What Matters Is an Unyielding Heart
Seven minutes.
That was the added time Barcelona had been given.
Seven minutes was more than enough to score at least one goal.
But the goal they had just conceded made it 3-1, which meant they now needed two.
And that was not all. Celebrations would eat into the clock as well, so a full minute would simply vanish.
Above all else, their hearts had broken.
“Ah…”
I looked around. Messi, Jorge, Iniesta, even Ronaldinho—every one of them wore the face of a man who had already accepted defeat. And I hated the sight of it.
“It’s not over yet… It’s not over!”
I shouted at the Barcelona players whose expressions had already surrendered. Every head that had been hanging lifted at my voice.
“We’ve still got six minutes left. That’s plenty of time for two goals. So don’t you dare give up yet.”
Six minutes. A short span, yet long enough for two goals to explode. Of course the real time would be even shorter—AC Milan would drag every second out, that much was certain. But looking at the faces of the Barcelona players, none of that seemed to matter anymore.
“Yeah! It’s not over. Stay focused.”
That was Ronaldinho, who only moments earlier had worn the look of a man who believed the match was already cooked. Color began to return to the others’ faces as well.
“Six minutes for two goals? We can score three.”
“I’ll take four.”
The moment the score had become 3-1, the Barcelona players had one by one lowered their heads, convinced there was no hope left. But Lee Junho’s sincere cry had given them that hope back.
Watching it all, Coach Frank thought to himself:
The most important thing is hope.
The belief that you can still do it. Once the heart breaks, miracles never come. A miracle only visits those who are ready for it. If the Barcelona players had truly given up, this match would not yet have ended—and yet it would already have been over.
But because of Junho’s words, their will had not broken. Coach Frank was grateful for the role the boy had played.
Thank you. That should have been my job.
Truthfully, Frank’s own heart had broken. The instant AC Milan’s third goal went in, the thought We’ve lost had settled over him, and he had already begun wondering what he would say to the players after they finished as runners-up. Thanks to Junho, the hope that had shattered inside him was pieced back together.
“It ain’t over till it’s over…”
Muttering a phrase he had heard somewhere, Coach Frank began searching for hope again.
The match resumed.
The Barcelona players threw themselves back into the game with the resolve to burn every last scrap of remaining stamina. Two goals in this short window were the only way to force extra time, so of course they would.
Feeling that will, I received the ball.
We can still do this.
Taking Jorge’s pass in midfield, I linked up with Messi and Iniesta in a tight triangle, recycled the ball once, then drove forward.
There are a lot of them.
In front of me stood countless AC Milan shirts. They only needed to defend now, so even their furthest forwards had dropped back; all eleven men were devoted purely to shutting us out. But I did not panic. The entire second half had been exactly like this—nothing had changed. The single thought that ruled my head was that we had to create a goal.
With that thought alone I charged straight into the thick of the AC Milan players, the enemy heartland. The only way to get a shot off was to punch a hole through them.
After advancing a certain distance I glanced around, made a quick check, and immediately slipped the ball out to Ronaldinho on the wing. Ronaldinho danced through a dazzling sequence of stepovers and tore the Milan full-back to pieces. Having shredded the flank, he flicked a glance into the box and whipped in a cross. Trusting him completely, the Barcelona players were already making their runs into the area.
Ronaldinho’s low, driven ball skidded across the turf and arrowed into the very heart of the box—right where I was waiting.
Here it comes!
I met Ronaldinho’s pass cleanly with my left foot, striking through the ball with perfect contact. The shot, struck true, flew toward the unguarded side of the net and bulged the mesh.
“HOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
The Barcelona fans’ roar erupted the instant the ball crossed the line, yet the Barcelona players wasted no time celebrating. They snatched the ball and sprinted back to the halfway line. One more goal was still required.
“Just one more!”
Messi called out as I carried the ball back to the center circle. I nodded.
No celebration. Straight back onto the line. The restart came, and AC Milan’s defense tightened even further.
Why the hell won’t it open up?!
It was only natural. At 3-1 the Milan players had already been swimming in the certainty of victory.
We’ve won.
Champions League winners!
But after surrendering a goal to me and seeing the score become 3-2, they finally understood: the match was not finished.
No extra time. Absolutely not!
We finish it right here!
With that shift in mindset, AC Milan’s defensive wall became even more solid.
Added time itself was nearly gone. Only one minute remained. Lose the ball now and it would all be over. Thankfully, the Barcelona players summoned superhuman concentration for that final minute, and the intensity bled into their play. Messi, who held the ball, had entered a state of pure heightened sensation—dribbling-god mode.
He beat three men with the ball at his feet, spotted me bursting into the box, and clipped a delicate cross into my path. I jumped to meet the flight of the ball, guided it with my forehead, and watched it glance off the post before nestling into the net.
An even more explosive roar than before detonated around the stadium.
“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!!”
With the goal coming right before the final whistle, Ronaldinho and Messi—eyes practically rolling back in their heads—swallowed me in a crushing embrace.
“Is this real?”
Messi asked, as if he still could not believe the ball had gone in.
“Yeah!”
I answered with a grin that split my face.
“Khuh…”
Jorge, who had appeared from nowhere, was already crying.
“I don’t usually cry this much, but the tears just keep coming today.”
No one had said a word, yet he was already making excuses. We all laughed at him.
“I believe you.”
“Thanks, Junho.”
Because everyone was smiling, I answered Jorge’s words, and he thanked me in return.
The long, grinding second half was finally over.
The joy of the equalizer had already begun to fade. Every eye was now fixed on extra time.
“Drink some water.”
I answered Coach Frank and drained a bottle. Ronaldinho, Messi, Jorge and the rest of the Barcelona side, along with the AC Milan players, all took water and rested.
“I’ll give you a massage.”
The coaching staff worked on our abused muscles, looking after us.
That feels amazing.
I felt as though I could fall asleep right there. That was how powerful the massage was; every muscle in my body had loosened.
Slap.
I wanted to sleep, but of course I could not. I gave my own cheek a light smack to clear my head and stood up.
“Thank you.”
I thanked the staff member who had worked on me, then walked over to where the Barcelona players were gathered. Coach Frank was there as well.
“What you have done so far has been magnificent. But if in the end you do not win, people will only remember you as the ones who finished second. I refuse to accept that. You are more than worthy of being champions! So take what I believe and turn it into reality!”
Hearing Coach Frank’s words, our chests swelled. We all thought the same thing: we would win this, no matter what.
Extra time began.
Extra time was brutal. After ninety minutes of almost total exhaustion, our movements had become sluggish. But we were not the only ones who were spent; the AC Milan players were just as drained. The contest would now be decided by who possessed the stronger will, and for the moment the two sides looked evenly matched.
In the first period of extra time both teams burned with fighting spirit, yet no real chances materialized and the half ended.
The second period of extra time began. By now every player on the pitch was truly at the limit of his physical capacity. The will was still there, but the body simply would not obey; the accuracy of every pass plummeted. Both sides had substitutes on the field, yet those players only proved why they had been on the bench in the first place, offering nothing of note.
The second period looked destined to finish goalless as well—until, in the seventh minute, a goal finally arrived.
The moment Lee Junho’s goal went in, AC Milan launched an all-out offensive. Barcelona, naturally, refused to overcommit and dropped their defensive line deeper. The situation was now the exact reverse of earlier: where Barcelona had been attacking and Milan defending, now Barcelona defended and Milan attacked.
Having come this far, the Milan players simply could not accept defeat. Every one of them threw himself into the attack with blazing will.
Lose after getting this far? No. I’m going to win!
But sheer will alone does not create results. Milan’s attacks were snuffed out one after another, and the fifteenth minute of the second period of extra time ticked away. Only one minute of added time remained.
One more minute of holding on and the trophy would be theirs, so the Barcelona players defended with every fibre of their being. The AC Milan players, unable to accept defeat, steeled themselves for one final assault.
That final attack, when it came, was not as sharp as expected. The players had truly emptied the tank; it was only natural. Still, Milan kept the ball moving. Pirlo found Seedorf, Seedorf found Kaká, and Kaká looked up at Andriy inside the box before floating what might well be the last cross of the night. Andriy managed to get his head to Kaká’s delivery, but the goalkeeper parried it. The rebound fell straight to Crespo standing in front of goal, and AC Milan finally forced the equalizer.
“Aaaaaaaargh! I did it! I did it!”
Crespo simply shouted whatever came out of his throat. His teammates swarmed him, sharing the pure joy of the moment. The faces of the Barcelona players watching that scene were anything but bright.
“Ah…”
One more minute of holding on and it would have been over. Conceding now left a hollow so deep it defied words. Yet the thing had already happened, so the Barcelona players forced themselves to regroup. The celebration time passed.
The restart whistle blew at the exact same instant the final whistle sounded, confirming that the 2004–2005 Champions League final would be decided by a penalty shoot-out.