For the neutral spectators, this match was undeniably thrilling.
Three goals in twenty-three minutes.
Add to that Jin Hayes's elegant, mesmerizing dribbling displays and the intense physical confrontations between both sides.
The excitement couldn't have been higher!
For the fans of the two teams, however, it was anything but easy.
The Borussia Dortmund supporters in the stands had their hearts in their throats.
After pulling one back, Schalke 04's confidence had returned. They threw themselves into fierce midfield battles, their defending aggressive and uncompromising.
Every time Jin Hayes received the ball, he became the focus of frantic attention.
That last extended dribbling sequence down the wing had cost him dearly in energy.
He'd tried to shield the ball and attempt another run, but Schalke's defensive midfielder Fabian Ernst had simply barged him off it with brute force.
Schalke 04 transitioned immediately, launching an attack down the left flank that ended with a cross into the box.
"Asamoah, incredibly quick! He's into the area!"
"Lifting the ball back across the goal!"
"Kevin Kurányi—OHHH!"
"His header flashes just past the post! Borussia Dortmund breathe again!"
The attack sent a chill through the Dortmund end.
In the stands, eighty-year-old Herr Fritz clutched his chest, his face pale.
"Bloody hell! Nearly did for me there!"
"Maybe you should stop watching? I can take you back to rest?" Uncle Hans was worried about his father.
But Herr Fritz was having none of it.
"No chance! I'm staying right here to watch those miners get what's coming to them!"
"JIN!!! Show them what you're made of!"
Herr Fritz raised his yellow and black scarf, shouting hoarsely at the top of his lungs.
While the older fans fretted over the team's fortunes,
Anna's pale, slender fingers were tightly interlocked.
Every time Jin Hayes was fouled or clattered into on the pitch, a sharp pang went through her chest.
"Why do I even care if this idiot gets hurt… honestly."
She realised how that sounded, but her eyes still refused to leave the figure of Jin Hayes out on the field.
...
That near-miss served as a wake-up call for Borussia Dortmund.
They stopped committing so many men forward, dropping off collectively to slow the tempo and ride out this period of intense Schalke pressure.
Jin Hayes tracked back diligently on the right flank, contributing to the defensive effort.
Asamoah's pace was a real threat. Jin Hayes used the defensive discipline he'd learned at Arsenal to help his teammates intercept and block, temporarily shoring up that side.
The coaching staff were on edge, watching Schalke's waves of attacks crash against Weidenfeller's goal.
Thankfully, the Dortmund defence held firm for now, scrambling to clear their lines each time.
The game ticked towards the 42nd minute. After such an intense first half, fatigue was setting in, and the tempo inevitably dropped.
"Phew—looks like we've steadied the ship. We should get to half-time without conceding again," Thomas Doll sighed with relief.
Dick Fuhren frowned, a sense of foreboding settling over him.
Every time the head coach declared things were stable, they ended up conceding a bizarre goal. Was it happening again?
Sure enough, just as the fourth official signalled one minute of added time.
Schalke 04 lumped a hopeful long ball into the box.
Hummels rose to head it clear.
Nuri Şahin moved to control it on his chest, but a massive shove from behind nearly sent him sprawling.
Schalke's number eight, Fabian Ernst, used his powerful frame to barge Şahin off the ball, winning possession and instantly slipping a pass into the channel behind the defence.
Dortmund's backline was caught completely flat-footed.
Schalke's danger man, Jefferson Farfán, had already burst into the box, collecting the ball and lashing an unstoppable shot into the roof of the net from a tight angle.
"Jefferson Farfán—"
"GOOOOOAL!!!"
"Just before the half-time whistle, Schalke 04 have drawn level!"
"We're all square again here in Gelsenkirchen!"
Watching the Schalke players celebrate wildly, the Dortmund players wore matching expressions of bewilderment.
How had they conceded that?
How had they been opened up so easily?
Dick Fuhren smiled wryly. The boss really was a jinx. They'd actually gone and conceded.
...
In the dressing room, the "jinx head coach" Thomas Doll was oblivious to his own role in the goal.
He vented his frustration squarely on a few of his young players.
"Nuri, why didn't you check your shoulder before trying to control that?"
"And Mats, what was the communication between you and Dede there? How did neither of you pick up the runner in the channel?"
"Jin…"
Thomas Doll's glare landed on Jin Hayes again.
Jin met his gaze evenly, wondering what possible criticism he could have for him this time.
Thomas Doll opened his mouth, paused, and finally managed: "Your dribbling in the first half was excellent. Just… don't hold onto it quite so long, alright? Remember the team shape."
Jin Hayes had been the architect of their two-goal lead, and the goal they'd conceded was absolutely nothing to do with him. There was no angle for criticism here.
Thomas Doll moved on, tearing into the midfielders and defenders, telling them in no uncertain terms to sort themselves out.
Sitting in his seat, staring at the number 15 on the shirt in front of him,
Hummels' face was a picture of dejection. The big defender looked like he was about to cry.
"Mats, you're not crying, are you?" Jin Hayes couldn't resist a gentle dig.
"Piss off! Leave me alone!"
Jin Hayes's interruption snapped Hummels out of his tearful trance. He wasn't quite so miserable now.
"That goal was my fault. I should have been tighter to him," Nuri Şahin said, deeply self-critical.
"No way, the referee should have spotted the foul! He clearly shoved you!"
Schalke's number eight, the formidable bald-headed Fabian Ernst, had been at it all half with the rough stuff.
He'd already left his mark on Jin Hayes more than once with some dubious challenges.
That collision with Şahin just now had reeked of a foul, but the referee had waved play on.
"I should have marked him tighter. That's on me," Hummels admitted.
"Will you two stop being so dramatic?"
Jin Hayes was completely unfazed by the conceded goal, his competitive fire burning brighter than ever.
"We'll just go out there and stick a couple more past them in the second half. There are eighty thousand fans out there, and millions more waiting at home for us to bring home the win."
"Forty-five minutes left. That's plenty of time to absolutely screw them."
Jin Hayes's German, usually so precise, suddenly lapsed into the crudest street slang.
The Borussia Dortmund players stared, momentarily stunned. They hadn't expected the elegant, artistic player with the film-star looks to have such a potty mouth.
Then the dressing room erupted.
"YES! Jin's right! Let's get out there and screw them!"
"TOGETHER! SCHALKE, SUCK ON THAT!"
"AUF GEHT'S JUNGS! AHHHH!"
When Thomas Doll came back from the smoking area, having calmed his nerves with a cigarette, he walked in with Dick Fuhren.
He'd prepared a rousing team talk to lift their spirits.
Instead, he walked in on a dressing room full of howling cavemen waving their shirts around like trophies.
"I don't think you need to bother with the speech," Dick Fuhren murmured under his breath. "Looks like someone beat you to it."
...
In the second half, the Schalke 04 players intended to replicate their first-half performance.
They used rough, physical challenges to stifle Borussia Dortmund's attacks, especially on Jin Hayes's flank.
The opponent was fifteen years old?
They were happy to bully a kid.
This was a war.
But as the menacing Schalke players battled for every ball,
They didn't expect Borussia Dortmund to match them—no, to exceed them—in sheer aggression.
"Oh ho ho ho!!! A crunching tackle brings down Schalke 04's defensive midfielder Fabian Ernst!"
"And the foul was made by Jin! A vital intervention to stop a dangerous fast break!"
"This is the Ruhr Derby, folks! It brings out fire in everyone—even our elegant artist of the pitch has caught the bug!"
The bald-headed Fabian Ernst picked himself up, ready to glare furiously at his opponent.
But Jin Hayes's eyes showed no fear. There was a cold intensity in his gaze, something fierce lurking beneath the surface, that made even the notoriously hard-nosed Ernst take an involuntary half-step back.
For just a moment, Ernst actually thought this kid might try to kill him.
"Scheiße."
Ernst muttered the curse under his breath and trudged away sullenly.
For the first twenty minutes of the second half, the two sides fought a fierce midfield battle. The game became fragmented, punctuated by whistles and stoppages.
The referee, finally losing patience, turned into a card-wielding enforcer, booking three players from each side.
Dortmund captain Kehl, centre-back Hummels, and right-back Felipe Degen all saw yellow.
Having three defenders on bookings ratcheted up the already immense pressure.
Hummels, in particular, was now tentative, his yellow card forcing him to pull out of challenges he'd normally make. It nearly cost them when Farfán almost scored again.
"Wow!!! Farfán's shot! So close to giving Schalke the lead!"
"Schalke 04 are applying relentless pressure during this phase of the game!"
Jin Hayes's lungs were burning. Every breath was a struggle as his energy reserves dwindled.
His teammates were running on empty too, pushing past their physical limits.
He had to do something. He had to step up.
In the 72nd minute, his chance arrived.
A Schalke attack broke down, and Dortmund launched a rapid counter.
Nuri Şahin didn't hesitate. He picked out Jin Hayes instantly—his trusted friend, his go-to man.
Jin Hayes did not disappoint. Facing a high, hanging ball and tight marking from Ernst, what he did next left the entire stadium gasping in disbelief.
As the ball dropped from the sky, Jin Hayes's right foot seemed to possess an almost magnetic quality. It fastened onto the ball, holding it perfectly in place on his instep.
"What the—?"
Fabian Ernst, tight on his shoulder, immediately stuck out a leg to disrupt him.
Jin Hayes flashed a playful smile. In one fluid motion, he executed an Around The World—a freestyle trick, his foot circling the ball in mid-air—to kill the dropping ball dead.
It sailed perfectly over Ernst's outstretched, stabbing leg.
"Cheeky bastard! Taking the piss out of me!"
Ernst was incensed now. He just wanted to flatten this flashy, infuriating kid.
He charged into Jin Hayes, the sheer force sending Jin stumbling forward. He was about to lose the ball.
"UNBELIEVABLE!! WAS FÜR EIN TOR!?!!!"
Commentator Scholl let out an actual curse live on air.
He stared, wide-eyed, as the teenager, at the very last moment before he fell, somehow hooked the ball up with his trailing foot.
Then, in an almost gravity-defying motion, he flicked the ball over Ernst's head while performing a kind of sideways aerial flip—dodging the challenge completely, landing, and surging past his stranded marker to race towards the opposition half.
Scholl would later swear it was the most outrageous, the most incredible piece of skill he had witnessed in his decades-long career.
The entire Westfalenstadion was frozen. Petrified.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Jin Hayes could no longer hear the roar of the crowd. The sound had faded to a distant hum. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, and all he could see was the ball bouncing on the grass ahead of him.
In that fleeting, crystalline moment, Jin Hayes finally captured that elusive, almost ethereal state.
Shot enhancement.
Take the shot?
Take the shot.
Hiss—
Across the goalmouth, Manuel Neuer, the young man destined to become Germany's number one, suddenly felt an inexplicable, primal shiver of fear crawl up his spine.
"Oh, no…"