Chapter 405: Chasing the Deficit
"Mr. Maddox, welcome." Ottmar Hitzfeld stepped forward with a composed smile, extending his hand.
Richard also stepped forward to meet it, his expression polite yet keen, the kind of look that masked calculation beneath charm. The handshake carried tension, expectation, and the subtle dance of football diplomacy.
Still, Richard respected Ottmar Hitzfeld. After all, who didn’t know the man who had boldly dropped goalkeeper and fan favorite Teddy de Beer, replacing him with the 20-year-old Dortmund-born Stefan Klos?
Or the man whose signing of Swiss striker Stéphane Chapuisat from Bayer Uerdingen had transformed the campaign, with Chapuisat netting 20 goals in his very first season?
That was Ottmar Hitzfeld, the 1997 World Coach of the Year.
And then there was the reunification of Germany, when two former East German clubs—Hansa Rostock and Dynamo Dresden—were admitted into the Bundesliga, expanding the league to 20 teams for the only time in its history. That grueling schedule of extra fixtures had given Dortmund the chance to recover from a poor start—and they had seized it with both hands.
Now, Ottmar Hitzfeld, the mastermind behind Dortmund’s first European Cup triumph, was promoted to the role of sporting director, leaving the managerial reins to his successor. Nevio Scala stepped in with high expectations, but the Bundesliga proved unforgiving. Midway through the season, poor results and inconsistent performances forced the club’s hand—Scala was dismissed.
In his place stepped Michael Skibbe, Scala’s young assistant, barely out of his twenties. Thrust into the spotlight, Skibbe became the youngest head coach in Bundesliga history, tasked with steering a team brimming with talent yet struggling for consistency.
Despite his youth, Michael Skibbe faced the immense pressure of living up to Hitzfeld’s legacy and restoring Dortmund’s domestic pride, all while trying to keep their European ambitions alive.
The result? Dortmund struggled in the Bundesliga, finding themselves languishing in 11th position—a shocking drop for a club that had recently been at the pinnacle of German football.
This underperformance at home sharply contrasted with their European campaign. In the UEFA Champions League, Dortmund reached the semi-finals, showcasing resilience and skill against some of Europe’s toughest opponents.
While their league form faltered, their run on the continental stage remained commendable, proving that the team still had the talent and determination to compete at the highest level.
"Come, let me take you to the VIP seats," Ottmar Hitzfeld offered. Richard did not refuse.
By the summer of 1998, Richard was brimming with anticipation, ready to witness how O’Neill would rewrite the history of Manchester City. However, when he arrived at the VIP seats, he fell silent.
"Heja BVB! Heja BVB!"
Below him, the Westfalenstadion roared to life. The Yellow Wall—a living, pulsating sea of Dortmund fans—swayed in unison, a tide of black and yellow that seemed to stretch endlessly. Scarves were raised, flags whipped in the breeze, and the chants began, low and rhythmic at first, then swelling into a deafening roar.
Every stomp of a thousand boots, every shout and cheer, seemed to shake the foundations of the arena.
The Westfalenstadion could hold approximately 54,000 spectators for Bundesliga matches, making it one of the most intimidating arenas in Germany. However, for international fixtures, seating regulations reduced the capacity to around 46,000, slightly limiting the crowd but not diminishing the intensity of the atmosphere inside the stadium.
Even all the Manchester City players, as they stepped onto the pitch, were struck silent. They had trained for intensity, for pressure, for hostile crowds—but nothing could have prepared them for the sheer force of the famous Yellow Wall.
"Alright, lads! Focus! Let’s go! Let’s go!" Zanetti’s voice rang out across the pitch, sharp and commanding.
As captain, it was his job to keep the team organized, alert, and disciplined, and he knew every second counted. No wonder the boss had warned him to be careful with the atmosphere.
Before the match even began, Mourinho had made it perfectly clear: Manchester City’s players had to shut down the key threats—Stéphane Chapuisat, Andreas Möller, Jürgen Kohler, and Matthias Sammer. Every instruction was drilled into their minds, every detail memorized—they were a quartet capable of dictating the game.
One mistake, one lapse in concentration, and the City players would be exposed.
PHWEEEE~
The roar of the crowd surged, crashing over the pitch like a tidal wave.
"Hmmm..." Richard murmured as he watched the match unfold, choosing to keep his silence. His thoughts, however, were anything but quiet.
Hitzfeld had spoken with the calm conviction of a man who knew the game beyond the pitch. Finishing second, he explained, hadn’t just been about pride—it ensured entry into the European Competitions. And in those days, German television companies were willing to pay enormous sums to broadcast European football.
The rules of the pool meant that all German clubs shared the TV income, distributed based on how far each progressed. But when Stuttgart collapsed against Leeds in the Champions League group stage, the landscape shifted. By the quarter-finals, there was only two German club still alive in Europe: Borussia Dortmund and Bayern Munchen.
Both became the sole beneficiaries, pocketing a staggering £10 million—a fortune at the time, and a financial windfall that not only secured their footing but also sharpened their ambitions.
And why was Richard silent as the match went on?
Because the weight of Hitzfeld’s words still pressed on him.
Throughout the life of the Bundesliga, the best German players had always been sold off to the giants of Serie A—Juventus, Inter, Milan. Italy had been the dream destination, the land of money and glamour, while German clubs were forced to watch their brightest stars leave.
But Dortmund... Dortmund had broken that pattern.
With the windfall of European money, they had taken the unprecedented step of reversing the exodus. They could now match the salaries once thought possible only in Italy. Between 1992 and 1995, they pulled off transfer after transfer that shook the foundations of European football: Stefan Reuter, Jürgen Kohler, and Andreas Möller—all brought back from Juventus. Matthias Sammer, signed from Inter for a German club-record fee, a fee they later smashed again to acquire Karl-Heinz Riedle from Lazio.
Each signing was a hammer blow to the old order. And together, they shifted the balance of power—not to Munich, where Bayern had always reigned supreme—but to the Ruhr, to Borussia Dortmund.
"How did you hold the dressing room together back then?" That was the question that gnawed at Richard’s curiosity.
After all, who didn’t know the story?
In 1997, even as Dortmund stood at the peak of Europe, the dressing room ethos was beginning to crack. Deep fissures had formed between Hitzfeld and the more megalomaniac members of his squad. The board itself seemed divided, torn between loyalty and ambition, while Hitzfeld’s own health began to suffer under the strain.
Eventually, he was moved upstairs, taking the role of director of football because he could no longer endure it.
In the first leg, Michael Skibbe made a bold tactical call: he delegated Michael Zorc to shadow Zidane. It proved an inspired choice, as the French maestro found himself smothered, struggling to influence the game the way he usually did.
With Zidane muted, Manchester City pressed hard in the opening stages, dictating tempo and pinning Dortmund back. Yet football is often decided in moments, not stretches of dominance.
On 28 minutes, Zorc, freed from his marking duty for just an instant, swung in a curling cross. Chapuisat rose to meet it, cushioning the ball on his chest with sublime control before sliding it past Buffon with clinical precision. The Westfalenstadion erupted, a roar like thunder rolling through the stands.
Five minutes later, Dortmund struck again. This time it was Andreas Möller who whipped in a dangerous ball from the flank. Chapuisat met it with a ferocious header, the ball crashing into the net to double the lead. The Yellow Wall exploded in euphoria, black and yellow scarves swirling like a storm.
For City, it was a nightmare. History was against them—nearly 25 years had passed since any team had overturned a 2-0 deficit in a Champions League semi-final. And now, that mountain loomed before them.
But this was Manchester City—and they weren’t about to fold so easily. Just before the break, Zidane finally found space on the edge of the box and let fly. His curling strike beat the keeper but rattled off the post, the sound echoing like a warning shot through the stadium. Moments later, Ronaldo thought he had pulled one back, rifling the ball into the net, only for the referee to whistle it off—handball.
The Dortmund fans roared with laughter and relief, but on the pitch, something shifted. The near-misses didn’t break City’s resolve; they stoked it. The players gathered together, fists clenched, eyes burning. The injustice, the frustration—it became fuel. Their spirit, far from dimmed, flared even brighter.
As they walked off for halftime, the scoreline read 2-0, but the fire in Manchester City’s eyes told a different story: the second half was going to be a war.
And they were alive again.
At halftime, O’Neill made his move. He brought on Robert Pirès for the second period, a substitution that seemed bold at first—but it changed everything. Barely minutes into his arrival, Pirès found himself with the ball at his feet some 30 yards from goal. Without hesitation, he looked up, saw Stefan Klos off his line, and lifted a delicate chip that arced through the night air.
Time seemed to freeze as the ball floated over the helpless keeper’s outstretched hand and dropped perfectly into the net.
"Oh, my word! Robert Pirès! With his very first touch of the ball—he’s chipped Klos from thirty yards! That is simply outrageous! You will not see a finer goal on a European night than this!"
The crowd erupted, half in stunned silence, half in wild celebration.
Pirès wheeled away, arms stretched wide, his face lit with disbelief and triumph. But before he could even turn fully, his teammates were already on him.
Ronaldo was the first to reach him, roaring as he leapt onto Pirès’s back, fists pumping the air. Larsson sprinted in from the flank, wrapping his arms around them both, shouting in sheer joy. Zidane, normally so composed, broke into a grin, pumping his fists as he crashed into the huddle.
Makelele and Zanetti came barreling in from midfield, voices raw, joining the pile with unrestrained passion. Zanetti grabbed Pirès by the shoulders, shaking him with a warrior’s cry, while Makelele hugged him tight, shouting into his ear.
"O’Neill’s substitution pays off instantly—Pirès has changed the game in a single moment of brilliance! Manchester City are back in it, and just listen to their fans now... they believe again!"
The stadium gasped, then erupted. It was a strike of audacity, a goal of pure genius—one of the finest ever seen in a European final. And with it, Manchester City halved the deficit.
The Yellow Wall’s thunder dulled for the first time all night. City’s players rushed to Pirès, their belief reignited. The scoreboard read 2–1, but the momentum had shifted, and Dortmund knew they were in a fight.