The next fifteen minutes were a testament to Dortmund's resilience, but also to Napoli's tactical discipline. The blue wall was impenetrable. Every Dortmund attack was repelled, every pass intercepted.
Mateo was still the target, the one player Napoli was determined to neutralize. He was fouled three more times in quick succession, each one a cynical, tactical trip designed to break his rhythm and his spirit.
The rising frustration in the stands was palpable. Low, guttural murmurs of discontent directed at the referee and the Napoli defense filled the air. The Yellow Wall was a sea of worried faces, their cheers replaced by sharp, collective intakes of breath every time Mateo was brought down.
The mental toll of being constantly relied upon, of being the sole focus of the opposition's aggression, was etched on Mateo's face. He was only 16, and the weight of the entire stadium, the entire Champions League campaign, felt like it was resting on his slender shoulders.
