side, Jose Mourinho was stomping the touchline, his brow furrowed deep enough to plant seeds in.
The goal had come too suddenly.
It was a slap in the face to his preparation.
"Don't recklessly challenge for the ball!" Mourinho roared, pointing frantically at Phil Jones.
"Maintain the shape! Everyone hold your positions! Stop running like headless chickens!"
He wasn't going to lose his composure over one conceded goal—he was the Special One after all—but the ease with which Bayern had penetrated the left flank was concerning.
Stabilizing the defensive structure was now the priority, or this would turn into a cricket score.
...
The match resumed.
Romelu Lukaku tapped the ball back to Jesse Lingard, and United tried to reset.
After a series of nervous passes, the ball reached Paul Pogba's feet.
Immediately, a swarm of red shirts descended on him.
Bayern's entire formation pressed forward aggressively.
Forget Guardiola's "tiki-taka" philosophy of controlled possession; this was Jupp Heynckes' heavy metal football.
Total attack, total defense, layered pressing, unstoppable momentum.
While the world was obsessed with passing triangles, Heynckes was piercing through the mist with direct, vertical violence.
Guardiola's three years in Munich had brought success, but many felt he had sterilized Bayern's traditional power, wasting the peak years of Robben and Ribery.
Heynckes had unleashed the beast again!
Even the veterans were pressing like teenagers on Red Bull.
United, never the most comfortable team playing out from the back, looked shaky.
If they kept dallying on the ball, Neuer's replacement would be picking it out of his net again in minutes.
Pogba understood this perfectly.
The Frenchman used his massive body to shield the ball from Vidal.
The template of a world-class midfielder included not just physicality and technique, but the vision to see the matrix.
He looked up, spotting a mismatch in bayern position.
Bayern's high press had a flaw: their single defensive midfielder, Javi Martinez, couldn't cover the entire width of the pitch.
Thwack!
Pogba didn't hesitate, pinging a diagonal ball that lifted off the grass with a crisp sound, flying low and fast toward the left flank like a tracer bullet.
"Pogba releases the pressure valve," Gary Neville commented from the gantry. "That is a glorious ball, but can Ling control it with Kimmich breathing down his neck?"
Controlling such a pass at speed was difficult enough. Doing it with Joshua Kimmich charging at you was a nightmare.
Kimmich had decided not to wait.
He wasn't going to jockey like Alexander-Arnold; he was going to snap into the tackle before Ling could turn.
'How do you handle the ball when you can't exert full force?'
Ling saw the German coming. He didn't panic, instead, his muscles tensed, locking his core.
He didn't try to move away as he leaned into the challenge.
Bang.
The collision was heavy.
Kimmich felt like he had crashed into a concrete wall. He bounced off Ling's shoulder, momentarily stunned by the winger's sheer static strength.
"Get off me," Ling seemed to say with his body language.
With Kimmich off-balance, Ling focused on the ball dropping from the night sky.
The ball seemed to sink into a soft sponge, its violent momentum instantly vanishing as it kissed Ling's boot.
It was the kind of touch that separates the good from the elite.
"Oh, stop it," Martin Tyler purred on the commentary. "That touch is filthy. Kimmich tried to bully him, but he just bounced off!"
"He's not going down the line this time, Martin," Neville noted. "Look at the movement inside!"
Ling cut sharply inside, driving straight into the heart of Bayern's midfield.
"He's driving right into the traffic!"
"And look at the support!"
Jesse Lingard and Juan Mata simultaneously drifted inward, collapsing the space.
Suddenly, Javi Martinez found himself in a tactical nightmare.
He was the lone pivot in Bayern's 4-1-4-1, and he was completely encircled. Lingard was buzzing to his left, Ling was driving at his face, and Mata was lurking in the half-space to his right.
Even though Martinez was a destroyer of the highest caliber—a World Cup winner with interception stats rivaling N'Golo Kanté—he couldn't fight physics.
He had to choose.
He stepped toward Lingard, the most immediate central threat.
Checkmate.
That movement freed up the passing lane to the right!
Ling, reading the game like a grandmaster, didn't force the dribble. He flicked a simple, horizontal pass to Juan Mata.
Mata was the antithesis of a modern Premier League athlete.
He was slow, small, and couldn't tackle a lamppost.
But his brain operated on a different frequency.
In this Mourinho system, he was the "shadow striker," the lubricant that made the gears turn.
Mata received the ball in the pocket of space Martinez had vacated.
"Mata in the pocket," Tyler said, his voice rising in anticipation. "This is where he hurts you. The little magician has time to turn."