Become A Football Legend-Chapter 231: Mainz 05 (1)

Sunday afternoon, at the MEWA Arena in Mainz.

The Frankfurt players filed back into the dressing room from their warm-up in small clusters, towels over shoulders, boots scraping lightly against the floor. Even with the door shut, the sound bled through. Singing. Whistling. The low, constant hum of a crowd already worked up long before kick-off. Someone laughed and shook his head, another muttered something about the noise, and Lukas could feel it in his chest, that familiar tightening that came when a hostile stadium decided to make itself heard.

Toppmöller stepped in last and let the room settle before he spoke. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"This won’t be easy," he said, eyes moving slowly from face to face. "You know what they’re fighting for. You know what this place is like when they smell blood."

He paused, letting it hang.

"And I know some of you are thinking about Thursday. I know it. That’s human."

He took a step forward.

"But if you lose the fight here, if you let yourselves get pushed around tonight, then good luck trying to climb out of that hole in a few days’ time. You don’t switch mentality on and off like a light."

His finger tapped his chest once.

"Stay in the game. Match them. When you get a chance, shut them up."

A few nods. A few clenched jaws. Then applause broke out, sharp and unified, echoing off the walls. The door opened. The noise rushed in. One by one, they stepped into the tunnel, lights bright, chants rolling over them like waves.

Out on the pitch, the commentary rose to meet the occasion.

"Two neighbours. Two very different battles," the commentator began, voice smooth but weighted with anticipation. "Eintracht Frankfurt arrive here with their eyes firmly fixed on Europe, their season already defined by what awaits them midweek. Mainz, on the other hand, are in the thick of it—scrapping for position, fighting tooth and nail to keep their European dream alive."

The camera swept across the stands, red and white flags fluttering, scarves held aloft.

"For Mainz, tonight is survival, ambition, and pride rolled into one. For Frankfurt, it’s about momentum, about not letting standards slip. And make no mistake — Frankfurt still have a say in how this race unfolds."

The commentator lingered on the table graphic.

"They’ve already shaped this run-in, and they’ll shape it again in two weeks. Away at Freiburg on the final day. Whatever happens tonight, Mainz supporters will be watching that one closely, hoping Frankfurt can do them a solid."

The whistle was raised. The noise peaked. And as the ball was placed on the centre spot, it was clear that, for ninety minutes at least, there would be no hiding from the fight.

Down on the pitch, Lukas adjusted his socks, glanced once toward the away end, and then toward the center circle. Knauff nudged him lightly with an elbow.

The referee checked his watch, raised the whistle to his lips.

A sharp blast cut through the noise.

Mainz kicked off, and the derby was underway.

"And we’re off at the MEWA Arena," the lead commentator announced as the roar rolled down from the red-and-white stands, flags whipping in the evening air. "A Rhineland derby under the lights, Mainz against Eintracht Frankfurt, two clubs with very different priorities but no shortage of edge between them."

He worked through the home side first, voice steady, rhythmic. "For Mainz, in goal Riess comes in for Zetner between the posts. A back three of Costa, Hanche-Olsen, and Kohr. Wing-backs Caci on the left, Mwene on the right. In midfield Sano alongside Amiri, with Nebel just ahead of them. Lee supports Jonathan Burkardt up top, who captains the side tonight."

A brief pause, the crowd swelling again as the camera cut to the away end, a pocket of white and black bouncing in unison.

"And for Eintracht Frankfurt," he continued, "Kevin Trapp in goal. A back three of Tuta, Robin Koch, and Arthur Theate. Kristensen and Brown as the wing-backs. Larsson and Skhiri anchoring midfield."

The co-commentator leaned in slightly, anticipating what was coming.

"And just behind Hugo Ekitike," the lead voice said, "the twin tens tonight are Ansgar Knauff and Lukas Brandt."

There it was. The name landed heavier than any other.

"And a fascinating note on Brandt," the commentator added. "For the first time since his debut five months ago, he’s now gone two league games without a goal or an assist."

The co-commentator let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Which tells you everything, really. That’s not a criticism, that’s a statistic you only mention when a player’s normal output is completely absurd. Those are the standards he’s set in half a season."

The opening minutes felt less like a football match and more like a siege.

From the first whistle, Mainz threw themselves forward with the desperation of a team that knew exactly what was at stake. Every red shirt pressed in unison, every second ball was attacked as if it were the last of the season, and every Frankfurt touch was met with a roar that rolled down from the stands and crashed onto the pitch.

Mainz Stadium was alive in a way only a derby could produce.

Each time Frankfurt tried to play out from the back, the noise swelled. A misplaced pass from Koch brought a collective gasp, then a cheer. A heavy touch from Skhiri drew whistles and chants. When Mainz recovered possession, the reaction was immediate and visceral, arms in the air, bodies surging forward in the stands as if the crowd itself were pushing the ball toward Trapp’s goal.

For the first fifteen minutes, Frankfurt could barely breathe.

Mainz came in waves. Burkardt drifted between the lines, Nebel buzzing around him, Sano snapping into challenges in midfield. Crosses were whipped in early, shots taken on sight. Frankfurt’s back three were forced into constant last-ditch clearances, headers thumped away under pressure, Trapp barking instructions as the tempo refused to slow.

In the thirteenth minute, the pressure almost told.

A sharp give-and-go just outside the Frankfurt box split the midfield line. Nebel rolled the ball into Burkardt’s path, the return pass weighted perfectly. Burkardt took it in stride, opened his body, and guided a low shot toward the bottom corner.

"Burkardt... this is the chance—"

Koch stretched, throwing out a desperate leg, but he was a fraction late. Trapp launched himself across goal, fingertips straining.

The sound of the ball striking the bar rang out like a gunshot.

It ricocheted back into play and then out for a goal kick, Mainz players frozen for a heartbeat before Burkardt grabbed his head with both hands, staring at the turf. He knew how close that had been. The stadium groaned in unison, disbelief washing over the stands.

That moment, somehow, changed the rhythm.

Frankfurt did not panic. Trapp placed the ball carefully for the restart, waited for his teammates to push up, then drove a long goal kick straight down the middle. Ekitike rose against Hanche-Olsen, arms out for balance, and won the duel cleanly. He nodded the ball down and slightly left.

Straight into Lukas’s path.

Lukas killed the ball with his first touch and immediately felt the pressure. Kohr stepped out from the back line, Amiri closing fast from midfield. Two red shirts converged, cutting off angles, trying to smother him before he could turn.

He didn’t rush.

"OHHH!! Delicate pass by Brandt!"