The Westfalenstadion was not just a stadium; it was a cathedral of hope, a fortress of belief. On the night of April 30, 2014, it was a cauldron of raw, unadulterated emotion.
The Yellow Wall, that magnificent, terrifying edifice of humanity, was a living, breathing entity, its eighty-thousand souls united in a single, desperate prayer: a miracle.
The 3-1 defeat in Madrid had been a body blow, but it had not been a knockout. The away goal, that precious, defiant strike from their sixteen-year-old prodigy, was a flickering candle in the darkness, a glimmer of hope in the face of overwhelming odds.
Down in the dressing room, the air was thick with a nervous energy that was almost suffocating. The players, dressed in their iconic yellow and black, were a mixture of grim determination and wide-eyed hope.
