The Battle of Istanbul
Barcelona had locked up the title early.
They hadn’t lost a single match, and draws were rare enough that they could seal the championship as early as Matchday 31. Their record stood at thirty-five wins and two draws—an overwhelming winning percentage—and now only the final league fixture remained.
Before that, though, Barcelona still had a game that mattered more than anything: the Champions League final.
Unlike the original history, they hadn’t crashed out in the round of sixteen. They’d scraped and clawed their way through, then beaten Liverpool—the side that was supposed to lift the 2004–05 Champions League trophy—4–1 on aggregate in the semis to reach the final.
That change set off another butterfly effect. In the history I remembered, Liverpool had spent the entire first half of the final being dismantled by AC Milan, going into the break 3–0 down. Even Liverpool fans had been ready to write the night off. But they hadn’t quit. They’d poured in three second-half goals to force extra time at 3–3, and when extra time produced nothing, they’d won the shootout 3–2 to take the cup.
Nobody had seen that Liverpool title coming, and for good reason. Milan’s starting eleven were all world-class players of their era. Their back four alone—Paolo Maldini, Alessandro Nesta, Jaap Stam, and Cafu, the so-called Mal-Nes-Ca line—was one of the greatest defensive units in the history of the game just by the names on the sheet. Liverpool’s squad was solid enough to have reached the final, but coldly speaking they were a clear step below Milan.
On paper, Liverpool had looked outmatched in almost every way. Captain Steven Gerrard had only just shed the prospect label and was beginning to explode into his potential. Jamie Carragher was in his first season as a regular starter at center-back. Xabi Alonso and Luis García, both Spanish and having spent their entire youth careers in Spain, were in their first season not only at Liverpool but in England at all. To make matters worse, Harry Kewell—once the finest Australian winger of his generation from his Leeds United days—had been sliding into glass-ankle territory and wasn’t expected to feature in the final.
They’d won anyway, against every prediction, which only made the triumph sweeter. That match would be talked about for decades and remembered as the Miracle of Istanbul. It was also the spark that blew up Liverpool’s fanbase in South Korea overnight.
That season already held unprecedented interest for Korean football fans. Under Guus Hiddink, Park Ji-sung and Lee Young-pyo had stormed all the way to the Champions League semi-finals with PSV Eindhoven and pushed Milan to the brink. Plenty of Korean supporters had wanted Liverpool to avenge PSV’s elimination against that same Milan side—and when one of the greatest matches in football history actually delivered, a lot of them walked away as lifelong Liverpool fans.
This time, though, Lee Junho’s interference had knocked Liverpool out. The match that would have been called the Miracle of Istanbul simply never happened.
May 25th—the day of the Champions League final between Barcelona and AC Milan.
The Atatürk Olympic Stadium was packed, and Hans was somewhere in that crowd. He liked football well enough, but he wasn’t the kind of supporter who bled for one club—more of a soft, casual fan. Even so, the Champions League final was the biggest stage of the year, so he’d tried for tickets and actually landed one.
Three hundred thousand won.
And not just any seat—he’d snagged one of the best in the house. If he was going to go at all, he’d figured, he might as well watch from the finest view money could buy.
“Hope it’s a good one.”
As an office worker at a mid-sized company, Hans’s paycheck wasn’t exactly overflowing, and three hundred thousand won was real money to him. So he wanted tonight to be worth it. A dull, ordinary final would leave a sour aftertaste for sure.
Carrying that hope, he made his way into the stadium. After a short wait, the Champions League final kicked off—and before long, a goal landed that left Hans stunned. Looking at it, he decided the money hadn’t been wasted in the slightest.
The Champions League final was about to begin.
I could feel my heart hammering, but I was smiling all the same. I’d waited a long time for this day. Nerves like these were only natural—as long as they didn’t drag my performance down with them, they were fine.
“Hoo…”
And it wasn’t just me. Ronaldinho—odds-on favorite for this season’s Ballon d’Or—had a tremor running through his hands.
“Ah. When did that start?”
Noticing the shake, he caught his right hand with his left and forced it still. Eighteen-year-old Lionel Messi wasn’t any calmer. But like me, he didn’t let the tension run away with him. He wasn’t alone out here. He had teammates at his shoulder.
“Alright.”
Looking at the others settled him. Time crawled past under that shared weight of nerves, and then the referee’s whistle cut through it all.
“Preeeeeep!”
For some it would be a blessing, for others a curse—the Champions League final was underway.
The opening was cautious.
The pressure of a Champions League final was no small thing, so both AC Milan and Barcelona settled into a feeling-out phase—or at least tried to. Ronaldinho found his head faster than anyone else, and that light, dancing touch of his became a blessing for Barcelona and a curse for Milan.
Third minute of the first half. Some players still hadn’t even touched the ball.
Ronaldinho collected it.
He adapted to the Champions League final stage faster than anyone alive and tore straight into Milan’s half, handing Barcelona a golden chance at the absolute start of the match. From halfway he dribbled, toyed with three defenders, and drove all the way to the edge of the penalty area. Legendary Milan defender Paolo Maldini stepped across to cut him off—but Ronaldinho wasn’t alone. Messi was tearing up behind him. Sensing it by instinct, Ronaldinho clipped a heel pass into Messi’s path.
Messi checked his stride the moment he saw the pass and set himself to shoot. A beat of preparation, then he whipped it with his left foot.
Whoosh.
The sound was deflating, but the ball’s flight wasn’t. It curled perfectly toward the far upper corner. Barcelona fans were already rising, certain it was in—until the man guarding Milan’s net intervened.
Dida.
He never lost the ball, flung himself into the save, and got a hand to it. The shot smacked the post and rebounded out, floating high before dropping back into the box—where Lee Junho had already claimed his spot.
I shrugged off the defenders closing me down and headed it. But the goddess of fortune seemed to be wearing red and black tonight; the ball struck the woodwork again and soared high once more. My header had been firm enough that it bounced farther out this time, just beyond the edge of the area—and waiting there was Ronaldinho.
This one—!
He watched the ball drop out of the air and lifted his foot without thinking. Timing the descent, he spun through his body and met it clean on the instep. The strike left his boot with terrifying pace and screamed toward Dida’s near side.
Got to stop it—!
It wasn’t going into the corner, so Dida could react—but the ball was moving beyond anything he’d imagined. It bent his wrist back and still tore into the net.
“Wha… what the hell was that?”
Pain shot up through Dida’s wrist, but the sheer absurdity of the strike hit harder, leaving him staring in disbelief. Whether he understood it or not didn’t matter. The ball was in the goal.
A heartbeat later the crowd caught up, and the stadium exploded.
“WAAAAAAAAAH!”
Barcelona players swarmed Ronaldinho.
“That was an insane goal, Ginho.”
Messi, closest to him, was practically vibrating as he said it—and he wasn’t alone.
“Ginho!”
Jorge wrapped him in a bear hug. I just stood there smiling.
And with Ronaldinho’s blistering opener, the match that would be remembered as the most ferocious slugfest in Champions League history—the Battle of Istanbul—had begun.