Chapter Seventeen: Solo Performance

When Bayern Munich truly began to play in earnest, Munich 1860’s defense found itself utterly helpless. Time and again, Bayern discovered the right way to break through their lines. And once again, Pizarro found an opportunity! It was another one-on-one—striker against goalkeeper.

Pizarro kept his composure. His previous mistake had taught him that this goalkeeper was no easy opponent; he needed to choose wisely. He raised his foot to strike but sensed that Simon Yench had already anticipated his intentions.

Change of plan! Pizarro made a split-second decision to feint rather than take the shot. Simon Yench, off-balance but alert, managed to hook the ball away with his right foot just as Pizarro finally released it.

A gasp of astonishment swept through the Allianz Arena—unbelievable! Yet the ball didn’t travel far, rebounding sharply off the post. Pizarro’s eyes glinted—he surged forward like the wind, certain this would be a brilliant goal.

“Oh! My God!” Chen Nu cried out, watching the scene before him in shock.

Pizarro’s expression was incredulous. Simon Yench? Yes—Simon Yench! The goalkeeper had launched himself into the air, his massive frame invoking the image of a whale breaching—awkward, yet powerful and swift. He managed to scoop the ball into his arms before Pizarro could strike.

“An incredible save! That’s Simon Yench’s second spectacular stop this match. Rumor has it Arsenal are interested. If I were in charge at Arsenal, I’d be putting in a bid right now,” Chen Nu exclaimed.

His words made Chinese fans watching at home groan—Chen Nu, could you not say something good for once? Every time a player shines, you talk about them leaving—what will become of our own Shao Jiayi and Mo Mo?

But the match pressed on. Simon Yench’s steadfast performance satisfied Munich 1860’s manager, Pacult, but he could only look on helplessly as Bayern repeatedly tore through his defense.

“Twenty-six minutes into the match, Bayern Munich hold 69% of possession to Munich 1860’s 31%. Bayern continue their relentless assault—here’s another chance!”

After a series of passes, Jeremies spotted his moment and fed the ball to Ballack on the edge of the box. Ballack, shadowed by two defenders, didn’t stop the ball—instead, he chipped it perfectly into the area for Elber.

“Beautiful! The ball arcs perfectly! Elber! Shao Jiayi has lost his man! Elber heads for goal!”

Cheers erupted all around as Elber soared above the defense, sending his header toward Munich 1860’s net.

“Simon Yench! Brilliant!”

Simon Yench’s reflexes were razor sharp. High balls had always been his specialty. As the ball hurtled toward goal, he punched it clear with a single fist.

“Baszak! Pizarro!”

The threat wasn’t over—Baszak collected the ball outside the crowd and passed quickly to Pizarro, who darted forward at speed. Munich 1860’s defenders reacted, but couldn’t catch him.

Without hesitation, Pizarro tried a low shot, aiming to beat Simon Yench again. But the goalkeeper was already horizontal, clutching the ball safely to his chest.

Bayern fans groaned in disappointment, while Munich 1860’s supporters roared with delight. In the stands, Arsenal’s scout scribbled furiously—at this moment, Simon Yench was the hero of Munich 1860.

“If Bayern keep up this barrage of shots, it’s only a matter of time before their attack breaks through,” Chen Nu said, his voice tinged with concern. Munich 1860’s coach Pacult was anxious as well. He realized Shao Jiayi wasn’t suited to the back line—his strengths lay in attack, with his speed and explosiveness.

Romeo Maier and Shao Jiayi were overlapping in their roles. Pacult had ideas brewing, but hadn’t made a decision yet. At that moment, Bayern launched yet another swift attack.

“Thirty-seven minutes—this is a golden opportunity for Bayern!”

Shao Jiayi passed to Maier, who drove down the flank, looking to find Mo Mo making a run. But Maier went for a ground pass, which Lizarazu intercepted and turned into a rapid counter.

The ball sailed past midfield into Munich 1860’s half. Shao Jiayi challenged Elber for the header, but Elber nodded it forward to the nearby Pizarro!

“A lovely flick! Pizarro has the ball! If he beats the two defenders ahead, he’s through on goal!”

Number 4, Kurz, and number 7, Rodrigo Costa, retreated quickly, maintaining a defensive line. Pizarro’s pace was blistering—his style reminiscent of Baggio.

“What now? How will Munich 1860’s defense respond? Will they have to gamble again, hoping Simon Yench can make another miraculous save?”

But Kurz and Rodrigo Costa had no such intention. Realizing they’d be outpaced, they exchanged a glance—one of them had to intercept.

Kurz took the first step, lunging in with a tackle, with Rodrigo Costa supporting.

Pizarro stayed calm—he stuck close to the ball with his left foot, pivoted, nudged it with the inside of his left, then stopped it with his right—a beautiful Marseille Turn!

“The Marseille Turn! Gorgeous—Kurz is beaten! Rodrigo Costa closes in!”

Rodrigo Costa dared not hesitate. Sensing Pizarro hadn’t settled the ball, he lunged for the challenge, but Pizarro was ready. Facing Costa, Pizarro knocked the ball through his legs—a perfect nutmeg.

“A stunning nutmeg! Pizarro’s reactions are lightning-fast! Marseille Turn, then a nutmeg—he’s carved through Munich 1860’s defense!”

Chen Nu’s voice brimmed with excitement. There’s nothing in football more thrilling than dribbles and goals, and that string of moves had unfolded in just three or four seconds. To be fair, Rodrigo Costa’s attempt wasn’t wrong—it was a good opportunity.

But unfortunately, his opponent was Pizarro—in top form, no less. It wasn’t so much that Rodrigo Costa chose to challenge, but that Pizarro forced him into it.

“Pizarro is away! Into the box! It’s him versus Simon Yench once again!”

Hitzfeld’s face twisted with anticipation—Score! I brought you from Bremen for your speed and finishing—don’t let me down now, Pizarro!

Simon Yench narrowed his eyes, heart pounding. He could see his teammates chasing in vain behind Pizarro, hear the fans’ frantic roar. He didn’t know if he could keep the goal safe, but if he didn’t try, how would he ever know?

Pizarro’s eyes blazed, his red Bayern kit like a torch whirling through the air. Into the box—once more! Facing Simon Yench—again! He would not let this chance slip away. This time, the goal would be his.

Behind Simon Yench, Munich 1860’s fans were a surging tide of boos and shouts, as if their voices alone could drive Pizarro back.

Pizarro answered with a shot—a strike of superb quality!

“Pizarro! Pizarro shoots!”

It was as if a roar echoed. Simon Yench leapt with all his might. He didn’t charge out—Pizarro’s speed was at its peak, and he hadn’t tried to round the keeper because he knew Simon Yench was ready.

Flames danced in Pizarro’s eyes, flames only a goal could quench.

But Simon Yench’s determination to keep his net untouched burned just as fiercely.

His fingertips brushed the ball, sending a jolt up his arm. Not yet—this was not Pizarro’s moment.

“Simon Yench! Simon Yench denies him again! My God, that’s his fourth perfect save!”

Yet the ball stayed in play. Pizarro was first to react, launching himself into the air.

“Pizarro! A volley from Pizarro!”

Simon Yench’s pupils dilated—a volley! Damn it! I won’t give in!

The Allianz Arena fell silent, holding its breath for the next instant.

Hitzfeld and Pacult both shouted at the same time. Such is football—one side’s joy is the other’s heartbreak.

Who would be the next hero—Simon Yench or Pizarro?