Anger - 3
Rage -3
After Robert Lewandowski fired in the opener, the Schalke ultras' aggro shifted straight to him.
"Boooooo─!"
"Disgusting Polish pig bastard!"
Our eyes met, and he shot me another wink.
Maybe because he'd drawn the Schalke fans' heat, giving us a bit of breathing room?
I managed to rediscover my rhythm.
I tuned out all the noise in my ears and started moving my feet busily, just like always.
This match pitted a Dortmund side that had already locked up the title against Schalke, sitting on 57 points in third and fighting for Champions League spots. They were the desperate ones.
Schalke came at us tooth and nail for an equalizer.
Out on the left wing, Julian Draxler skinned Lukas Piszczek—I saw it clear as day.
Dortmund's backline had their eyes glued to Draxler, Raul Gonzalez, and Klaas-Jan Huntelaar.
Seizing the gap, defensive midfielder Jermain Jones raised a hand and burst into the penalty area.
Draxler spotted him and whipped in a cutback.
But before the ball reached Jones—
Thwack─!
I got there first, hooking it out over the touchline.
"Nice one, Gino!!"
"Tighten up defense! Don't let 'em go!"
Schalke's throw-in restarted play. Raul took possession and slotted it into space ahead of Draxler.
Draxler grabbed it with a cocky grin and went one-v-one at Piszczek again.
Unlike the breakthrough just moments ago, Piszczek stood firm this time, shutting him down.
Dortmund counterattack incoming.
Piszczek, having nicked it off Draxler, fired a pass my way and bombed forward on the overlap.
Schalke's pressure hit right as the ball arrived.
I shook it off with the simplest move.
Faked a left-foot trap to bait them, then nutmegged their legs with my right heel, threading it perfectly into Piszczek's path.
The ball zipped right to his feet.
Piszczek charged down the line along the touchline.
I'd returned the favor, so I bolted toward the Schalke box too.
By the time Piszczek reached the corner of the area, he whipped a low, driven pass to Lewandowski.
Lewa controlled it smoothly with his first touch, but a Schalke defender latched on.
"Leva!!!"
That's when I burst into the empty space, yelling his name.
With his back to goal, Lewa rolled the sole of his foot and nudged it into my run.
I smashed the gently laid-off ball through the keeper's legs—he'd rushed out to narrow the angle—a half-beat early.
Schalke's keeper desperately clamped his thighs, but too late—the ball had already squirted through.
It rippled the net.
I sprinted straight into the Schalke goal.
This wasn't enough. Not by half.
As I grabbed the ball to sprint to halfway—
"Rookie! Calm down! Look over there!"
Sebastian Kehl dashed up, grabbed me, and pointed to one corner.
Dortmund fans were waving a flag they'd brought, with my number scrawled on it, belting out the anthem.
"Walk on, walk on."
Staring at the stands, focusing on their voices—
Maybe that's why? I started faintly hearing the Dortmund fans' cheers, which had been drowned out before.
Sure, at Veltins-Arena, our fans were just a handful compared to Schalke's sea.
"With hope in your heart!"
But from kickoff, Dortmund's supporters had been screaming it at the top of their lungs.
"You'll never walk alone!!!"
I wasn't walking alone.
From the moment Schalke's fans started their racist chants at Son Jinho, the Dortmund away fans raised their voices from their section.
They sang the anthem till their throats bled, desperately hoping their little star wouldn't be hurt by ugly adults.
That the cheers would pierce the jeers and reach him.
They kept singing without pause, holding onto that wish.
After belting it out for ages, Jinho's second goal silenced Schalke's boos.
That's when their voices reached the players.
At Sebastian Kehl's gesture, Jinho turned to the Dortmund away end.
His eyes widened, and the fans cranked it up, singing even louder for him.
As viewers puzzled over the sudden anthem—
The broadcast camera panned to Dortmund's away section.
Young and old, men and women, all screaming their throats raw.
Halftime blew the whistle at 2-0. Into the second half.
"You gonna lose in front of your home fans like this!? Don't pussy out! Attack!"
Huub Stevens, who'd taken over after Ralf Rangnick quit from burnout, barked orders at his players with a bitter smile.
'Damn. His movement's completely different.'
Jinho, who'd looked heavy and subdued early on, was a changed man since the second half kicked off.
Stevens watched Jinho casually shrug off another Schalke press.
Kristoph Moritz tugged Jinho's jersey after he'd nutmegged him.
The ref whistled—a Schalke foul.
"Scheiße!"
From about 26 meters out—a dangerous spot—Stevens cursed under his breath.
"Gino, you good?"
"Of course."
Jinho, hauled up by Shinji Kagawa's hand, dusted off with a blank expression and set up for the free kick.
Schalke's crowd spotted me prepping the free kick and started mocking again.
The racist lyrics, now numbingly familiar, echoed in my ears.
And faintly, Dortmund fans' anthem filtered through.
Throats ragged, they raised their voices once more.
I felt their wish: Don't let this hurt you.
I steadied my breath.
Players jostled fiercely over the wall.
The ref stepped in to separate them, signaled ready, then lifted the whistle.
TwEEEEEt!!
I backed up and charged.
Eyes locked on the ball, I swung my left foot.
Thwuuung─!
Impact. Schalke's wall jumped to protect the gap.
They flailed to block, but my shot sailed over their heads into the Yashin zone—the keeper's nightmare.
Schalke's keeper lunged desperately, but the ball kissed his fingertips goodbye and bulged the net.
The jeering Schalke fans fell silent.
The ref pointed to the center circle, goal confirmed.
I bolted toward the Schalke fans.
Veltins-Arena, dead quiet now—unlike kickoff.
I ripped off my jersey, holding it high so my name and number gleamed.
Protest against their racist shit. And proof of who won today.