Chapter 842 Spain (4)

Chapter 842: Chapter 842 Spain (4)

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[02-07-2021 | Gazprom Arena, Saint Petersburg, Russia | 22:17 MSK]

[Germany 1-1 Spain]

[63’]

The Villarreal striker met it first time, but in his eagerness, he snatched at the shot, dragging it a foot wide of the far post. The Gazprom Arena drew a single, sharp breath as he sank to his haunches, hands over his face, knowing he should have buried it.

"Oh, he has to score!" Schmidt exclaimed. "Gerard Moreno, seconds after coming on, spurns the chance to put Spain ahead! That is the miss that could haunt them!"

Löw did not wait for the next warning; the German manager was already gesturing furiously toward his own bench, and the fourth official rose from his seat. Down at the far end, Sané, Müller, and Goretzka finished their warmups and joined him at the line, receiving their last instructions. Murmur ran through the German section after seeing the attack-minded substitutions.

The board went up in the sixty-fifth minute, and three players came off:

Kross Off -> <- On Goretzka

Musiala Off -> <- On Müller

Gnabry Off -> <- On Sané

The changes were like-for-like except for Sane, who moved down to the wide CAM role as Havertz moved up to the focal point. "A much-needed blood infusion for the German side," Schmidt announced, a new energy creeping into his voice. "We expect to see a more attack-minded Germany in the next spell of time."

[66’]

The changes reshaped the German shape almost immediately, and Spain, which had grown so comfortable dictating the tempo, suddenly found its rhythm disrupted. Goretzka brought physicality to the middle that Kroos lacked, allowing Gündoğan the freedom to work. Within two minutes of coming on, the Bayern man had already flattened Pedri in a fifty-fifty challenge the young Spaniard had not expected, winning the ball cleanly and drawing a roar from the German end.

"Goretzka making his presence felt," Schmidt noted. "That is exactly why Löw brought him on, to get in among Spain’s midfield and break up their little triangles."

But Spain was not a side to be knocked off their stride so easily, and Luis Enrique’s men reasserted control of the ball with patience. Busquets dropped deeper, and the ball began its familiar circulation, waiting for the German block to lose its shape. In the sixty-eighth minute, Olmo nearly picked the lock, gliding between Goretzka and Gündoğan before threading a ball toward Ferran Torres in the box. But Hummels, reading it all the way, stepped across and shepherded the ball back to Neuer with the calm of a man walking his dog.

In the 70th minute, a German attack launched from Gündoğan found the feet of Leroy. The Bayern winger feinted a cut inward, with a quick drop of the shoulder, before nimbly escaping to the flank. His twinkle-toed feet carried him to the side of the box where he curled the ball in just before the recovering fullback could interfere.

The delivery arced over the head of Laporte toward the far post, and for a moment it looked as though Havertz had ghosted in behind Eric García to meet it. But Unai Simón judged the flight to perfection, coming off his line with authority and plucking the ball out of the air above the Chelsea man’s head, smothering the danger against his chest before Havertz could so much as jump.

"Simón, commanding his box!" Schmidt noted. "A brave, decisive claim under pressure, and Spain breathes again."

The Spanish keeper wasted no time, rolling it out quickly to Azpilicueta to spring a counter of their own. The full-back drove forward into the space Sané had vacated, exchanging a quick one-two with Koke before slipping the ball inside to Ferran Torres. The young forward turned Rüdiger with a sharp drop of the shoulder and darted toward the edge of the box, drawing Tah across to cover.

Spain flooded bodies forward now, sensing the German shape stretched by their own attacking changes. Torres slid it wide to Olmo, who had drifted into the left channel, and the Leipzig man whipped in a first-time cross toward the penalty spot. Gerard Moreno, desperate to atone for his earlier miss, launched himself at it, but Hummels threw his frame across the striker, and the header glanced harmlessly wide.

"Spain is pouring forward now," Schmidt observed. "This has become a genuine end-to-end contest, both managers having thrown their attacking dice, and neither defense looks entirely comfortable."

[74’]

The match had opened up with both sides trading blows, the caution of the first hour abandoned entirely. Germany broke through again through Muller, who drove at Azpilicueta down the left, but the Spanish stood him up and forced him back. On the other end, moments later, Pedri conjured a moment of magic, dancing past Goretzka and Gündoğan in a tight pocket before curling an effort that Neuer palmed away at full stretch.

It was Spain, though, that found the next gear. In the seventy-sixth minute, Busquets stepped up to create a three-to-two mismatch in the middle of the field as Pedri and Koke tightened up. A set of quick passes quickly confused the two German pivots enough for Koke to feed Pedri in space.

The eighteen-year-old turned with the ball as if the German midfield were made of statues. Driving at the heart of the German block, drawing Rüdiger out of position, then slipping a pass into Olmo’s feet at the top of the box. The Leipzig man took one touch to set himself and rifled a low strike toward the bottom corner, forcing Neuer into another sprawling save, the German captain pushing it out for a corner with a strong left hand.

"Neuer again!" Schmidt exclaimed. "He is single-handedly keeping Germany in this quarter-final! That is his fourth serious save of the night, and Spain cannot find a way past him!"

The corner curled in from Koke, and Laporte rose above Havertz at the near post, glancing a header goalward that flashed inches over the bar. The Spanish bench leaped up as one, hands on heads, believing for a fraction of a second that they had struck the front. The German end exhaled as the ball nestled into the roof of the net from the outside.

[80’]

The final ten minutes arrived with both sets of fans on their feet, the tension in the closed dome so thick it seemed to press against the glass of the executive boxes. Both sides pushed, exchanging blows every time the ball turned over, sending a wave of noise rolling around the vast steel bowl.

Spain got another chance in the eighty-second minute when Jordi Alba broke free on the overlap. Down the left, he clipped a cross toward the penalty spot, finding Gerard Moreno, who rose above Tah. The Villarreal man got a clean connection, directing the ball downward, but it ricocheted off the bar, flying out of the pitch.

"Gerard Moreno, Oh, so close?!" Schmidt cried out in exasperation. "He buries the header, just couldn’t get it down enough!"

Germany rode their luck and, moments later, nearly made Spain pay for their profligacy. Muller broke down the left with a burst of pace, leaving Azpilicueta trailing, and squared it toward Havertz at the back post. The Chelsea man struck it first time, only for Laporte to throw his body across the line of the strike. The ball cannoned off the City defender’s chest and away for a corner.

[86’]

In their high-exchange attacks, the bottleneck continued to build when Pedri began to work in the final third of the field. Picking up the ball from Busquets, he was harried by Goretzka, and as the young Spaniard tried to spin away, the Bayern man reached in and clipped his standing leg. Referee Danny Makkelie did not hesitate to point to the spot where the foul had occurred and showed the German yellow card.

"Free kick to Spain, and it is in a dangerous area," Schmidt noted, the tension coiling through his voice. "This could be the moment. Slightly to the left, perfect range for a right-footer, and Spain has men who can punish this."

Koke and Olmo stepped up to take, the two exchanging a brief word while the German wall assembled. Neuer barked orders, shoving Rüdiger a yard to his right, counting his men, then bouncing on his line with both gloves raised. Twenty-five thousand fell into a strange, held-breath hush as Makkelie stepped back and lifted his whistle.

Koke jogged in and struck it cleanly, whipping the ball up and over the wall with wicked dip, curling toward the top left corner. It was a beautiful strike, destined for the top bin with little room for margin, and the entire Spanish bench had already begun to rise. Neuer flung himself up and across, right glove stretching for the top corner, and got the faintest of fingertips on it, just enough to alter its flight by a fraction.

The ball cannoned off the underside of the crossbar with a hollow, sickening clang and dropped straight down into the six-yard box, into the chaos of bodies that had surged forward the instant the ball was struck. What followed was pure pandemonium.

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TO BE CONTINUED...