The Sky Sports studio hummed with the familiar energy of halftime analysis, Martin Tyler and Peter Dury flanked by the tactical boards that had become essential tools of modern football commentary. The Allianz Arena remained visible through the window behind them, its facade glowing red against the Munich evening.
"Well, Martin," Peter Dury began, leaning forward with the intensity he'd carried as a player, "that first half tells us everything about where both these teams are mentally. Bayern with that early penalty—clinical, professional, exactly what you'd expect from a team that's won the last ten Bundesliga titles."
Tyler nodded, his fingers drumming against the desk. "But what struck me most, Peter, was Dortmund's response. A lesser side might have crumbled after that setback. Instead, they've grown into the game. Young Zorić in particular—he's been Bayern's biggest problem."
"Absolutely. Look at this," Peter stood, moving to the tactical board where Dortmund's formation was displayed in yellow markers. "Rose has been clever here. He's positioned Zorić slightly deeper and centraly than usual, almost as a false nine at times. It's causing chaos for Bayern's defensive structure."
The screen shifted to a compilation of Luka's first-half touches—the nutmeg on Davies, the run that nearly led to Haaland's chance, the constant movement that pulled Bayern's backline out of shape.
"The kid's seventeen, Martin. Seventeen." Peter shook his head. "We keep talking about him like he's some sort of prodigy, but at what point do we just accept that he's already one of the best players in the world? Maybe even the best?"
"It's an interesting point," Tyler replied. "Julian Nagelsmann will have been watching that footage too. You can guarantee Bayern will come out with a different approach. They'll have to."
"They will, but here's the thing—" Peter pointed to the tactical display, "—every adjustment they make to stop Zorić creates space somewhere else. Bellingham's been finding pockets all night. Haaland's getting better service. It's a tactical nightmare for Bayern."
The analysis continued, delving into the historical significance of the fixture. Der Klassiker had evolved beyond mere football into something approaching cultural warfare—Bayern's establishment dominance against Dortmund's working-class identity, southern conservatism versus industrial rebellion.
"This feels different though, doesn't it?" Tyler observed. "Previous Dortmund teams have challenged Bayern through intensity, through collective effort. This generation has something else—individual quality that can unlock any defense."
"And they believe it too," Peter added. "Watch Zorić's body language. Watch Bellingham. There's no deference there, no sense that they're playing their betters. They genuinely think they're going to win this match."
The cameras cut to the tunnel, where both teams were beginning to emerge for the second half. Bayern's players looked focused but tight—the weight of expectation visible in their measured steps. Dortmund, by contrast, moved with looser energy, Luka bouncing lightly on his toes as he adjusted his boots.
"One final thought," Tyler said as the coverage prepared to return to Munich. "We're watching the changing of the guard in football. Bayern may win tonight, but the future belongs to these Dortmund kids. The question is—how long will Bayern be able to hold them off?"
The away dressing room at the Allianz Arena felt smaller in the fifteen minutes between halves, the walls seeming to press closer as nervous energy accumulated. Luka sat in his usual spot, methodically retying his boots despite knowing they were already perfect. His ankle—the one Pavard had raked in that first-half challenge—throbbed with a dull ache that he'd learned to compartmentalize.
Rose stood before the tactical board, his marker squeaking as he made final adjustments to their setup. "They'll come out harder," he said without preamble. "Nagelsmann's probably told them to press higher, close down our passing lanes faster."
Luka flexed his foot, feeling the tight bandage the physios had applied during the break. The scrape wasn't serious—more bruising than damage—but it served as a reminder of the physical battle ahead.
"Luka." Rose's voice cut through his thoughts. "They're going to target you more in this half. Pavard, Kimmich, maybe even Upamecano stepping out. Don't try to beat them all at once."
"I know," Luka replied, finally looking up from his boots. Around him, teammates were going through their own rituals—Haaland stretching in the corner, Bellingham listening to music with his eyes closed, Reus tapping his feet in a rhythm.
"Use their aggression against them," Rose continued. "They commit too many to stopping you, space opens up elsewhere. Trust your teammates."
The knock came—five minutes. Luka stood, testing his weight on the scraped ankle. The pain was manageable, background noise that wouldn't affect his movement. He'd played through worse.
As they filed toward the tunnel, Guerreiro fell into step beside him. "How's the foot?"
"Fine," Luka said, then caught his teammate's knowing look. "Really. Just a scrape."
"Good. Because I need you making those runs behind Pavard. He's getting too comfortable."
The tunnel at the Allianz Arena stretched before them, the noise from outside growing with each step. Bayern's players were already lined up, their red jerseys vivid under the artificial lighting. Luka found himself next to Kimmich again, the German midfielder's jaw set with determination.
Neither spoke, but the competitive tension was palpable.
Then they were walking into the noise, the Allianz Arena at full voice, red and white dominating every section save for the small pocket of yellow where Dortmund's traveling fans maintained their defiant songs.
The second half began with Bayern's intentions immediately clear. Their press was higher, more aggressive, forcing Dortmund deeper into their own territory. Kimmich seemed to be everywhere—breaking up attacks, launching counters, organizing his teammates with the authority of someone who'd won everything there was to win.
For the first ten minutes, Luka barely touched the ball. Every time it came near him, blue shirts converged—sometimes two, occasionally three players committed to stopping his influence. It was a mark of respect that would have flattered him if it wasn't so frustrating.
"Be patient," he told himself, adjusting his position slightly wider to stretch Bayern's defensive shape.
The opening came in the fifty-third minute. A Bayern attack broke down when Müller's pass was intercepted by Dahoud, who immediately looked up and spotted Luka in space on the left touchline. The pass was weighted perfectly, allowing Luka to receive without pressure for the first time in the half.
He took a moment—just a heartbeat—to assess his options. Pavard was approaching cautiously, perhaps five yards away. Behind him, Upamecano was shifting across to provide cover. Further ahead, Haaland was beginning a run that would take him between Bayern's center-backs.
Luka placed his foot on top of the ball, a simple gesture that made Pavard slow his approach. The Frenchman had studied the footage—he knew what Luka could do from seemingly innocuous positions. Better to be cautious, to force him wide rather than risk being beaten inside.
The brief pause allowed Luka to feel the game's rhythm, to sense the spaces developing around him. Bayern's midfield had pushed higher to support their press, leaving gaps that patient build-up could exploit. He rolled the ball forward with the sole of his boot—not accelerating, just moving, inviting Pavard to commit.
When the defender took the bait, stepping forward to challenge, Luka executed a move of devastating simplicity. A gentle touch with his right foot lifted the ball over Pavard's outstretched leg while Luka spun around the other side, collecting it cleanly before the Frenchman could recover.
Now with space to run into, Luka accelerated, each stride eating up yards of perfect Allianz Arena turf.
Upamecano approached from the right, his positioning forcing Luka slightly wider. Luka slowed, foot hovering over the ball, drawing the center-back closer. When Upamecano committed to the challenge, Luka simply nudged the ball between his legs before collecting it on the other side.
"Stunning skill from Zorić!" came the cry from the commentary box, though Luka was already focused on the next decision.
The penalty area beckoned, but so did Haaland's intelligent run. The Norwegian had dragged Hernandez out of position, creating space for a through-ball. Luka shaped to pass, causing Kimmich to shift his weight to intercept, then suddenly changed direction, driving toward goal instead.
The shot, when it came, was struck with his left foot from twenty-two yards. It flew toward the bottom corner, forcing Neuer into a diving save that drew appreciative applause even from Dortmund supporters.
"So close!" The words seemed to echo around the stadium as players reset for the resulting corner.
Bayern's response was immediate and physical. Every Dortmund attack now met with harder challenges, later tackles, the kind of controlled aggression that referees often missed. When Luka next received the ball, Pavard's shoulder caught him full force, sending him tumbling to the turf without a whistle being blown.
"No foul!" the referee called, waving play on as Luka picked himself up, grass stains on his yellow shirt.
The pattern continued—Bayern applying pressure, Dortmund absorbing and looking to counter. In the sixty-eighth minute, another opportunity developed from patient build-up. Bellingham found space between the lines.
Luka saw it before the ball was even played. Reus's movement, the angle of his run, the space he was attacking—it was perfect. As Bellingham's pass rolled toward him, Luka was already preparing the through-ball, his body positioned to play it first time.
The execution was flawless—a lofted pass over Bayern's defensive line that dropped perfectly into Reus' path. The veteran forward was through on goal, one-on-one with Neuer, the crowd rising in anticipation.
And then, impossibly, Reus scuffed his shot. The ball ballooned over the crossbar, a miss so glaring that even Bayern supporters groaned in sympathy.
"Marco Reus cannot believe it!" The commentator's voice captured the collective disbelief. "That was the chance to level this tie!"
Luka put his hands on his head, unable to comprehend how such a perfect opportunity had been wasted. Reus looked equally stunned, staring at his boots as if they had betrayed him.
The momentum shift was subtle but unmistakable. Dortmund's missed chances were accumulating, each spurned opportunity seeming to strengthen Bayern's resolve. The home crowd sensed it too, their songs growing louder, more confident.
But football's cruelest beauty lies in its unpredictability, and in the seventy-first minute, the script flipped again.
Goretzka, charging forward to stop a Dortmund, collided with Bellingham. Both players went down, the referee immediately signaling a foul. As the Jude picked himself up, dusting grass from his shorts, Luka was already walking toward the ball.
The free kick was twenty-eight yards from goal, slightly left of center—perfect range for a direct effort. Luka placed the ball carefully, his ritual as methodical as always. Five steps back, one to the side, eyes fixed on Neuer's goal.
The Allianz Arena fell into that peculiar hush that precedes moments of potential magic.
Neuer stood on his goal line, bouncing slightly on his toes as he surveyed the wall being organized in front of him. The German goalkeeper had faced thousands of free kicks in his career, but Luka's technique was different—the way he struck the ball, the late movement, the unerring accuracy.
"Zorić over the free kick," came the whisper from the commentary box, unnecessary words that somehow added to the atmosphere.
The wall formed slowly—Kimmich, Hernandez, Müller, Goretzka—their arms linked, faces set with grim determination. They knew, as everyone in the stadium knew, that this was exactly the kind of situation where matches turned.
Luka began his approach, smooth and unhurried. His first step was measured, the second building momentum, by the third he was committed to the trajectory he'd visualized. His striking foot connected with surgical precision, just below the ball's center, imparting the kind of spin that made goalkeepers despair.
The ball rose over the wall, curling through the Munich air with malevolent intent. Neuer, reading its initial trajectory, took two quick steps to his left, but the spin was working now, dragging the ball toward the opposite corner.
The German keeper launched himself across his goal, every fiber of his considerable frame stretched toward the flying ball. His fingertips grazed it—so close to salvation—but the power and precision were too much.
The net bulged, and the Allianz Arena erupted in a sound unlike anything heard there for years. Not celebration—this was Bayern's home—but pure recognition of extraordinary skill. Even Bayern supporters found themselves applauding, unable to resist the artistry they'd just witnessed.
1-1.
Twenty minutes remained.
The equalizer transformed the match's complexion. Bayern, stung by conceding such a goal at home, pushed forward with renewed desperation. Their attacks became more direct, more vertical, the kind of football that could create chances quickly but also left gaps behind.
Luka found himself tracking back more frequently now, Bayern's advanced positioning requiring defensive discipline from every Dortmund player. His ankle—the one Pavard had scraped—was stiffening slightly, the adrenaline of the goal beginning to wear off.
In the seventy-fifth minute, another crucial moment developed from seemingly innocuous beginnings. Dahoud, under pressure near the halfway line, managed to find Bellingham in space. The England international turned quickly, spotting Luka's movement down the left flank.
The pass was slightly overhit, forcing Luka to stretch for it as Pavard closed in from behind. As he reached the ball, adjusting his stride pattern to accommodate the awkward bounce, Luka felt the Frenchman's weight against his back.
The contact was subtle but significant—not enough for a foul, but sufficient to disrupt Luka's balance as he attempted to control the ball. He stumbled slightly, his left foot planting awkwardly as he tried to maintain possession.
Upamecano and Pavard converged on him simultaneously, a pincer movement designed to win the ball back. Luka, sandwiched between them, attempted to turn away from the pressure. As he spun, both defenders jumped to challenge for a ball that hung momentarily before them.
The collision was inevitable and brutal. Upamecano's elbow caught Luka flush on the jaw, the impact sending stars exploding across his vision. Simultaneously, Pavard's shoulder connected with his ribs, the combined force sending him crashing to the turf.
For a moment, Luka lay still, his world reduced to the taste of blood in his mouth and a ringing in his ears that seemed to echo the stadium's noise. He could feel warmth spreading across his lower lip, the metallic tang confirming what he already knew.
"Jesus," he muttered, rolling onto his side and spitting blood onto the pristine grass.
The referee's whistle cut through the noise, but whether for a foul or to check on his welfare, Luka couldn't tell. The world was starting to come back into focus, the stars fading as his vision cleared.
Dr. Braun reached him first, weathered hands immediately checking for signs of concussion. "Can you hear me, Luka?"
"Yeah," Luka replied, though his voice sounded strange to his own ears.
"Look at me. Follow my finger." The doctor's penlight was bright, too bright, but Luka tracked its movement obediently. Around them, both sets of players had gathered.
"Split lip, possible concussion protocol," Dr. Braun muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "We need to—"
"I'm fine," Luka interrupted, pushing himself into a sitting position despite the doctor's restraining hand. Blood dripped from his chin onto his yellow shirt, but his head was clearing rapidly. "Just got caught."
"Luka, you need to—"
"I'm fine." The words came out more forcefully this time, carrying the kind of authority that stopped arguments. Luka wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the white fabric coming away stained crimson. "Give me something for the bleeding."
Dr. Braun hesitated, clearly torn between medical protocol and the player's determination. After a moment, he reached into his bag, extracting a small tube of what looked like petroleum jelly.
"This will help clot the bleeding," he said, applying it carefully to Luka's split lip. "But if you feel dizzy, nauseous, anything unusual—"
"I'll come off," Luka promised, though they both knew it was a lie.
As he climbed to his feet, testing his balance, Luka caught sight of the stadium's big screen showing a replay of the collision. From this angle, it looked even worse.
But he was standing. He was coherent. And most importantly, he was furious.
The game resumed with a Dortmund free kick, Upamecano having been booked for his part in the collision. Luka jogged back into position, ignoring the concerned looks from teammates, his jaw already beginning to swell.
When the ball next came to him, the response was telling. Bayern's players closed him down with fresh urgency, but there was something different in their approach—a wariness that hadn't been there before. Word had spread quickly around the pitch: the kid was tougher than he looked.
The seventy-seventh minute brought another flashpoint. Bayern, pushing for a winner, committed numbers forward for a corner kick. When Hummels cleared the ball, it fell perfectly for Bellingham near the center circle.
The pass was inch-perfect, finding Luka in the kind of space that had been rare all evening. He had time to turn, to survey his options, to pick his moment.
What happened next would be replayed countless times in years to come.
Kimmich approached first, his positioning designed to show Luka inside where help awaited. The German midfielder was confident, assured—he'd dealt with countless talented attackers over the years. But as he closed the final yards, Luka's foot touched the ball with the gentlest of caresses, rolling it slightly to his right.
Kimmich adjusted his angle, staying with the movement. Then, without warning, Luka exploded forward, the ball suddenly alive at his feet. The change of pace was devastating—zero to full sprint in three strides, leaving Kimmich grasping at air.
"He's destroyed Kimmich!" The commentary was unnecessary—everyone in the stadium could see what had just happened.
Luka drove forward, the penalty area beckoning. Pavard scrambled across to cover, while Upamecano held his position, creating a corridor that was narrowing with every stride.
When Luka reached the edge of the area, options multiplied around him. Haaland was making a run to the far post. Reus had arrived late, unmarked near the penalty spot. The sensible play was to pass, to involve teammates, to maintain possession.
Instead, Luka went alone.
The move was pure instinct—a slight check of pace that drew Upamecano closer, then a burst of acceleration that took him clear. For a moment, just one perfect moment, he was through on goal with only Neuer to beat.
Then Upamecano's desperate lunge caught him from behind.
The collision was seismic. Luka felt the center-back's full weight crash into his lower back, the impact driving him forward and down. But it was his hip that took the worst of it—twisting awkwardly as he fell.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a hot spike that seemed to emanate from deep within his joint. He hit the ground hard, grass and dirt filling his vision as he rolled, instinctively clutching his hip.
The referee's whistle was sharp and definitive—penalty to Dortmund. Around the fallen player, celebration began to erupt from teammates and supporters alike. But Luka wasn't moving.
"Oh no," he whispered to himself, the words lost beneath the stadium's noise. The pain was unlike anything he'd experienced—not sharp like his previous ankle problems, but deep and wrong.
Bellingham reached him first, sliding to his knees beside his friend. "Luka? You alright, mate?"
But Luka couldn't answer.