Limitless Pitch

The morning in Udine had been quiet, almost deceptively so. Thiago had woken early in the hotel room, the faint hum of traffic outside blending with the muffled shouts of street vendors starting their day. From his window, the city didn't feel like a place that was about to host a decisive European match—it looked calm, laid-back, the kind of place where people cared more about their espresso than football.

But that calm was a lie. Everyone in the squad knew that tonight, the Stadio Friuli would be a very different beast.

The team had flown in the night before, landing just before sunset. The bus ride from the airport to the hotel had been quiet—most of the players had their headphones in, others staring out at the Italian countryside rolling past in the fading light. The stadium had been visible for a moment in the distance, its modern stands tucked into the edges of the city, before disappearing behind clusters of buildings. Klopp hadn't said much on the bus, only reminding them about the meeting scheduled for the next morning.

Now, hours later, the game day had arrived.

Thiago sat in the team dining area, a half-empty plate of pasta in front of him, listening to the faint clinking of cutlery and chairs. It was a different kind of tension than at home matches—more controlled, quieter. The players spoke in lower voices, as if trying not to let the nervous energy spill over too soon.

Mario Götze sat opposite him, twirling spaghetti with an absent mind.

"You think we'll get minutes today?" Mario asked, not looking up.

Thiago shrugged. "After that pep talk Klopp gave us, I think its all but guaranteed."

Mario smirked faintly. "Hopefully."

After the meal, there was a short walk outside to stretch their legs. The streets near the hotel weren't crowded, but a few locals spotted them, some giving polite nods, others shouting friendly—though not always warm—Italian greetings. A group of Udinese fans across the street gave a few sarcastic claps as the Dortmund players passed, but it didn't escalate.

By the afternoon, they were on the team bus again, this time heading straight for the stadium. As they approached, the atmosphere thickened. Police cars lined the streets, directing traffic, and clusters of home fans were already gathering. Some waved scarves. Others whistled and jeered as the black-and-yellow bus rolled by.

Inside the away locker room, the space was tighter than at Signal Iduna Park. White walls, a row of benches, a faint smell of disinfectant. The kits had been laid out neatly, each folded shirt and pair of shorts sitting beside fresh socks and boots. Thiago found his spot near the far end, jersey number 17 facing up at him.

The away-day atmosphere was different—less comfort, more grit. You could hear the thump of bass from the home dressing room down the corridor, the faint chant of early-arriving fans filtering in through the concrete.

Players settled into their routines. Şahin stretched on the floor, eyes closed. Kuba re-tied his boots for the third time. Grosskreutz sat cross-legged, tapping his knees in rhythm with whatever song blasted from his headphones.

Thiago was adjusting his shin pads when Klopp called out, "Mario, Thiago—over here."

The two exchanged a glance before jogging over. Klopp stood near the tactics board, hands in his pockets, eyes darting between them.

"You two aren't starting tonight," Klopp began, his voice low enough that the rest of the room kept their focus elsewhere. "But I don't want you thinking you're just here to watch. If the match goes the way I expect, you'll come in together. And when you do, I want you to play like you did against Hamburg."

Thiago nodded, already picturing the movements. Mario shifted slightly, listening closely.

"Ive already told u this yesterday but you've got the instinct to link up," Klopp continued, tapping his temple. "That's not something I can coach into you—it's there already. But in Europe, away from home, it's not just about skill. You have to read the rhythm of the game, find the weak points, and strike before they can adjust. If we're chasing a goal, you go for the jugular. If we're ahead, you keep the ball moving and kill their tempo."

He let the words hang for a moment, then cracked a grin.

"And if you score, celebrate like it's the winning goal in the Champions League final. You'll annoy the hell out of them."

Both players laughed, easing some of the tension. Klopp patted them on the shoulders before heading off to address the rest of the squad.

The final team talk was short and sharp. Klopp reminded the starting eleven about Udinese's danger on the counter, especially down the flanks. He stressed patience in possession, composure in the box, and discipline without the ball. Every word was loaded with intent—there was no room for slow starts tonight.

When the officials knocked on the door to signal the walkout, the room shifted. Boots were tightened one last time. Shin pads were slapped into place. Hummels clapped his hands together and shouted, "Let's go, boys!" and the sound bounced off the walls.

Thiago followed the line of players into the tunnel. The air here felt different—cooler, tinged with the smell of damp grass and cigarette smoke drifting in from the stands. The Udinese players stood opposite, their black-and-white kits bright under the floodlights spilling in from the pitch.

The noise outside was a low roar at first, but as the announcer's voice boomed through the stadium, it grew into a full-throated wall of sound. The home fans waved flags and scarves, their chants echoing in perfect rhythm. A few shouts in Italian were aimed directly at the Dortmund bench, none of them friendly.

Thiago glanced at Mario beside him. No words were exchanged, but the look said everything—be ready.

The referee gave the signal, and they began the slow walk out into the open. The pitch stretched ahead like a stage under the lights, the grass glistening under the evening sky.

The captains met in the center circle, shaking hands. The officials checked their watches.

Kick-off was seconds away.