The swirling chaos of the Allianz Arena seemed to slow down for Juan Mata.
While the midfield battle raged like a storm around him, the Spaniard found himself in a pocket of tranquility on the right flank, directly in the eye of the hurricane.
He controlled the ball in front of him with his left foot, glancing up to assess the box.
He had ample time and space, a criminal oversight by the Bayern defense.
He slightly lifted his left foot, wrapping it around the ball to deliver a precise, inswinging curved pass.
The ball traced a dazzling arc into the penalty area, slicing through the corridor of uncertainty between Jerome Boateng and Mats Hummels.
Suddenly, two figures materialized in the frame like ghosts.
The "Black and White Duo" came knocking at the door!
Ling, reading the flight of the ball instantly, made a sharp dart to the near post, dragging the hulking frame of Boateng with him.
It was a decoy run, selfless and intelligent.
Behind him, Romelu Lukaku seized the opportunity, cutting in diagonally across the face of Hummels.
The Belgian giant rose. He met the ball with a fierce, powerful header, putting his entire neck muscles into the effort.
Headers from such close range are usually lethal; it is physically impossible for a goalkeeper to react in time.
Sven Ulreich stood rooted to the spot, watching his fate seal.
CLANG!
The sound was sickeningly metallic, echoing like a gunshot through the stadium.
The ball smashed against the crossbar, vibrating the frame, and bounced harmlessly out of play.
Ulreich, hearing that crisp sound, let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, cold sweat instantly pouring down his forehead.
"Holy fuck..." the keeper muttered to himself.
Truly, his own goal frame had come to the rescue at the critical moment.
Since Manuel Neuer's severe injury, Ulreich had stepped up, but he lived in the shadow of the world's best.
Every mistake was magnified, every slip-up scrutinized by the demanding Bavarian faithful.
He had been under immense pressure lately, terrified of becoming the villain.
"Wake up!" Ulreich screamed at his defenders, veins bulging in his neck. "Focus on the defense! Don't let them slip through again, you bastards!"
Boateng and Hummels nodded, looking grim.
Meanwhile, Lukaku clutched his head in frustration, falling to his knees.
"Fuck!" Lukaku roared at the turf.
He had wasted a golden opportunity, a sitter that could have changed the entire complexion of the tie.
The overwhelming pressure was suffocating him.
Why did he always seem to disappear in high-stakes clashes? The news would eat him alive for this.
Flat-track bully, they called him.
A damn choker.
If he could play with the same "I'm the best in the world" arrogance as Zlatan Ibrahimovic, perhaps that header goes in.
But doubt was a heavy anchor.
"Romelu, get up!" Ling's voice cut through his self-pity.
Ling didn't offer any comfort. He didn't pat him on the back. He just glared at him, pointing towards the halfway line.
"Hurry back on defense! We go again!"
...
The match resumed, and the reprieve for United was short-lived.
Under Jupp Heynckes' frantic signaling from the touchline, Bayern's defensive line pushed forward several meters.
It was a bold, aggressive adjustment, shortening the distance between the defense and Javi Martinez.
This compression provided strong support when Manchester United tried to besiege Martinez, effectively choking United's supply lines.
Facing Bayern's high defensive line, Manchester United's instinct was to exploit the space behind with long balls, but the execution was lacking.
Bayern's left-side attacks grew increasingly fluid, squeezing and deforming Manchester United's overall formation like a stress ball.
Paul Pogba, usually the orchestrator, found himself suffocated, surrounded by three red shirts every time he touched the ball, unable to organize anything resembling an attack.
In the 17th minute of the match.
James Rodriguez, drifting into pockets of space like a phantom, received the ball outside the penalty area.
He didn't look up since he already knew where the runs were. He delivered a laser-guided through pass into the box.
Phil Jones, panic etched on his face, threw himself into a slide.
He intercepted the ball, but it was a messy, hurried clearance that sliced high into the air rather than away to safety.
"Ah, that is poor quality defending," Gary Neville groaned on the commentary, his voice thick with stress. "Hummels has already moved to the landing spot in advance, he's heading it straight back to Rafinha on the left. The pressure just doesn't stop."
"It's the same script again and again, Gary," Martin Tyler added. "Manchester United is flustered by Bayern's wing attacks. They can only seek opportunities through desperate long-range switches from the back, but the problem is they simply can't get the ball to the feet of their forwards!"
"If this continues, Bayern could easily break through using individual player skills, just like the previous goal. Mourinho needs to make adjustments quickly, or this is going to be a long night in Munich."
Across the world, millions of fans grew increasingly anxious.
They didn't want to see Ling's Champions League journey end in a whimper here.
The cheers at the Allianz Arena grew louder, a rhythmic drumming that pounded against the United players' skulls.
Gradually, however, the Manchester United players began to adapt to the intensity of the Champions League night.
Although they still looked quite disorganized in defense, scrambling and hacking clear, their mutual covering was improving.
Whenever Franck Ribery controlled the ball near the wing, Antonio Valencia would choose to defend inside and release outside, forcing the Frenchman down the line rather than letting him cut inside to shoot or link up.
The rest of the defensive line shuffled across, plugging the gaps.
Just as the hearts of the Manchester United fans in the stands began to settle, thinking the storm had weathered, Bayern shifted gears.
Their attacks weren't limited to the right wing.
The central advancement group, led by James Rodriguez, began to execute detailed penetration from the middle.
The Colombian superstar, on loan to Bayern this season for a mere 13 million euros, was playing like a man possessed.
Back in the day, he burst onto the scene with that spectacular volley in the 2014 World Cup.
After transferring to Real Madrid, it seemed he was on the path to becoming a Galactico legend, but football is cruel.
Life is full of uncertainties.
After many ups and downs, he rejoined his mentor Ancelotti, only for the Italian to be sacked.
But fortunately, Heynckes recognized the genius in his boots.
A confident smile spread across James Rodriguez's face as he caressed the ball. It was as if he had found his former self, the golden boy of Colombia.
Back then, as the key midfield engine, he orchestrated one threatening attack after another, toying with opponents' defenses.
Now, Bayern's personnel setup suited his style even better.
With Martinez doing the dirty work behind him, covering the ground James couldn't, he could fully unleash his offensive talents.
With explosive points like Arjen Robben and Ribery on the wings stretching the play, his lack of raw dribbling speed was compensated.
And most crucially, there was Thomas Muller.
The Raumdeuter—the master of space interpretation.
James and Muller perfectly complemented each other. One passed into space; the other arrived in it.
Pass, move, release!
Simple, effective, lethal passing combinations.
Bayern's frontline established perfect coordination, like sharp little knives constantly cutting and pulling apart Manchester United's defensive line stitch by stitch.
Just eight minutes later.
James Rodriguez received a pass from Martinez in the thirty-meter zone.
With a drop of the shoulder, he cleverly nudged the ball to evade Nemanja Matic's lumbering press.
His movement frequency wasn't particularly fast, but it carried a unique aesthetic beauty.
Manchester United's defensive line was tight and compact, enveloping the entire penalty area in a low block.
No space? No problem.
James wasn't planning to pass into the box.
Bayern possessed the most formidable individual weapon in football history for exactly this situation.
Tap.
The ball left James's left foot, tracing a wide diagonal line rolling across the turf toward the right side.
Bayern's number 10 burst into the center of the scene!
Arjen Robben received the ball.
The entire stadium stood up.
Gary Neville sighed audibly on the mic. "Here we go. We all know what he's going to do."
His left foot continuously made high-speed contact with the ball, the terrifying frequency making defenders tremble.
The whole world knew Robben would cut inside.
He had done it for a decade.
He had done it against the best. And yet, nobody could stop him.
Actually, this was a very simple technique that every player learns during their foundational training.
But to achieve what Robben could—seamless integration with the ball, perfect rhythm with every step—wasn't just about training; it required God-given talent and freakish biomechanics.
Ashley Young scrambled, trying to close the angle. Chris Smalling tried to shift his hips.
Neither could keep up.
As he reached the edge of the penalty area, Robben suddenly dropped his shoulder and unleashed a curling shot.
This was his turf.
This was the spot where he had broken a thousand hearts!
But as he struck it, a sour, aching sensation spread through his hip and knee.
Robben made a slight adjustment, twisting his body with all his might to curl the shot, trying to compensate for the micro-second of lag in his aging joints!
CRACK!
A crisp sound echoed in everyone's ears.
The ball spun violently as if trying to shred Manchester United's defense, tracing an exaggerated arc toward the top left corner of the goal.
Bayern fans rose to their feet, arms raising, lungs filling with air ready to roar!
But the roar died in their throats.
The ball whistled past the post, missing the top corner by inches.
"What a pity!" Martin Tyler shouted. "The quality of the strike was there, but the radar was just slightly off!"
"Robben is already 34 years old," Neville analyzed, his voice lacking its usual bite. "His playing style takes a tremendous toll on his body. The torque required for that shot... maybe his hips just don't fire like they used to."
"Perhaps even he has been defeated by time," Tyler mused. "He no longer possesses the magic of before on demand."
A continuous wave of disappointed sighs filled the Allianz Arena.
The scene that had flashed through Bayern fans' minds countless times—the net bulging, Robben sliding—didn't materialize.
They too knew Robben had grown old.
The "Flying Dutchman" was flying a little lower these days.
Perhaps he would soon leave Bayern.
That's why they hoped, with a desperate fervor, that veterans like Robben and Ribery could lift the Champions League trophy one more time before the sun set on this golden era.
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