A sustained spell of possession pinned Frankfurt back. The ball was worked down the right, pulled back into the half-space, then slipped wide again before the cross came in. This time, the delivery was early and sharp. Burkardt timed his movement perfectly, darting between the center backs before anyone could step across him. He met the ball with a clean, powerful header that flew past Trapp and into the net.
The stadium erupted.
Fists punched the air. Flags waved. Burkardt wheeled away, roaring toward the corner, relief and defiance written all over his face. On the Frankfurt bench, there was no panic, only irritation. Toppmöller clapped his hands sharply, shouting for calm, for shape, for discipline. The message was clear: one goal changed nothing.
From there, Frankfurt shut the game down.
