Become A Football Legend

"Is it time already? He looks fresh, restless even. He could kill this game in ten minutes… But the midweek..."

The coach blinked, pulling his thoughts back to the present, and raised his voice.

"Second half — keep pressing, keep the energy high. Don't give them a sniff. If we do our job, the chances will come."

Lukas lowered his eyes, rolling the bottle lightly between his hands, but inside, his pulse quickened. He didn't need words — he knew the decision was coming.

As Toppmöller was motivating his team to go out for the second half and kill the game, Baumgart was doing something similar, and with the way the second half was about to go, it would seem his talk brought up fighting spirit in his team more than Toppmöller's at the home team dressing room.

Because the second it started, and Union Berlin came out swinging.

Right from the whistle to resume the game, the away team flooded Eintracht's half.

For the first 5 minutes of the second half Union asked questions of the home team's defense which they were barely able to answer.

Trapp had to make saves after saves from the shots reigning on his goal.

Even the fans could feel it — it was only a matter of time before parity would be restored that evening. Weirdly enough, though, it wasn't that the home team was playing worse than they did in the first half, just that the away team way much better than they were previously.

The ball moved quicker. Larsson was stifled in the midfield with him being quickly enclosed from all sides once the ball was passed into him. 10 minutes into the second half and Batshuayi hadn't even had a shot on goal.

The fans tried to do what they could to spur on their team, the Eintracht Ultras booing whenever the away team started sustaining too much possession fearing the growing momentum for the visitors on the pitch.

But it was of little use.

And it didn't take too long for their fears to be crystallized.

The second half had begun with Union showing far more bite, pressing higher and forcing Frankfurt deeper than in the first 45. By the 61st minute, the pressure finally told.

It started on the left flank. Hollerbech — who came on for Skarke in the 55th minute — trapped a long diagonal ball with his chest, holding off Kristensen as he drove forward. With a clever swivel, he slid a pass down the line to Schäfer — who had replaced Tousart minutes earlier — and the Hungarian midfielder burst toward the edge of the area.

"Union with numbers forward here… Schäfer is driving, look at that stride, Frankfurt retreating!" Schneider said as his voice grew in excitement.

Schäfer cut inside and unleashed a right-footed shot. It was on target, but Collins lunged desperately, blocking the strike with his thigh. The ball skidded out behind the goal line.

"And that'll be a corner. Union are growing into this, Frankfurt need to wake up. They've been second best since the restart."

The referee pointed to the flag. From the set piece, Trimmel, the captain, trotted across, placing the ball carefully, adjusting his socks before raising his hand for the signal. Inside the box, red shirts jostled with white ones, arms tugging, shoulders slamming.

"Trimmel to take… Union have their big men up — Doekhi, Querfield, even Leite is in there."

Teimmel whipped in a teasing inswinger with his right foot, the ball curling viciously toward the near post. Querfield timed his run perfectly, slipping between Tuta and Kristensen.

Bang — a bullet header. The ball cannoned past Trapp, nestling into the top corner before the keeper could even flinch.

"LEOPOLD QUERFIELLDD!!! The Austrian rises and delivers the equalizer for Union Berlin! From nowhere, it's 1–1 here in Frankfurt!"

"That was all about movement. Look at Querfield — he ghosts in front of Tuta, Kristensen never even saw him. It's a captain's goal, and Union's persistence has paid off. Frankfurt switched off, and now they're punished."

The Union players mobbed their skipper and the goalscorer near the corner flag, while the away fans high in the corner of the stadium erupted into chants and flares. Down on the home bench, Toppmöller grimaced, turning to Zembrod with arms folded.

The Union players were still celebrating with their traveling fans when Zembrod turned sharply to the bench. He raised two fingers, then pointed toward the touchline.

"Mario! Hugo! Get ready."

Götze and Ekitike both stood, peeling off their bibs and jogging briskly toward the fourth official to receive instructions. Bahoya and Batshuayi knew their number was up, each already glancing toward the sideline with resigned nods.

At that moment, the camera briefly cut to Lukas. A flicker — just a flicker — of surprise broke across his young face, eyes narrowing for half a second as if expecting his name to be called. But just as quickly, he blinked it away, his features hardening back to the familiar mask of calm. Expressionless, unreadable.

"Now that's interesting. Götze and Ekitike getting ready, but no sign yet of Lukas. You'd think after his performance in midweek, he might be the one to change the game."

Above the dugout, fans in the lower tiers leaned over the railings, waving their arms.

"BRANDT! BRANDT! Bring on Lukas!" they chanted, voices raw with urgency. A young teenager in a number 49 shirt cupped his hands around his mouth, screaming until his face turned red.

But on the sideline, Toppmöller didn't even glance up. His arms were folded, jaw clenched, mind whirring through possibilities. He wasn't just making substitutions — he was recalibrating the shape, trying to wrestle control of a match that had slipped away since halftime.

The noise from the crowd swelled, chants for Lukas cascading down like a wave, but the coach remained in his bubble, focused entirely on tactics.

Although the fans made who they wanted on the pitch clear, they still applauded the incoming substitutions and stayed firm behind their team as play resumed.

The impact from the change was immediate. Götze dropped deeper, knitting together play with his trademark composure, while Ekitike brought fresh legs and sharper movement up front. Frankfurt began to tilt the game back in their favor, regaining control of possession and pushing Union further into their half.

"And you can already see the difference, Keller. Götze tightening the midfield, Ekitike pulling defenders around. Union are struggling to get out."

"Exactly. That's the benefit of having these options. Bahoya and Batshuayi worked hard, but they were fading. Fresh energy — and Frankfurt look dangerous again."

By the 70th minute, the pressure nearly paid off.

It began with Larsson, who intercepted a loose pass from Hollerbech near the center circle. One touch to settle, then a quick release forward into Götze, who drifted between the lines and spotted Ekitike making a diagonal run across Doekhi.

Götze slid the pass perfectly into his stride. Ekitike took one touch to control at the edge of the box, shimmied past Leite, and opened his body for a right-footed strike.

"Here's Ekitike… chance for the lead again!"

He let fly. The shot had Rønnow beaten, the Union keeper frozen mid-dive — but instead of nestling inside the far corner, the ball skimmed the outside of the upright with a metallic clink before bouncing out for a goal kick.

The stadium groaned in unison, thousands of voices rising in a frustrated exhale.

"That's inches away. Rønnow was absolutely rooted. If that's on target, it's 2–1. Ekitike doing everything right, just needed a fraction more precision."

On the sideline, Toppmöller clapped vigorously, urging his players on, while Ekitike slapped his hands together in frustration, shaking his head before jogging back into position.

Then something even more bizarre occured.

The ball had barely gone out for the Union goalkick from Ekitike's near miss when the fourth official raised the board again. This time, the number 8 flashed red and 36 glowed green.

"Oh! Another change for Frankfurt here… it's Chaibi making way, and Knauff coming on."

"That's interesting, Weber. With the game still 1–1, you'd think Lukas might be the spark on that flank. Instead, Toppmöller goes for Knauff's pace and direct running. A surprise, to say the least."

Down on the touchline, Chaibi jogged off slowly, shaking his head as he high-fived Knauff. The young winger sprinted onto the pitch with fire in his eyes, eager to make an impact.

Meanwhile, the camera panned to the bench. Lukas sat perfectly still, his bib still draped over his training top, expression unreadable. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the pitch. There were no cracks in his expression this time, but anyone watching closely could see his jaw slightly tightened.

"Well, this is turning into quite the subplot. Lukas, the hero of Istanbul midweek, still waiting for his chance. The decision to hold him back is certainly curious."

"It is, but Knauff's pace does change the dynamic immediately. You can see what Toppmöller is thinking. The question is whether it pays off."