Treble - 8: The Miracle of Istanbul
Liverpool's players were mentally and physically exhausted.
Just 20 minutes earlier, Liverpool had victory within their grasp.
But after Jesus equalized with a mere three shots, they felt like they were sinking into quicksand.
The nightmares from the league and cup finals, where they'd fallen agonizingly short of lifting the trophy, began to resurface.
A thick sense of defeat washed over them. Fatigue crashed in, and their legs grew heavy.
As their activity levels dropped, gaps naturally opened up between Liverpool's players, and Real Madrid's men exploited them ruthlessly.
Luis Garcia intercepted the ball, and it fell to Jesus. Never losing focus on the second ball, Jesus seized it first and shook off Liverpool's pressure with a smooth turn.
From the flank, Roberto Fabian raised his hand, catching Jesus's eye.
But he didn't pass. Instead, he drove forward once more, closing in on the penalty area.
Seizing the moment when all eyes were on him, he gently nudged the ball back to Jesus Gonzalez, who was charging up from behind.
Jesus Gonzalez, who had tormented himself over his first-half error that led to a goal, now entered the box with the ball.
He struck a calm shot, but unfortunately, it was blocked by the keeper's brilliant save.
Jesus caught sight of Jesus Gonzalez clutching his head and slamming it against the turf.
Shortly after Jesus Gonzalez's shot, the referee blew for the end of regular time.
The match headed into extra time.
During the brief halftime break in extra time—enough time only for the players to gulp down some water—I gathered my adrenaline-fueled teammates.
"Listen up."
We linked arms in a circle, and first, I gave them a quick, formal thank-you.
"This season, we've crushed our opponents with performance no one could touch. Of course, that's all thanks to me."
Luis Garcia let out a playful boo at my half-serious, half-joking remark.
"Boooo—! Rise up, you greedy bourgeois Jesus!"
Smiles crept onto the faces of the players, who had been stone-faced moments before. I smirked faintly and launched into my speech.
"We've built a great team this season! No one can deny that."
The Real Madrid players nodded. Confirming their expressions, I pressed on.
"Our goal from the start was the Treble, and it's right in front of us now! Just 30 minutes left—don't turn away, look at your teammates! Mistakes happen, that's fine! Trust your brothers! Let's play our game with confidence and calm!"
Fighting spirit blazed in their eyes.
"I prophesy it! We'll smash Liverpool, lift the Big Ears, and claim the Treble! Vamos!!!"
With those final words, we became one.
"Hala Madrid!!"
I'd had a solid plan from the kickoff.
If the opponent had been Mike Tyson, I'd have gotten my ass kicked. Unfortunately for them, this was soccer, and my foe was Liverpool.
In other words, no beatings for me.
Anyway, before explaining the plan, let's talk romance.
Romance. Just hearing the word swells the heart. Where's it used most? In my book, sports.
Every sport has its romance. Soccer—the sport of mistakes—has a bit more, since underdogs can topple giants more often.
Why the sudden poetry on romance?
Because my plan was romance itself.
Team trailing, players who never give up, a hero emerges, and miracle victory.
It's the drug that drives people insane. The romance that makes crowds roar.
And that's why I held off scoring until the dying moments of extra time.
Extra time, 118th minute.
Exhausted players lost their communication first. Subs fought hard, but most were fatigued, errors mounting, attacks fizzling.
As both coaches pondered penalties, the hero-wannabe Jesus spread his wings.
Charlie Stone, who'd run more than anyone, flubbed a pass. Luis Garcia spotted it, squeezed out his last energy to intercept, and fed it straight to Jesus.
The pass looked shaky, ripe for interception—but Jesus, who'd conserved stamina for his moment, was a step faster.
Snatching(?) Luis Garcia's pass, Jesus began shrugging off charging defenders.
No teammates for a one-two.
Isolated. Time to solve it solo.
Any other player, and the fans might've thrown in the towel.
But the man with the ball wore the white kit, symbol of Real Madrid.
Madridistas eyed the No. 9 jersey with his name, brimming with hope.
That their god would work another miracle and lead them to glory.
Surrounded by three Liverpool players, Jesus broke through.
Madridistas who'd risen when Jesus got the ball now clasped hands in desperate prayer.
The big screen showed Jesus nearing the box.
Madridistas held their breath, eyes glued to their god on the jumbotron, silent.
A rough Liverpool tackle flew at Jesus.
The ref, about to call foul, saw Jesus pop up and dribble on—advantage played.
Just before entering the box, a bypassed Liverpool player yanked Jesus's jersey.
Jesus stumbled, balance lost. The ref reached for his whistle.
But as the whistle touched lips, Jesus swatted the arm away, regained poise.
Into the box, he rifled a shot through the onrushing keeper's legs.
The ball threaded the keeper's legs, rippling the net. Madridistas gazed at goalscorer Jesus, thinking:
That's it. That's why we endured.
Even as their ace faced suspension and missed games, despite fat paychecks.
They believed their sometimes rowdy god would save them in the clutch.
And their faith was rewarded.
The net bulged, and 40,000 Madridistas unleashed a roar that shook the Ataturk Olympic Stadium.
Even those who'd disliked Jesus chanted his name.
"Puta! Who called him an Eastern monkey? He's the best—Hala Madrid!!!"
Jesus sprinted to the corner flag, arms spread wide.
Liverpool fans, who'd never quit, felt awe at his never-say-die winner and began applauding him.
And soon after...
The match ended.
Match End.
Champions League Final.
Ataturk Olympic Stadium