Chapter 839 Spain
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~~~
[02-07-2021 | Gazprom Arena, Saint Petersburg, Russia | 21:52 MSK]
May slipped through the door of the private booth with Eniola and Sarah on her heels, the muffled roar of twenty-five thousand voices swelling into a wall of sound the instant they crossed the threshold. Down on the pitch, the two lines of players had already formed, and the opening bars of the German anthem were rolling across the closed dome, carried by a modest but fervent traveling contingent tucked into one corner of the enormous bowl.
"You made it," Svetlana said, rising from the leather armchair by the glass with a bright, genuine smile, a flute of something pale gold already in her hand. She had swapped last night’s black dress for a cream-coloured three-piece suit with Long Pants and a shiny set of pearls around her neck. "I was beginning to think you had gotten lost, and I would have to watch alone with my aunt’s very boring associates."
"Traffic," May breathed, letting the Russian girl pull her into a quick, warm embrace that smelled of expensive perfume. "And security. So much security."
"That is Russia, darling. Come, come, you will miss it."
May didn’t need a second invitation. She crossed to the viewing glass, pressed close, and let her eyes sweep across the two rows of players standing shoulder to shoulder on the halfway line, scanning the crimson-and-white for the number twenty-two and the loose afro she could pick out of any crowd on earth.
She scanned once, then again. The German anthem swelled toward its final line, the players belting it with hands over hearts, and May’s smile faltered by degrees as her eyes moved down the row a third time. Neuer, Hummels, Kimmich, Kroos, Havertz, the young one, Musiala, Wirtz standing next to him singing with his eyes closed. All of them accounted for except her Rakim.
"He’s not..." she started, her voice trailing off as her hand rose halfway to the glass. She turned toward Svetlana, a small furrow appearing between her brows. "He’s not on the pitch."
Svetlana leaned in beside her, following her gaze, and merely shrugged, pointing toward the sidelines. "Bench,"
Before May could let the worry take proper root or take out her phone and text him for some answers. A warm, professional voice rolled out of the lounge’s ceiling speakers, cutting cleanly across the player, drawing her attention to the flatscreen. There he was, clapping loudly to the fading anthem, dressed in a team tracksuit and neck warmer, slowly taking his seat as he whispered something to Leroy that made the latter smile.
"Good evening, and welcome to the Gazprom Arena in Saint Petersburg for a Euro 2020 quarter-final that hardly needs any introduction," Oliver Schmidt began, his tone rich and unhurried. "Germany against Spain. Two of the great footballing nations of the modern era, two contrasting philosophies, and a place in the semi-finals waiting for whoever holds their nerve tonight."
May sank slowly into the seat beside Svetlana, her eyes never leaving the pitch as the players broke from their lines and jogged to get their pictures taken.
"And there is a talking point before a ball has even been kicked," Schmidt continued, a note of intrigue creeping into his delivery. "Joachim Löw has made a bold call. Rakim Rex, the seventeen-year-old phenom who has continued his outstanding run from the season’s treble, begins tonight on the substitutes’ bench."
---
Germany: XI 3-4-2-1
GK: Neuer
CB: Tah, Hummels, Rüdiger
RM: Kimmich CM: Gündoğan, Kroos LM: Wirtz
CAM Havertz, Musiala
ST: Gnabry
vs
Spain: XI 4-3-3
LW: Sarabia, ST: Morata, RW: Torres
CM: Pedri, Busquets, Koke
LB: Alba, CB: Torres, Laporte, RB: Azpilicueta
GK: Simón
---
"Kimmich and Musiala make their first start in the tournament and will be looking to assert themselves like their teammate," Schmidt commented as both teams’ formations appeared on the screen. "On Spain’s side, we anticipate the creativity of another young wunderkind, Pedri, to cause problems, especially with a front three primed for goals."
The two teams finished their pre-match photographs and jogged into their opening positions, the referee performing his final checks with the two captains. The coin toss went to Neuer, who chose to attack the goal with the German fans behind it, hoping for the psychological edge over Simón. He himself didn’t feel pressure from fans having danced this dance in games against prime Messi and Ronaldo.
German traveling section behind the Spain goal didn’t disappoint, launching into a rolling chant that echoed strangely in the vast, half-filled bowl. Down in the booth, May pulled her knees up beneath her and wrapped both hands around a glass of water Svetlana pressed into them, her eyes fixed on one figure at the far end of the German bench.
"He looks calm," Sarah offered from the seat behind, leaning forward between them. "That’s good, right? He doesn’t look upset."
"He never looks upset," May murmured. "That’s the problem. You can’t tell what he’s thinking until he’s already done it."
Svetlana laughed softly at that, tucking one leg beneath herself. "I like him already, and I have not even met him."
~~~
[16:00]
(FWEEET!)
"And we are underway in Saint Petersburg," Schmidt announced as Morata rolled the ball back to Busquets, and Spain immediately began doing what Spain did best.
Within thirty seconds, the pattern of the match became apparent as Spain set the tone. Busquets to Laporte, Laporte to Torres, Torres cut back to Azpilicueta, the ball moving slowly across arcs of the back of the Spanish shape while the German front three of Gnabry, Havertz, and Musiala pressed in fits and starts before dropping back into a compact block.
"Spain seeing plenty of the ball in these opening exchanges," Schmidt noted, "We expected this, the question is what Löw’s response to this was."
For the first eight minutes, the answer appeared to be very little. Pedri quickly became the most active player on the field, popping up spaces to link up with Busquets and Koke. Twice, the eighteen-year-old slipped balls into Morata’s feet, which had the German back three back-pedaling hard. In the 8th minute, Sarabia curled an effort from the edge of the box that Neuer watched sail a yard wide.
The Germans, playing out from the back they slowly moved up the field, keeping the Spaniards at bay. Koke, pressing forward to close down Gündoğan, left a pocket of space in the center of the park. The city man slotted the ball into the feet of Havertz, and the Chelsea forward tapped it back to Kross.
Toni Kross, who had a rare moment of space to execute, lifted his head and sent a racking, defense-splitting pass forward. Musiala had drifted off Busquets’s shoulder into the seam between Laporte and Azpilicueta. Timing his movement to the exact instant Kroos looked up, he stretched out to catch the ball that came in hot, skidding across the turf into the vast green space behind the Spanish midfield.
"Kroos, with the pass," Schmidt’s voice climbed, "and Musiala is away!"
Jamal collected it in stride, charging toward the top of the D facing Azpilicueta, who scrambled across to close him down, and Laporte, who moved up to make the stop. Jamal did not slow or panic at the two Spanish defenders converging on him. He dropped his left shoulder and dragged the ball back with the sole of his boot, letting the Chelsea man slide past him into empty air.
"Oh, that’s lovely from Musiala!" Schmidt exclaimed.
The dummy left him half a yard of space as the shooting lane gaped open. He planted his left foot before Azpilicueta could interfere and fired a low, vicious strike with the inside of his right boot toward the far bottom corner. The Spanish keeper dove to his right at full stretch, fingertips reaching at the incoming ball.
He got nothing as the ball skipped past his glove and nestled into the side netting with a soft thud. The Gazprom Arena erupted in a roar, the German contingent rising to their feet. "GOOOAL! JAMAL MUSIALA!" Schmidt roared, his composure cracking clean in half.
"On his first start of the tournament, he has silenced Spain! What a run! What a finish!" he continued roaring as Jamal sprinted to the corner flag to celebrate his goal. "Ice cold, he buried it into the far corner, and Germany, against the run of play, led in Saint Petersburg!"
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TO BE CONTINUED...𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚