Become A Football Legend-Chapter 215: Park the Boeing 747

Frankfurt’s best moment of the half arrived in the 24th minute, born from speed rather than patience. A loose clearance fell kindly on the left flank, and Lukas did not hesitate. Without taking a touch to settle himself, he wrapped his left foot around the ball and whipped a vicious cross into the heart of the box.

Ekitike timed his run perfectly, darting between two defenders and meeting the delivery with a clean header. The contact was strong, the direction true. For a split second, the net seemed destined to ripple.

Instead, a defender stationed on the line reacted instinctively, throwing his body into the path of the ball and hacking it clear. Groans rolled through the away end. Lukas stood with his hands on his hips, staring into the box, already replaying the movement in his mind.

Augsburg responded by sinking even deeper. The message was clear. If Frankfurt wanted a goal, they would have to force it through a crowd.

As the half wore on, frustration threatened to creep in, but Lukas refused to let the tempo die. In the 38th minute, he collected the ball just inside Augsburg’s half and drove forward, weaving between bodies with quick shifts of weight and close control. One defender slipped, another overcommitted, a third was beaten by a sharp change of direction.

The run brought the crowd to its feet. Lukas reached the edge of the box and struck through traffic, aiming low toward the far corner. A defender’s outstretched leg caught the shot, changing its angle just enough to send it straight into the goalkeeper’s path.

It summed up the half. Frankfurt had movement, imagination, and control. Augsburg had numbers, structure, and just enough fortune.

When the referee signaled for halftime, the scoreboard remained untouched. 0–0. Frankfurt had dominated possession and territory, but the low block held firm, and the breakthrough would have to wait for the second half.

* * *

The door slammed shut behind the last player, and for a second the only sound was heavy breathing and the hiss of boots scraping the floor.

Toppmöller did not sit down.

He stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, eyes moving from face to face. Then he exhaled sharply and started pacing.

"Look at me," he said, voice calm but tight. "Every single one of you."

Heads lifted.

"We are not here to hand Bayern the league on a silver plate," he continued. "Not today. Not by standing around passing the ball sideways until the crowd falls asleep."

No shouting. No theatrics. That somehow made it worse.

"They are not brave," he said, pointing vaguely toward the tunnel. "They are not trying to win. They are trying to survive. And that means the responsibility is on us."

He stopped in front of Lukas.

"They will not open the door for you," Toppmöller said. "So stop knocking politely."

Then he turned to the rest of the room.

"If you see space, attack it. If you lose the ball, you win it back. If the shot is there, you take it. We keep the tempo high enough that they make a mistake. Because they will."

Skhiri nodded. Larsson clenched his fists. Ekitike leaned forward, elbows on knees.

Toppmöller finally took a breath.

"Forty-five minutes," he said. "Do not gift anyone anything. Make them suffer."

The whistle outside cut through the room.

"Let’s go," he said.

* * *

45:00

Augsburg 0 – 0 Eintracht Frankfurt

The players emerged back onto the pitch, and it was immediately clear that Augsburg had no intention of changing anything.

They dropped even deeper.

Ten men behind the ball. Lines compressed. Space suffocated.

Chris Wittyngham: "Augsburg are digging in here. This is a low block in its purest form."

Andres Cordero: "This is going to test Frankfurt’s patience."

Frankfurt circulated the ball. Left to right. Right to left. Kristensen high. Brown hugging the touchline. Larsson and Skhiri recycling possession.

Every time Lukas received it, two shirts snapped toward him.

In the 52nd minute, frustration almost turned into eruption.

Lukas picked up the ball twenty-five meters out, shifted it onto his left, and hit it clean. The strike whistled through the air and smashed off the underside of the crossbar, the sound echoing around the stadium.

The goalkeeper froze.

The ball bounced down and out. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Cordero: "Ohhh! Inches away! That might have been the one!"

Lukas bent forward, hands on knees, then clapped once and jogged back. No complaint. No drama.

Frankfurt pressed again.

Crosses were blocked. Shots deflected. Passing lanes vanished as quickly as they appeared.

Time ticked on.

And then, in the 63rd minute, something finally cracked.

Larsson collected the ball just inside the Augsburg half and slipped a simple pass forward into Lukas’s feet.

Lukas did not rush.

He carried the ball slowly, almost casually, drawing players toward him. One defender stepped. Then another.

Chris Wittyngham: "Watch the patience here. He’s waiting for the picture to form."

Lukas spotted a narrow pocket between midfield and defense and threaded a pass toward Chaïbi.

Augsburg reacted instantly.

A boot shot out. The lane was closed.

The ball ricocheted straight back to Lukas.

And that was the trigger.

He accelerated.

One defender lunged. Lukas slid the ball across his body with a la croqueta and was gone.

A second stepped up. Same move. Same result.

The crowd noise rose as Lukas dragged the ball out wide, then snapped it back inside, leaving a third player stumbling.

Cordero, voice rising: "He’s dancing through them!"

Now inside the box, Lukas angled his run slightly, positioning the last defender between himself and the goalkeeper.

The keeper hesitated. Sightline blocked.

Lukas struck early.

He did not have time to fully set himself, and the shot came off his foot slightly off-center. It kissed the inside of the post with a sharp metallic snap.

For a split second, everything froze.

The rebound fell perfectly into the six-yard area.

Ekitike was already there.

One touch.

Goal.

Pandemonium.

Chris Wittyngham: "THE PRESSURE FINALLY TELLS! FRANKFURT BREAK THROUGH!"

The away end exploded. Toppmöller punched the air and spun toward his bench, shouting something incoherent as staff leapt around him.

Ekitike wheeled away, screaming, pointing straight at Lukas.

Lukas reached him first. They collided chest to chest, laughing, shouting, grabbing each other’s shirts.

Larsson and Skhiri sprinted in with hands on their heads, disbelief written all over their faces, before wrapping Lukas in a hug and pointing at him again and again.

Cordero: "He won’t get the assist, but make no mistake, this is Lukas Brandt’s goal in everything but the statistics."

The scoreboard ticked over.

Augsburg 0.

Eintracht Frankfurt 1.

Frankfurt players jogged back into position, eyes sharper now, belief fully ignited.

They had not gifted anything.

They had taken it.

From the moment the ball hit the net, the match seemed to exhale.

Augsburg did not panic. If anything, they retreated further into themselves, lines compressing until there was barely any green left between them and their own penalty area. The message from their bench was obvious: the damage had been limited. One goal down was survivable. A collapse was not. They reorganized into an even deeper block, fullbacks tucking inside, midfielders abandoning any thought of pressing high. The stadium noise dulled into a low hum, the kind that comes when both sides silently agree on the shape of the remaining minutes.

Frankfurt kept the ball, patiently, almost ceremonially. Larsson and Skhiri circulated possession from side to side, probing without forcing it. Every time Lukas drifted into a pocket of space, two shirts followed him, sometimes three, and he responded by laying the ball off, resetting the tempo rather than trying to ignite something reckless.