Become A Football Legend

Silence blanketed the room except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Mourinho leaned forward, resting his fists on the table, voice dropping to a dangerous calm.

"Either you walk out there for the second half and show Istanbul you have pride…

or you walk out there and confirm what every critic says about you.

You choose."

No one spoke.

Boots squeaked faintly as players shifted under the weight of his glare.

The players emerged from the tunnel to a thunderous wall of noise that defied the scoreboard.

Despite the two–goal deficit, the Fenerbahçe faithful were unyielding, scarves whipping in the evening air as chants rolled from the steep stands like waves crashing against stone.

The yellow-and-navy flags shimmered beneath the floodlights, and every beat of the drum seemed to demand a response from the men in blue.

Lukas trotted out with his Eintracht teammates, eyes scanning the vast bowl of sound.

The home crowd's defiance was unmistakable — their team might be bleeding, but their roar refused to weaken.

Behind him, Toppmöller clapped a steady rhythm, urging focus over noise.

The second half began with Fenerbahçe showing the urgency Mourinho had screamed for in the dressing room.

Passes zipped faster, tackles snapped harder, and the yellow shirts hunted the ball in packs.

But Frankfurt held their shape, waiting for the gaps to appear.

On the left flank, Lukas received a switch from Skhiri and immediately went to work.

Muldur squared up, knees bent, knowing the winger's reputation.

Lukas slowed the ball to a teasing crawl, then flicked a step-over so quick it was a blur.

He darted inside, dragging Muldur with him, then stopped dead — leaving the defender stumbling forward — before whipping a low pass toward the penalty spot.

For a moment it looked perfect, but Djiku stretched out a desperate boot and sliced the ball clear, the deflection skidding away to a roar of relief from the stands.

"Too clever for him again, but no finish!" the commentator exclaimed as Lukas jogged back, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The home side rode that reprieve like a spark to dry tinder.

Tadic surged through midfield, slipping a neat ball to En-Neysri, whose first-time shot from the edge of the box took a wicked deflection off Collins and looped just wide of the upright.

The crowd erupted, sensing opportunity as the referee signaled for a corner.

"Here come Fenerbahçe! The stadium is alive again!"

Kostic tracked back to mark the near post while Djiku, Skriniar, and Amrabat crowded the six-yard box.

Szymanski placed the ball on the corner flag and looked up the pitch to see Lukas waiting same place he was when the previous corner was taking.

He remembered what had happened in the first half and was willing to take any chances so he signalled for Tadic to come close for a short corner.

"Short corner to Tadic. Tadic returns the ball Szymanski. Oh Szymanski, beautiful cross into the box," the commentator remarked as the ball looped in.

Djiku timed his run to perfection, shrugging off Tuta's arm and launching himself into the floodlit air.

His forehead met the ball with a meaty crack—

THUMP

—sending it rocketing past Trapp's desperate glove and under the bar.

"GOOOOAAAAL! DJIKU! FENERBAHÇE ARE BACK IN IT!"

The stadium detonated.

Yellow smoke flares burst behind the goal as fans leapt on seats, their deafening chant flooding every corner of the arena.

Djiku sprinted toward the corner flag, fists pounding his chest, teammates swarming in a frenzy of relief and belief.

Trapp hammered his palms together in frustration, barking at his back line to tighten the marking.

Across the halfway line, Lukas exchanged a quick glance with Knauff and gave a small nod — a silent reminder that Eintracht's lead had shrunk, and the night was far from over.

2-1.

Half an hour to play.

And the cauldron of Kadıköy was boiling once more.

The roar inside the stadium swelled into a fever pitch as the clock ticked past the 70-minute mark.

The home supporters sensed the equalizer like blood in the water, their chants vibrating through the steel beams of the upper tiers.

Yellow and navy scarves swirled like storm clouds as every Fenerbahçe touch drew an urgent cheer.

But Eintracht Frankfurt refused to buckle.

Every yellow surge met a wall of black shirts — Tuta and Collins snapping into tackles, Skhiri patrolling the midfield like a watchful sentinel.

Every clearance was met with a roar from the small pocket of traveling fans high in the corner, their white-and-red banners flickering in the Istanbul night.

Mourinho prowled the technical area, coat unbuttoned, arms slicing the air with every misstep.

"FASTER! MOVE IT FASTER!" he barked in a mix of Portuguese and hurried English, his voice somehow cutting through the thunder of the stands.

Toppmöller stood more composed on the opposite touchline, palms down, urging calm as he shouted reminders to stay compact.

"Patience! Keep it tight!" he called, his voice carrying over the rhythmic drumbeat of the Eintracht supporters.

In the 75th minute, Frankfurt nearly silenced the cauldron entirely with a move of pure, silken precision.

It started with Lukas deep on the left, dancing along the touchline as Muldur pressed tight.

A quick shimmy opened a sliver of space; he tapped the ball inside to Götze and immediately darted forward.

Götze, with his trademark vision, returned the ball first time — a perfect touch-and-go.

The exchange left Muldur flat-footed as Lukas collected the return at full speed.

Djiku stepped across to cover, but Lukas slowed, body angled as if preparing to whip an early cross.

Djiku bit.

Lukas chopped the ball inside with a lightning flick, sending the defender sliding helplessly past.

The veteran crumpled to the turf, palms raised in frustration as the young German burst free along the byline.

"LUKAS AGAIN! HE'S GOT DJIKU DANCING!" the commentator shouted, voice cracking with excitement.

With Djiku stranded on the grass, Lukas shaped for another cross, eyes scanning the box.

He whipped the ball across with wicked spin, curling it toward the penalty spot where Ekitike had stolen a march on Skriniar.

The Frenchman rose like a spring, neck muscles snapping as he powered a header goalward.

Egribayat could only watch from the far end as the ball thundered toward the top corner—

CLANG!

It smashed against the crossbar with a metallic scream and ricocheted into the night sky before spinning harmlessly behind for a goal kick.

The away section groaned, hands gripping their heads.

The home fans let out a half-cheer of terrified relief, a collective exhale sweeping through the stands.

"HOW CLOSE WAS THAT! EINTRACHT ALMOST END IT RIGHT THERE!" the commentator roared.

On the Frankfurt bench, Toppmöller clapped furiously, shouting, "That's it! That's the gap — keep punishing them!"

Across the pitch, Mourinho spun in a circle of exasperation, muttering under his breath before pointing furiously at Djiku to get back on his feet.

Despite the near miss, the sequence drained precious momentum from Fenerbahçe's hunt for an equalizer.

The crowd tried to rally once more, but a nervous edge crept into the chants, the earlier defiance replaced by a flicker of dread.

With every controlled Frankfurt pass, the sound of frustration grew louder, and the clock continued to bleed away the home side's hope.

Then as the clock wound down to the 90th minute and the board went up for a five-minute additional time, the final nail was put to the coffin containing Fenerbahçe's dreams of a good result in the first leg of the tie.

It all started deep in Eintracht's half, danger flaring on the very side of the pitch where Lukas had spent most of the night.

But this time the threat belonged to Fenerbahçe.

Saint-Maximin, freshly introduced for Muldur, injected a jolt of electricity the moment the ball touched his boots.

He exploded down the left touchline, dreadlocks flying, the crowd rising to a roar of anticipation.

"The substitute — look at the burst from Saint-Maximin!" the commentator shouted as the decibels spiked.

Theate slid across to cover, but the Frenchman's fresh legs were too much.

A sharp body swerve and sudden burst left Theate lunging at shadows as Saint-Maximin tore toward the byline.

"Saint-Maximin! He's left Theate for dead!"

He drew back his right foot to whip in a teasing cross—

when a blur of black and white sliced across the turf.

A perfectly timed slide swept the ball cleanly away, studs hissing against the grass.

Saint-Maximin stumbled, arms out, blinking in disbelief.

He turned, eyes wide, to find Lukas already springing back to his feet.

"WHAT A TACKLE FROM LUKAS! THAT IS WORLD-CLASS DEFENDING FROM THE WINGER!" the commentator roared, the away section erupting in a delirious roar of approval.

No time to admire the challenge.

Lukas scooped up the loose ball and, without breaking stride, unleashed a diagonal laser across the field — a forty-yard switch that carved through Istanbul's humid night like a spear.

It found Knauff near the halfway line on the opposite flank.

"Look at the vision! A diagonal of pure genius!"

Knauff cushioned the pass and immediately turned on the jets.