Chapter 190: The Man in Form

Magath called the squad together the morning after the Inter match and shut down the celebration before anyone got comfortable.

"We made the final four in Europe," Magath said, his voice flat and steady. "If we lose our heads now, we will throw away the competition we actually built this squad to win. The Bundesliga title is still on the line. Bayern and Dortmund are watching us closely, waiting for us to get big heads over the Champions League and drop points. That cannot happen."

He tapped a marker against the tactics board.

"Leverkusen away on Saturday. They sit right below us in second place, and they want nothing more than to cut our lead down."

Magath clicked a button on the projector remote. A large photo of a goalkeeper filled the screen.

"René Adler," Magath continued. "Keep that name in mind, because he is going to make your lives miserable for ninety minutes. He held Germany's number one jersey before Manuel took it, and he has spent the whole campaign playing like a man with a chip on his shoulder. He has conceded almost nothing in the past two months. Right now, he is the most in-form keeper in the country."

Magath let the room sit in silence for a moment, letting the warning sink in.

"Leverkusen will sit in a low block. Their midfield will hound us every time we touch the ball, and they will trust Adler to stop everything else. Jupp Heynckes built his entire match plan around one specific goal." Magath turned his gaze straight toward Mateo. "Shutting you down completely. So you need to be sharp and smart out there, because Heynckes knows exactly what he wants to do."

Heynckes had prepared his squad thoroughly.

The match had barely started at the BayArena before his tactics became obvious. Leverkusen lined up in a compact, disciplined 4-4-2. The moment Mateo dropped into a pocket of space to demand the ball, a central midfielder stuck to him instantly. Right behind that player stood another, with Simon Rolfes sitting in front of the center-backs like an anchor guarding the penalty box.

Heynckes had watched the tape from Milan and chosen a direct approach. He had no intention of trading open passes with Schalke. He wanted to choke their midfield, and he picked the right personnel for the job.

Arturo Vidal seemed to be everywhere at once, snapping into tackles like a defender and making late runs into the box. Michael Ballack, playing with veteran composure, sat deep and anticipated plays two steps ahead, cutting off through-balls before Mateo could even shape for them. Renato Augusto drifted between the lines, using quick footwork to keep Schalke off balance.

All four midfielders pressed together in tight packs.

They fouled Mateo constantly. A shirt tug here, a body-check there, the small technical fouls of a team that had decided a free kick forty yards out was a price worth paying to stop a break before it started.

The referee waved play on for the first few collisions, but the whistles slowly began to pile up.

For the first half hour, Schalke could barely create a single clean chance. Mateo saw plenty of the ball, but every single touch arrived with a red-and-black shirt glued to his hip. The fluid passing sequences that had dismantled Inter were smothered in midfield. Farfán was constantly double-teamed out wide, and Huntelaar barely touched the ball up front. Picking himself up off the turf for the fourth time in thirty minutes, Mateo realized this was comfortably the toughest league test he had faced all year.

In the 34th minute, Leverkusen showed why they were challenging at the top of the table.

They pounced on a heavy touch from Rakitić in the center circle and broke forward at blistering speed. Renato Augusto drove into open space, slipped a clever pass wide to Sidney Sam, and kept his sprint going. Sam drove a low, stinging cross across the six-yard box. Vidal burst into the area with a signature late run, sliding in ahead of Höwedes to knock the ball into the roof of the net.

Fweet—!

1-0, Leverkusen.

The BayArena erupted in celebration.

Over by the home dugout, Heynckes gave a calm, satisfied nod. His game plan was unfolding without a hitch. Schalke, fresh off conquering Milan, were trailing 1-0 and getting squeezed all over the pitch.

Mateo jogged back toward the center circle, rolling his shoulder to shake off the stiffness. He pushed the frustration out of his mind and focused on the details.

Leverkusen were crowding him and fouling him constantly, and the referee was finally starting to reach for his whistle.

Breaking through a packed defense did not always require open passing lanes. A dead-ball situation could do the exact same job.

In the 40th minute, the chance finally arrived.

Vidal sprinted back to break up another Schalke move and clipped Mateo's trailing leg twenty-two yards out from goal, just slightly to the right of the penalty arc. The referee's whistle blew instantly. Fed up with the constant clipping, he pulled out a yellow card for Vidal and pointed firmly to the turf where Mateo had gone down.

Mateo rose slowly, brushing the loose blades of grass off his knees. He looked at the distance to the goal and felt his focus sharpen.

This was his sweet spot.

Adler took his time organizing the defensive wall, shouting commands and pushing five defenders two steps to the left. He set himself near his post, bouncing lightly on his toes with the confidence of a keeper in peak form.

Mateo placed the ball down carefully, found the valve, and walked back four paces.

He had the flight path completely visualized before starting his run. He wanted the ball up and over the jumping wall, dipping sharply into the far top corner. It was the same strike he had practiced hundreds of times in training, coming off the sweet spot of his boot with enough dip and curl to beat any diving keeper.

Mateo took his approach, planted his left foot beside the leather, and struck through cleanly.

The ball cleared the heads of the leaping wall. For a fraction of a second it seemed to have too much lift, but then the heavy topspin took over. The ball dropped viciously, curling back toward the top corner where the post met the crossbar.

Adler read the flight well, pushing off hard with both legs and throwing his frame across the goal at full stretch.

His gloves caught only empty air.

The ball clipped the bottom edge of the crossbar and crashed into the side netting.

Fweet—!

1-1.

Mateo broke into a sprint toward the corner flag, pointing to the away fans as Farfán jumped onto his shoulders. From the technical area, Magath gave a firm pump of his fist.

Inside the goalmouth, René Adler grabbed the ball out of the net, looked up at the crossbar, and then stared down the pitch at the teenager running back to the halfway line. The keeper's expression made it clear he had just realized this afternoon was going to be a long, exhausting fight.