Chapter 409: Pirlo Doesn’t Go High
What is a badge, anyway? It’s a complicated question to answer.
Perhaps a football club’s most ubiquitous symbol is a storied, heraldic design harking back to the local coat of arms—or a sleek, modern emblem created to look effortlessly stylish on contemporary sportswear.
But why is there a tree? Or a bee? Or a devil? Is that an elephant? SQUIRRELS!
Manchester City’s badge in the mid-1990s was quite old by football standards. Round in shape, it featured a white outer ring with the club’s name, "Manchester City F.C." at the top and the Latin motto "Superbia in Proelio" (Pride in Battle) at the bottom. Inside the circle sat a sky-blue shield, decorated with a red rose of Lancashire—symbolizing the club’s historic county roots—and three diagonal blue rivers, representing Manchester’s waterways such as the Irwell and the Ship Canal.
This design was simple, traditional, and instantly recognizable to English fans, embodying Manchester’s industrial and regional identity.
With the conversation about the badge put on hold, Richard stood up just in time to see Henry surrounded by his teammates—not only those on the field, but also the substitutes who had rushed over to join the celebration.
They roared with excitement over the goal that had saved the match, exchanging fierce shouts and wide grins that boosted each other’s confidence. The power of belief was infectious, and as they walked back to their half, the young players brimmed with spirit and vitality, like invincible deities ready for battle.
O’Neill quickly calls Pirlo over, reminding him to return to the defensive midfield position while Cannavaro occupies the center-back spot. Now that the score is level, City needs to balance their tactical system.
Will this weaken their offensive play? Of course, it will. However, with Pirlo, Nakata, and Lampard in midfield matching Dortmund’s trio, he doesn’t think City will be at a disadvantage. The key point lies inside the penalty area. As long as Zidane, Lennon, Ronaldo, and Henry keep playing the way they did in the last ten minutes, City will still control the momentum of the match.
Michael Skibbe, frustrated after conceding the goal, throws a bottle nearby before his face flushes with anger. He waves furiously at the players from the sidelines, urging them to maintain their defensive structure.
When it comes to adaptability, it’s clear that Skibbe is not on par with Nevio Scala. His pre-match tactics were effective in the first half, and everything seemed to be going according to plan. But now, with the second half unfolding dramatically, his tactical adjustments have become a liability, leaving him unsure of how to redirect his strategy.
Dortmund’s 5-3-2 formation, with five defenders and three midfielders behind the ball, offers comprehensive defensive coverage—surrounding the penalty area like a fortress. Manchester City’s full-spectrum attacks in the first half were exactly what they needed, making it difficult for Aston Villa to cope.
City continue to abandon the flanks, opting instead for a concentrated assault through the middle. This move left Dortmund’s two wing-backs defensively exposed; their presence was almost irrelevant, as the attacks never targeted their side. In fact, the retreat of the wing-backs only added to the confusion of their teammates.
Richard, watching this, had his own thoughts. If he were in Little’s shoes, he would push the wing-backs higher into wide midfield positions—both to disrupt the opposing midfield and to create the most direct option for counterattacks. It would be a desperate gamble, but in football, one must sometimes have the courage to risk everything. Sadly, Little doesn’t share that boldness. To him, the match has simply returned to its starting point, likely heading toward extra time and penalties.
The match resumes, and as Manchester City equalizes, they begin to believe that Dortmund’s defense is no longer unbreakable. City’s offensive threat grows increasingly menacing.
When Richard notices that Dortmund still hasn’t made any offensive adjustments, he mutters fiercely: "The momentum of the match has shifted!"
The difference between 0–0 and 1–1, or even 2–1 and 2–2 on aggregate in a semifinal, may seem negligible—it’s still a tie. However, the dynamics of the game have completely turned upside down.
This shift stems from mindset.
With Manchester City gaining momentum, they grow more aggressive, while Dortmund begins to lose their composure. The illusion of control shatters once a lead is erased; it feels as though something precious has been stolen from them. City, having already proven they can break through Dortmund’s defense, will not rest until they score again. This change leaves Dortmund’s players unsettled, their cohesion slowly unraveling.
Space begins to open up in Dortmund’s half. As Zidane glides forward with the ball, his close control drawing defenders toward him, Jürgen Kohler makes a split-second decision. He lunges in, committing a tactical foul just outside the box. The referee’s whistle shrills, and Kohler immediately gestures toward Martin Kree, signaling him to drop deeper and help shore up the back line—making it clear there will be no room for reckless forward runs now.
The stadium holds its breath as a dangerous opportunity emerges. The referee carefully places the ball, just outside the penalty area on the right. It’s the kind of position that tempts both a direct strike and a clever delivery. Pirlo steps up calmly, brushing the grass with his boots, his eyes locked on the goal.
"This free-kick setup looks peculiar. All of City’s attacking players are positioned outside the penalty area, while their defenders are the ones rushing toward the goalpost. What a strange sight!"
Indeed, it’s an unusual arrangement. Henry, Pires, and Zidane linger just beyond the box, hovering like predators waiting to pounce on any second-ball opportunities. On the other hand, it’s the unexpected figures—Cannavaro, Lampard, Zanetti, and Ronaldo—stationed in front of goal. They shift restlessly, caught between wrestling with their markers and anticipating Pirlo’s delivery.
Pirlo is renowned for the precision of his free kicks and corner deliveries, but he rarely scores directly. More often than not, his set pieces are curled into the box as crosses, especially since the team has few strikers truly dominant in the air—apart from the likes of Trezequet and Shevchenko. With Ronaldo and Larsson usually commanding the attack, they are O’Neill’s preferred options.
His shirt is drenched, sweat streaming down his brow, but fatigue never crosses his mind. There’s no time to fix his messy hair—his eyes are fixed solely on the cluster of teammates at the far post as he begins his deliberate run-up.
BANG!
Pirlo stands calmly over the ball, his posture serene, almost casual. The wall in front of him braces for the usual—a curling strike over their heads into the top corner. The goalkeeper crouches low, eyes darting, anticipating the arc.
The referee’s whistle pierces the air. Pirlo takes his run-up, smooth and effortless.
Klos, sensing danger, feels a sudden rush of dread. He leans to his right, stepping forward—a decision he will soon regret.
The Dortmund wall leaps high, every shin and knee braced against the expected strike. But Pirlo deceives them all. Instead of aiming for height or curl, he whips the ball low, skimming it under the jumping wall.
Pirlo doesn’t go high.
With a subtle flick of his foot, he caresses the ball along the ground. It rolls slowly, almost innocently, slipping beneath the boots of the airborne defenders. For a fraction of a second, the stadium falls silent, as if no one can believe what they’re seeing.
Klos, already shifting toward the far post, is caught wrong-footed. The ball drifts toward the near post at an unbelievably slow pace. The angle is simple, the speed not particularly strong—yet it’s as if every player on the pitch is petrified. Just one step to the left and it would have been an easy save.
For Klos, that fatal half-step proves decisive. He twists back desperately, eyes widening as the ball slips past him and ripples the back of the net. His legs give way, and he collapses onto the turf, hands covering his face in humiliation.
He had been deceived.
"Whoa! Whoa! What is Klos doing?" the commentator cries. "Pirlo’s free kick goes straight into the net! Wait—what happened?! The entire Dortmund wall jumped, but Pirlo rolled it underneath them! Why on earth did Klos move right in the first place? Was he distracted by City’s attackers pulling wide on the left? Or did he simply misread it?"
Manchester City 2–0 Borussia Dortmund(Aggregate: Manchester City 3–2)
After scoring, Pirlo leaps high into the air, arms raised in triumph, before sprinting toward the touchline. O’Neill, Coutinho, the coaching staff, and the substitutes are already on their feet, waiting for him with open arms. When he arrives, they lift Pirlo up, their faces alight with unrestrained joy.
Even Buffon abandons his post to join the celebration, rushing across the pitch. In moments, the entire team is huddled together in one roaring embrace, united as though the victory has already been sealed.
Wembley trembles with excitement. Apart from the more than ten thousand crestfallen Dortmund supporters, the rest of the stadium is a sea of blue, surging in jubilant waves. The chants, the flags, the deafening cheers—everything merges into a thunderous symphony of triumph.