El Niño! El Niño!
El Niño! El Niño!
🎶 He's just a kid! He's just a kid! 🎶
Mateo King! He's just a kid! 🎶
🎶 He is our kid! He is THE kid! 🎶
He scores and scores, that's what he did! 🎶
🎶 The future's here! The crown will cling! 🎶
To Mateo King — the kid, the King! 🎶
🎶 He's just a kid! He's just a kid! 🎶
Mateo King! He's just a kid! 🎶
🎶 He scores and scores! He makes us sing! 🎶
The kid, the kid! MATEO KING! 🎶
The Barcelona fans would not stop. Their voices shook the corners of the Allianz Arena, small in number but deafening in spirit. It might have been too early to celebrate, only half an hour into the match, but reason didn't matter anymore. This was joy. This was release. They clung to their chant like lifeboats in hostile waters, screaming and screaming, their throats raw but their hearts on fire.
From their tiny pocket of blue and claret, their cries reached the pitch, drilling into the night, into the soul of the boy they were serenading. And there he was — Mateo King — standing at the corner flag, arms spread wide in what was already becoming his gesture, a signature all his own. His chest heaved, sweat clinging to his forehead, but his eyes were alive. He stood there, soaking it in.
"The kid, ehn?" Messi's voice carried across as he jogged over, a smirk tugging at his lips. The teasing tone from the captain was enough to make Mateo freeze for a second.
"El Niño, eh?" Jordi Alba added, patting him on the back with a grin.
Dest came in next, laughing as he sang a bar of the chant horribly off-key: "He's just a kid! He's just a kiiid!"
Even Pedri, usually quiet, joined the mischief: "I mean… it suits him, doesn't it? The Kid. It fits."
They all started piling on, voices overlapping, poking fun at him. "Ooooh Mateo's got a song already!" "The Kid! The Kid!" "Seventeen and already acting like a superstar!"
Mateo, whose arms had been raised proudly seconds ago, began slowly lowering them, his confidence melting into shy panic. His face flushed red, and he turned quickly, his voice cracking with embarrassment.
"What are you all saying?!" he shouted, half-laughing, half-scolding, waving his hands as though he could push their words away. "Come on, stop it! We still have a match to play!"
That only made it worse. The laughter doubled. Alba clutched his stomach, Messi chuckled under his breath, and Dest was nearly falling over. Even Pedri, the quietest of them all, couldn't stop grinning.
Mateo's protests were drowned out by the sound of his teammates' laughter, their joy wrapping around him as tightly as the fans' song.
While the Barça players were still relishing the goal, jogging back into position with grins and slaps on the back, the Bayern side looked anything but broken. Their reaction was not chaotic but measured—an unsettling calm. Perhaps it was confidence born of their name, their history, the weight of their badge. Perhaps it was the simple arrogance of being at home, the Allianz Arena, their fortress. Whatever it was, they looked less than troubled despite the scoreboard flashing a cruel truth: 0–1.
Joshua Kimmich clapped his hands hard, barking sharp words of encouragement that cut through the chill Munich air. Thomas Müller, voice hoarse but commanding, yelled "Ordnung!"—order!—while frantically pointing, re-aligning bodies into Bayern's familiar press. Their players moved with discipline, each man snapping into his slot, red shirts flowing back into a shape that had terrified Europe for years. And yet, beneath that shape, there was unease.
Even Alphonso Davies wore it on his face. A deep frown carved itself across the Canadian's young features. Just moments earlier, after the goal, he had charged at the referee, veins in his neck visible as he screamed he had been fouled in the build-up. His fury was raw, desperate. But now, staring up at the giant screen where the brutal digits 0–1 glowed in defiance, he knew his protests meant nothing. His shouts had vanished into the void, unheard and unwanted.
He swallowed. Then, silently, inside himself, he made a vow.
This time, I will stop him.
The fire in his eyes returned, smoldering hotter than before.
But while Davies forged his silent promise, someone else was watching him—someone whose cold, piercing blue eyes betrayed a different truth. Bayern's coach, Hansi Flick, stood rigid by the touchline. His arms were folded, but the slow, almost imperceptible exhale that left his chest was a sigh of resignation. His jaw tightened. His faith in Davies was waning.
At his side, Flick's assistant leaned closer, lowering his voice with urgency.
"Coach, Davies just came back. We rushed him, you know that. We should still trust him. He isn't fully fit yet—that's why Mateo got past him. That's why he looked—"
"No."
The word was flat. Final.
The assistant blinked in surprise. He stammered, "S-sir?"
Flick didn't even glance at him. His eyes remained locked on the field, expression unreadable. "Whether Davies was fully fit or not," he said, voice low but cutting like a blade, "it wouldn't have changed the outcome."
The assistant's lips parted. Shock rippled across his face. He swallowed again, weaker this time. "Sir…"
But Flick gave him nothing. Not a look, not a word. Only silence. Silence and thought.
Hope. Belief. Trust.
Since when had he run on such things? When had his mind, a machine of pragmatism, reduced itself to leaning on sentiments as fragile as faith?
His gaze drifted back to the bench.
There they sat, each figure a reminder. The substitutes wrapped in their training jackets, bouncing their knees against the cold. The expressions on their faces—some anxious, some hungry, some blank. And there, at the far end, a sight that pierced deeper than most: Robert Lewandowski. The talisman. The machine. Dressed not in red kit but in padded jacket and tracksuit bottoms, his right leg resting gingerly, injury chaining him to stillness. His arms were folded, his face tight with frustration, with longing.
Faith. Belief. Hope. Trust. Flick had leaned on those words too often these past weeks. They were the only things left to cling to when even his weapons, his generals, were stripped from him.
Barcelona had been on a massive turnaround from the way they had stumbled at the beginning of the season. Flick knew it. He had watched the clips, the tapes, the endless reels of highlights. He had read the reports, dissected every movement, every new angle. And yet, nothing prepared him for the reality of it now — for the sight of that kid, that striker, Mateo King. Davies had been meant or rather hoped to handle him, fit or not. But deep down, Flick knew the truth: Mateo was already more than what Davies could contain.
He sighed, shoulders sinking under the weight of that realization. He had done it because he had no other choice. No Lewandowski, no spare defenders at the same level. His choices were already thinned. Davies had to start. Yes, I had no option.
His eyes drifted back to the pitch, to the Blaugrana players retreating into their half, settling themselves for the restart. Busquets — head low but brain whirring like an eternal metronome. Jordi Alba — barking out words of focus as though the 0–1 was still fragile. And then Messi. Flick's gaze lingered longest on him, the way one looks at a shadow of inevitability. Even at 33, Messi's aura seemed to stretch across the grass. Flick let out another slow sigh. Since this kid arrived… it's not just Mateo. Even the old men at Barça look like they've been given new lungs. They're not last year's corpses anymore.
But Flick had not built Bayern on romance or nostalgia. He had a plan. He always had a plan. Barcelona's midfield was glowing, their attack brimming with confidence, but their defense? Still riddled with holes. Fragile under pressure. That was the gameplan: let them score if they must, because Bayern would always score more. He glanced up at the massive scoreboard again, the glaring "0–1" burning back at him like a wound. Am I still holding back?
And then, without warning, Flick moved. He surged forward toward the touchline, his sudden burst of energy startling his assistant.
"Sir! Sir—!" the assistant cried, stumbling to keep pace.
You go big or go home, right? No more doubts.
Flick raised his arm sharply and barked out across the pitch, "Kimmich! Müller!" His voice cut through the noise, commanding, impatient. Both men turned instantly, their captaincy of spirit making them obey without question. They jogged over, sweat still running down their faces, eyes sharp and focused.
Flick leaned in close, speaking fast but precise, words like blades:
"Tell the team: no one leaves Davies alone help him out. Press them all — burn your legs if you must, but do not stop. Do not wait. Do not leave space. Overwhelm them. Push them back. Force the goal."
Müller's head bobbed with that manic energy he was famous for. Kimmich's jaw tightened like a soldier receiving orders.
"And another thing," Flick added, his tone suddenly colder, more dangerous. "Raise the line. Higher."
That single command froze them. Müller's grin faltered for half a second. Kimmich's eyes flickered with disbelief. Even the assistant behind Flick gasped, blurting out, "Sir—! We'll be exposed!"
But Flick didn't look at him. He didn't blink. His face was set like stone.
"Push it forward," he repeated. "Tell the defenders to step in. Overwhelm their midfield and defense. And tell Davies—he's wasted chained to the back line. Let him break forward. Let him bleed them with his speed."
The assistant's voice cracked, rising in desperation. "Sir! Sir, this is suicide! We'll be torn apart!"
"Quiet."
The word landed like a whip. The assistant froze, mouth half-open, eyes wide. Flick's face didn't change; it didn't even register him. He was already burning in his own conviction.
He turned fully to Müller and Kimmich, leaning closer, his voice cutting through every doubt.
"Our best chance of winning this game… is to attack. Do you hear me? Attack. Make sure you score."
"Yes, gaffer!" they roared in unison, fists clenched.
And with that, they sprinted back, carrying the gospel of aggression into the Bayern ranks. Flick remained still, watching them go, then shifted his gaze back to the center circle where the referee was readying for the restart. He walked to the sideline, each step weighted with fire, his arms folded behind his back. His assistant hovered at his side, mute now, stripped of words, staring at the ground.
Flick boiled in silence. He wasn't about to lose here. Not at home.
Up in the gantry, the voices of Tony and Guy were still buzzing after that extraordinary opener.
Tony:"Well, Guy, you don't often see that on a stage like this—certainly not at the Allianz Arena, under these lights. A rainbow flick, on Bayern Munich, in the Champions League knockout rounds… it feels almost disrespectful, doesn't it?"
Guy:"Disrespectful or not, Tony, it's audacious. The kid—that's what everyone's calling him, right? The Kid. He's not just playing football out there, he's enjoying himself. To have the confidence, the composure, the sheer cheek to pull that off—at his age—it's breathtaking."
A ripple of laughter passed between them, their voices dancing with the energy of the moment.
Tony:"Well, I'll tell you what—fun or not, Bayern won't be laughing. Flick's already barking orders down there, and you can feel the tension rising. But for the neutral? This is what the Champions League is all about."
Guy:"Speaking of goals, we've got one elsewhere too! Early word coming through—Chelsea have taken the lead in their tie, a stunning header from Antonio Rüdiger. A bullet, by all accounts. It's all happening tonight."
Tony:"It certainly is. But, Guy, I think we can safely say we've got our hands full right here. This one already looks like it's going to be breathless, high-octane, unpredictable football. And if the atmosphere around the ground is anything to go by, this is only just heating up."
Their words hung in the air, anticipation crackling. The referee was standing in the center circle, whistle poised, players shifting and pacing like gladiators waiting for the gates to open.
Guy:"Here we go again then. One-nil to Barcelona, but something tells me this is only the beginning. Buckle up."
As the commentators said the match was only just starting at the 30th minute just 15 minutes to half time yet today 15 minute felt so long
The camera panned wide, Bayern's red shirts stretched unnervingly far forward—almost brushing Barcelona's half with their defensive line.
"Goodness me… look how high Bayern are," Guy's voice spilled into the chaos. "Boateng and Hernández are practically on the halfway line!"
"And that leaves Neuer," Tony cut in, almost laughing in disbelief, "alone, miles behind. Is this bravery, or madness? Flick usually so calm, but look at him now—out on the touchline, waving and barking. Something's brewing."
The Allianz roared, a fever pitch of red. Alphonso Davies surged up the flank, unshackled, his afterburners lit as Pedri backpedaled desperately.
Thirty-first minute. Bayern struck.
Sané carried it inside from the right, touch silky, gliding past Umtiti with a dip of his shoulder. He fed Müller, who with the faintest flick of the outside boot returned it—splitting Barcelona's spine.
"Müller at it again! The cleverest of nudges, and Sané's through!" Tony's words cracked with urgency.
Sané angled his run, chopped the ball onto his left and let fly. Lenglet lunged, but too late—the strike fizzed past him, missing the far post by a whisper.
"Inches! Just inches away!" Guy gasped. "Bayern are relentless!"
The referee pointed to the flag—corner. The Allianz shook like thunder.
Barcelona's defenders swarmed back, voices cutting through the bedlam.
"Hold the line! Stay here!" Piqué bellowed, chest heaving, arms wide like a shield. His gravelled roar somehow louder than seventy thousand throats. "Don't lose your men! Stay sharp!"
Kimmich stepped up, right arm raised. His whip was venomous, curling to the near post.
Piqué rose, colliding with Boateng, forehead thumping the ball high and long. He staggered on landing, knees jolting, but still pointing, still shouting.
De Jong darted to collect, soft touches trying to wriggle free, but Kimmich and Alaba hunted him down, closing like wolves. A crunch, a dispossession—the stadium erupted.
"They've won it back again! Bayern swarming Barcelona like hornets!" Guy shouted, swept away by the storm.
The ball spilled to Coman. He jinked past Dest with a shimmy, cutting inside, laying it square. Sané, edge of the box, waited like a coiled spring.
One touch, and—crack! A vicious low drive.
Ter Stegen flung himself, arms stretched wide, fingertips grazing, pushing it away. Another corner.
Tony's voice rode the roar: "Bayern pouring it on! Shot after shot—this is suffocation, this is siege football!"
The Allianz was shaking now, Bayern's players storming forward as if possessed. Alphonso Davies, emboldened by Flick's urgent shouts, tore down the left and combined sharply with Kingsley Coman. A quick one-two, the Canadian slipped a low ball into the feet of Eric Maxim Choupo-Moting inside the box—
"Chance! Huge chance!" Tony's voice cracked as Choupo-Moting leaned back and smashed it high into the stands.
The striker roared in frustration, slamming the turf with his palm. "How?!" he shouted to himself.
Behind him, Marc-André ter Stegen stood tall, clapping furiously: "Gather! Stay focused! Don't lose your heads!" His voice somehow cut through the chaos.
And as if feeding off their players' urgency, the Bayern faithful roared into full song, a deafening chorus rolling down the steep stands. Guy Mowbray chuckled over the sound:
"Well, Tony, you can feel it—these fans sense their team is waking up, and they're responding in kind!"
But Barcelona refused to be drowned. Sergio Busquets and Frenkie de Jong knitted a series of sharp passes, pulling Bayern's press side to side. Jordi Alba darted up the left, exchanging quick touches with Griezmann, who had dropped deep to link play. The movement was measured, deliberate, designed to draw Bayern's midfield out.
And then Messi appeared. Instantly swarmed by Kimmich and Goretzka, he spun away, a flick of the shoulder, before slipping the ball into Pedri. The teenager didn't hesitate—first time, he stabbed it forward into the channel.
Mateo King was already on his horse, surging into space. Davies was left chasing shadows again.
"Here he goes again!" Guy's voice rose. "The kid has burst in behind!"
But just as Mateo thundered onto the pass, the referee's whistle pierced the night. A shrill, cruel sound.
King skidded to a halt, arms flung out in disbelief. He spun around to see the assistant's flag raised high.
"Come on! That wasn't off! No way!" he screamed, pointing furiously back at the line.
On the opposite touchline, Hansi Flick was clapping hard. "That's it! That's good! Stay switched on! Keep him contained!" His booming instructions reached even the front row.
The chaos only built. In the 36th minute, Bayern surged forward again. Sané drifted right, curled a cross in, and Müller climbed over Lenglet to nod down. The ball ricocheted wildly—Piqué clattered into Choupo-Moting as they both went for it.
"Penalty?!" Tony's voice exploded. "Bayern are screaming for it!"
Choupo-Moting jumped up, arms wide, yelling into the referee's face: "That's a foul! Every time!"
Barcelona's defenders were just as loud—Lenglet and Alba waving their hands, shouting "No, no! Not a pen!"
Mateo himself stormed into the scrum, jaw to jaw with Müller. "He barely touched you! Stop diving!"
Müller shoved back, eyes blazing.
Meanwhile, Messi grabbed Mateo's arm, pulling him away, while Joshua Kimmich tried to drag Müller back in turn. The referee's whistle shrilled again and again as he tried to restore order.
On the touchline, Koeman was red-faced, screaming across at Flick. Flick shouted right back. Even the managers were at each other's throats.
And then came the cards—one for Piqué, one for Müller, one for Mateo, one for Koeman himself. The stadium erupted in fury, the Bayern fans howling with rage as the referee signaled: no penalty.
Still seething, ter Stegen wasted no time. He smashed the ball long, high into the Bayern half. Mateo, still raging but razor sharp, leapt higher than Benjamin Pavard, chesting the ball down. Boateng charged him, but the teenager dropped a silky feint, spinning past him and laying the ball off to Messi.
"Barça countering!" Guy shouted as the stadium stood to its feet.
Messi powered forward, Mateo sprinting alongside, the Bayern midfield left for dead. The two carved into the final third, defenders scrambling. At the edge of the box, Messi slipped the ball into Mateo—Mateo backheeled, a flash of audacity—Griezmann arrived, faked the shot, let it roll past—back to Messi!
"MESSI!!" Tony's call was pure electricity.
The captain drilled low and hard—but Manuel Neuer exploded, diving full stretch and somehow clutching it to his chest.
"That is outrageous goalkeeping!" Guy's voice cracked with awe. "Neuer, at full extension—he saves Bayern!"
The keeper sprang back to his feet instantly, hurling the ball long and wide. Bayern turned defense into attack in a heartbeat. Mateo and Messi were forced to sprint the other way, chasing desperately.
The game was pure chaos now. Relentless. Breathless. No one in the Allianz was sitting anymore.
Bayern had turned the screw. Flick had shuffled the pieces mid-half, shifting Alphonso Davies higher, almost into a winger's role, while Coman pinched narrower. That tweak alone tilted the field red. Suddenly, it felt like Barcelona were suffocating under a flood of white shirts.
Davies flew down the left, linking sharp one-twos with Coman, a drag back, and then fizzing the ball into Choupo-Moting—who spun but scuffed wide from point-blank.
"HOW'S HE MISSED THAT?!" Guy Mowbray erupted.
Choupo-Moting screamed into the night air, slamming both palms together. "COME ON!" he bellowed. Manuel Neuer's voice carried from the backline: "Weiter, weiter! Pressure!"
At the other end, Ter Stegen flapped both arms. "Stay together! Gather up!" His shout echoed. Piqué and Lenglet clapped their hands furiously, trying to pull the line into shape.
The Allianz erupted again, Bayern chants thundering from the Südkurve, their endless chorus whipping the players on. The ground shook with claps and drums.
Barcelona, though, would not be swallowed whole. Alba and de Jong combined on the left, weaving their way out of the press with slick triangles. Pedri dropped in, feinted, and threaded Griezmann between the lines. The Frenchman turned, dragged Boateng with him, and laid back for Messi.
Instantly, the little magician was surrounded—Kimmich and Alaba closing the trap. Messi twisted out, rolling the ball under his studs before releasing Pedri again. And Pedri—quick as lightning—released an early pass behind the line.
Mateo King was already gone. His head down, his strides electric, Davies was left trailing. The stadium gasped.
"Mateo's in again!" Tony Jones roared.
But just as King shaped to surge clear, the whistle shrieked. He jolted mid-run, spinning to see the linesman's flag raised high.
"OH, NO WAY!" Mateo shouted, throwing his arms. "Come on, that's not off!"
The Bayern defense regrouped, Boateng smirking, Pavard pointing at the line. Flick clapped from the touchline: "Good! Stay alert—keep him caged!"
The clock ticked into the 36th minute, Bayern attacking again, wave after wave. A Davies cross whipped in, Müller rose, Piqué dragged him down slightly—and suddenly every Bayern shirt was screaming, arms pointed at the referee.
"Penalty! That has to be!" Müller yelled in the referee's face.
"No, no, never!" shouted Busquets, Pedri tugging at his shirt. Umtiti flung both arms, barking, "Ball only!"
Mateo joined the fray, jaw-to-jaw with Müller. "You went down easy, man, EASY!"
Müller snapped back, forehead pressing forward. "You pulled him! Clear foul!"
The whistle shrilled. The referee stormed into the crowd of bodies, pointing both ways: enough. Messi tugged at Mateo's arm. Kimmich tried pulling Müller back.
On the touchline, Koeman and Flick were nose-to-nose, barking at each other like street rivals.
Yellow cards everywhere—Mateo, Müller, Piqué, even Koeman himself who wanted to storm the pitch. No penalty. The Allianz howled in fury, whistling at the injustice.
"Chaos here in Munich," Guy Mowbray breathed. "No penalty, and the game teetering on the edge of control."
Play resumed. Ter Stegen thumped long, and in the middle third, Mateo out-jumped Pavard brilliantly, chesting the ball and twisting away from Boateng. A drop of the shoulder, a shimmy, and he slipped it wide for Messi.
"And suddenly Barca are breaking!" Tony's voice cracked. "Look at them go—Messi and Mateo, charging forward!"
Fans leapt to their feet as Messi tore past the halfway line. Mateo sprinted inside, dragging Hernández with him. Messi cut in, and with defenders collapsing, he stabbed a pass to Mateo. One touch. A back-heel, blind, into space.
Griezmann arrived, faking a shot, letting it roll. Messi surged onto it, striking hard and true—
But Neuer! Insane reflexes—diving low, palms strong, and catching the rocket clean in his chest. He bounced back up instantly, hurling the ball long to reset Bayern's siege.
The chaos would not settle.
Bayern pressed like wolves, snapping into tackles, roaring in each other's faces. The fans' chants grew only louder, "MIA SAN MIA" pounding through the night. Barcelona bent but clung on, Messi at one point sprinting back to poke a ball off Sané's toes inside his own box.
"This is extraordinary," Mowbray marveled. "Barcelona are being dragged into a dogfight—Messi defending on the edge of his own area! Flick's tactical switch has them penned in."
Still, the Barça fans high in the stands began to sing louder, answering the red storm with Catalan pride.
Four minutes were added.
By 45 min, Bayern were peaking, their relentlessness unmatched. Davies flying, Kimmich dictating, Müller snarling.
Tony Jones' voice rang: "Bayern Munich, at their absolute summit here. This is peak pressing, peak ferocity, the champions in full cry—"
And then football showed its cruelty.
Barcelona broke. In two passes. In the most brutal form, the sport can display a hard direct counter.
The Allianz Arena was shaking under the ferocity of Bayern's storm. Flick's tweaks were flowing like electricity—Davies darting into midfield, Alaba pressing higher, Kimmich snapping at every loose ball. It was suffocating. Red shirts were everywhere, hunting in packs, their shouts tearing through the night air.
"Raus! Hoch! PRESS!" screamed Boateng, spittle flying, veins bursting.
The crowd roared in chorus, their famous Stern des Südens song rattling the rafters, drowning out every Barcelona heartbeat.
Even Messi had been dragged back, clawing the ball away from Müller on the edge of his own box. The sight said everything: Bayern were peak Bayern. Hungry. Relentless. A machine in full throttle.
Tony's voice carried the weight of awe.
"This is Flick's Bayern at their most terrifying—fluid, fearless, and ferocious. It is football at its sharpest edge."
But football is cruel. Football is ruthless. Football does not care how brilliant you are.
45+2:30.
Kingsley Coman picked the ball wide left, licking his lips at Alba. He tapped it past him, leaning into his turbo stride. Alba snapped around, body low, shoulder in. A shove, a hiss.
"Nice try," Alba muttered through clenched teeth. "I train against someone faster."
Coman stumbled, arms spread toward the referee—but Alba was already gone, boot lashing through the ball, daringly whipping it straight through the middle.
The pass found Messi. Müller lunged, teeth bared, but Messi dipped his shoulder—one body feint, and the German was left clutching air.
"GET HIM, CLOSE HIM!" Müller howled, desperate, but it was too late.
Messi glanced up once. Then unleashed a pass like lightning, slicing Bayern's half in two.
"OH MY WORD—MESSI! THROUGH BALL! KING IS AWAY!" Guy's voice cracked, raw with disbelief.
On the sideline, Koeman was a man possessed. Arms waving, fists pumping:
"MOVE! GO, GO! RUN!" he screamed, spit flying as he leaned into the pitch totally forgetting he already had a yellow card.
And the kid ran. Mateo King, legs churning, chest pumping. The Allianz howled as Davies bolted after him, the crowd screaming the duel into existence.
"DAVIES IS CHASING! HE'S NOT LETTING GO!" Tony's voice thundered.
Bayern's backline screamed, arms aloft: "OFFSIDE! OFFSIDE!" But the flag stayed down.
Davies was flying, hope restored even to Flick as he saw the kid running full speed at the goal with only Davies near him hope entered again, he clenched his fists on the touchline.
"SLIDE HIM! SAVE IT!" the Bayern coach bellowed, clinging to belief.
But Mateo was merciless. Near the center, he veered right, dragging Davies with him. The Canadian lunged across to cut him off—perfect, or so he thought.
Mateo stopped dead, snapped his ankle across the ball with a venomous back-chop. Davies collapsed into empty space. The crowd gasped as if stabbed in unison.
Mateo pivoted left—free, lethal. Neuer charged, arms wide, body sprawling.
Too late.
BANG!
Mateo King's left foot detonated even more ferocious than his previous one. The net rippled savagely. The Allianz was stunned.
Tony exploded, voice a whipcrack of disbelief.
"HE'S DONE IT AGAIN! HE'S DROPPED DAVIES TO THE FLOOR! HE'S SILENCED THE GERMANS!"
Guy's voice broke, rising above the chaos:
"THIS CHILD—THIS KID—HAS TOUCHED THE FIERY PIT AND COME OUT GOLDEN!"
The cameras found Mateo, sprinting toward the corner, chest pounding, face lit by wild defiance.
"Mateo King—seventeen years of age! TWO-NIL! Two goals at the Allianz Arena! He has ripped Bayern apart! He has punished their high line, shredded Flick's tactics, dominated Neuer embarrassed the reigning champions!" Tony was howling, his voice nearly cracking.
And then the immortal line, burning into history:
"Pele at 17? Maradona at 17? Mbappé at 17? Even Messi at 17? All step aside—THIS is the pinnacle of teenage brilliance. Mateo King, at 17 years old, is running wild in Munich! He is rewriting what it means to be a wonderkid!"
The Allianz was stunned. Some fans screaming, some weeping, others silent in disbelief.
Barcelona's corner was a thunderclap of Catalan joy.
The boy. The kid. The King.
A/N
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