He paused, letting it land.
"They say we're lucky to be here. They say a 15th-place United and a 17th-place Tottenham are running through this competition because English football is just better. Stronger. Faster. Smarter." His voice sharpened. "They're using this tournament to laugh at German clubs."
A murmur rippled through the room. Not anger yet. Something tighter.
Toppmöller took a step forward.
"So tomorrow, you have a choice. You can go out there and play careful. You can play not to lose. And then you'll open the papers on Friday and read exactly what they want to write about you."
He shook his head.
"Or you can knock them down a peg. In our stadium. In front of our fans."
He pointed toward the seating rows, not singling anyone out, but somehow everyone felt it.
"They think because one kid isn't playing, you'll shrink. That you'll hide." His voice rose slightly now. "Don't embarrass yourselves like that. Don't give them ammunition."
