Limitless Pitch

The second half kicked off with a bite in the air, the September wind carrying the faint metallic tang of rain and the roar of the Yellow Wall. Thiago wiped his damp palms against his shorts, the fabric rough against his skin. His lungs burned with each breath, but beneath the fatigue, something else burned brighter—determination.

Hamburger SV were disciplined, their defensive line a wall of muscle and tactical precision. Westermann, their towering captain, barked orders like a battlefield commander, his voice cutting through the noise of the stadium. Every Dortmund attack was met with a well-timed tackle, a tactical foul, or a desperate clearance. The frustration was palpable, thickening the air like the gathering clouds overhead.

Klopp paced the technical area like a caged predator, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His sharp eyes scanned the pitch, searching for the smallest crack in Hamburg's armor.

Then, in the 54th minute, the signal came.

"Mario, warm up!"

Thiago glanced toward the bench just in time to see Mario Götze spring to his feet, shedding his training jacket in one fluid motion. The young German's eyes were alight with anticipation, his fingers flexing at his sides as if already itching for the ball.

The substitution was made a minute later—Tinga off, Götze on. The shift was immediate.

Mario moved like liquid, his touches crisp, his vision razor-sharp. The ball seemed magnetized to his feet, and within moments, he and Thiago were weaving through Hamburg's midfield like twin blades.

Then, in the 59th minute—magic.

Bender's sliding tackle won the ball deep in Dortmund's half, his boot connecting with a satisfying thud. The ball squirted free to Mario, who turned in one graceful motion and fired a pass into space.

Thiago was already moving.

The ball bounced once, twice, before he caught up to it near the sideline. He trapped it with the outside of his boot, dragging it inside as the first defender lunged. A feint right, a sharp cut left, and he was past. The second defender closed in, but Thiago's eyes had already locked onto Mario's darting run.

The pass was perfect—curved around the defender's outstretched leg and into Mario's path. The return was even better—a cheeky backheel flick that split two defenders and rolled invitingly into Thiago's stride.

He didn't hesitate.

His instep connected cleanly, the ball curling low and away from the keeper's desperate dive. The net billowed.

GOAL!

The eruption from the Yellow Wall was deafening, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over the pitch. Thiago roared, arms outstretched, his throat raw from the scream tearing out of him. Mario crashed into him from behind, laughing into his ear.

"Fucking hell, that was clean!"

"I told you I'm not here to play games!" Thiago shot back, breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Großkreutz and Bender piled onto them, their shouts lost in the cacophony. Klopp punched the air on the sideline, his grin wild, his claps thunderous.

"DORTMUND ARE LEVEL! WHAT A GOAL! WHAT A MOVE! The young Brazilian has his SECOND of the night and it's a STUNNER! Look at this link-up play—Bender's tackle, Götze's vision, Thiago's run and finish—this is football at its very finest!"

"The Yellow Wall is absolutely ROCKING! Thiago being mobbed by his teammates—Götze jumping on his back in celebration! Klopp is going WILD on the touchline—this is exactly why he put his faith in these young talents!"

"At just 17 years old, Thiago Silva announces himself to the Bundesliga in STYLE—two goals on his first start, and this one an absolute work of art! The understanding between him and Götze is TELEPATHIC!"

"Hamburg's defenders are left looking at each other in disbelief—they've been carved open by two teenagers! This is the future of Dortmund right here, ladies and gentlemen—remember these names!"

The game reignited.

Hamburg's composure frayed at the edges, their defenders suddenly uncertain. Thiago and Mario were everywhere—quick one-twos, darting runs, clever flicks that left opponents grasping at shadows.

In the 67th minute, they nearly did it again. Mario's threaded pass found Thiago cutting inside, his shot blocked at the last second by a desperate lunge.

In the 72nd, Thiago returned the favor, lofting a delicate chip into the box where Mario met it with a first-time volley—only for the keeper to palm it away at full stretch.

Klopp made more changes. Valdez replaced Zidan, adding fresh legs up front. Bender dropped deeper, anchoring the midfield.

But the scoreline refused to budge.

In the 79th minute, Thiago cut in from the left, feinted a cross, and lashed a shot toward the near post—only for it to ripple the side netting.

"Damn it," he muttered, hands on his hips, his breath coming in short bursts.

"Keep hitting it!" Großkreutz called, clapping hard. "It's coming!"

Hamburg weren't done either. In the 83rd minute, a dangerous cross forced Weidenfeller into a full-stretch save, the rebound nearly bundled in before Hummels booted it clear.

By the 88th minute, the game had become a war of attrition. Tackles flew in harder, passes carried more risk. Klopp's voice cut through the noise, demanding one final push.

Then, in the 90th minute, Thiago found himself on the edge of the box again. He danced past one man, flicked the ball up, and connected with a sweetly struck volley—only for it to sail inches over the bar.

The crowd groaned, then applauded.

The final whistle blew.

2–2.

Not a win. But not a loss.

Thiago bent forward, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his brow onto the grass below. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but beneath it all—satisfaction.

A hand clapped his shoulder.

"Two goals on your first start?" Mario grinned, his own face flushed with effort. "Not bad at all."

"Could've had a third," Thiago muttered, but there was no bitterness in it.

"Save some for next time," Mario said, squeezing his shoulder. "We've got a whole season."

Thiago looked around. The Yellow Wall was still singing, still chanting, their voices carrying hope rather than disappointment.

And in his chest—no regret. Just hunger.

He was getting closer.

He could feel it