Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Magath shouted, his eyes widening in pure horror. ”Manuel! No! What on earth are you doing?”

Neuer either missed the shout entirely or chose to ignore it. He kept advancing forward from his own penalty box, crossing the thirty-yard line into wide-open grass where a goalkeeper had no business wandering.

A stunned silence washed over the Mestalla.

The Valencia players were completely caught off guard. Most of them were still turning around near Schalke’s six-yard box after contesting the corner, trying to figure out where the ball had gone. By the time they realized Neuer was jogging forward with the ball comfortably at his feet, he had already crossed thirty-five yards of open pitch.

Bruno Saltor was the lone Valencia player holding the halfway line, stationed deep to guard against a quick break while his teammates packed the penalty box. He watched in complete disbelief as Neuer crossed into the midfield third with the ball glued to his feet. Snapping out of his hesitation, Bruno sprinted forward to close down the rampaging goalkeeper before he could pick out a pass.

Down on the touchline, Magath grabbed Hughes Yves’s forearm with a white-knuckle grip.

”He is going to get stripped,” Magath hissed under his breath. ”Manuel, don’t you dare...”

Neuer looked up with total composure.

He tracked Bruno’s sprint, spotting Mateo bursting through the center circle into the vacated midfield space. Neuer waited until the exact split second Bruno committed his momentum into a slide, then smoothly shifted his weight to the left. He dragged the ball with the outside of his right boot and clipped a crisp side-foot pass across the halfway line.

Bruno lunged into empty air, his studs tearing up a divot of grass.

The pass zipped smoothly across the turf, arriving right into Mateo’s stride just beyond the center circle.

Without breaking stride or rushing, Neuer turned around and jogged back toward his goal at a casual pace, wearing a slight, cheeky smirk. It was the purest display of confidence anyone at Schalke had seen from him all season.

Magath let go of Yves’s jacket, exhaling a long, shuddering breath.

”That,” Magath said in a tight, quiet tone, ”was totally irresponsible.”

”He found the open man, boss,” Hughes Yves pointed out with a grin.

”He found the open man, sure. He also just took an evening stroll through the midfield and left our net wide open.” Magath sat back down heavily on the bench. ”I am going to fine him a week’s wages.”

”No, you won’t.”

”I am definitely going to think about fining him,” Magath muttered, shaking his head.

Hughes Yves could only chuckle.

Mateo had the ball at the halfway line with vast expanses of green grass stretching ahead.

Valencia’s defensive line was retreating in total panic. Ricardo Costa tried to keep pace with Vardy on the shoulder of the last defender, but Vardy’s diagonal run dragged Costa out of position with every stride. Bruno was scrambling back up from the turf, while Jordi Alba was stranded fifty yards away after supporting the previous attack.

Mateo did not waste a touch. He struck the ball cleanly in stride with his right instep, whipping a low, driven through ball with heavy topspin. The pass sliced past Costa’s outstretched leg and rolled into the channel where Vardy was accelerating at full tilt.

Vardy collected the ball in his stride, clean through on goal.

César Sánchez bolted off his line with frantic urgency.

The veteran keeper had read the trajectory the moment the ball left Mateo’s foot. Knowing he could not beat the English striker to the ball, César chose to make himself as big as possible to cut down the shooting angle.

Vardy pushed the ball to his right, looking to round the keeper.

César threw his entire frame across the turf, wiping out Vardy’s legs with a heavy, desperate slide.

The collision was brutal. Vardy flipped over, throwing his arms up to protect his head as he crashed into the grass, while the ball rolled harmlessly away toward the corner flag. César slid past him on his stomach, keeping his hands pressed into the turf as he looked up apprehensively toward the referee.

A sharp blast of the whistle cut through the stadium noise.

Fweet—!

The referee was already sprinting into the eighteen-yard box, reaching directly into his back pocket.

He pulled out the red card without a moment of hesitation.

He pointed firmly to the penalty spot, sending off the Valencia goalkeeper.

Total bedlam erupted.

Every Valencia outfield player in the vicinity sprinted over to surround the referee. Albelda threw his arms up in furious protest, Juan Mata pleaded his case, and César jumped to his feet, gesturing wildly that Vardy had dragged his leg to initiate contact.

The referee stood his ground with absolute authority. He had caught the tackle from five yards away, seeing César’s studs take out Vardy’s shins while denying a clear and obvious goal-scoring opportunity with an empty net behind him.

The official raised his hand, pushing Albelda back by the chest while pointing toward the tunnel, warning the Valencia captain to back off immediately.

Over on the touchline, Unai Emery remained composed. He turned to the fourth official to arrange an emergency substitution. With twenty-two minutes remaining and his team reduced to ten men, managing the damage was his only priority.

Emery had two substitutions left and acted instantly. He signaled off Joaquín and called on Vicente Guaita, the twenty-three-year-old backup goalkeeper.

Guaita had limited senior appearances under his belt, and now he was being thrust into the spotlight to face a penalty from Mateo Silva while trailing by three goals in a Champions League knockout tie.

Guaita jogged past the technical area, where Emery patted his shoulder and gave a brief tactical instruction. Guaita nodded nervously, pulling his gloves tight as he trotted into the penalty area.

Vardy remained on the grass, sitting up while gingerly holding his ribs and rubbing his scraped shin.

Mateo walked over and offered him a hand, crouching beside him. ”Are you all right, Jamie?”

”Wind knocked right out of me, mate,” Vardy gasped, coughing slightly. ”Felt like getting hit by a lorry.”

”You’ve run yourself into the ground. Magath is pulling you off right after this.”

”Yeah, I saw Edu stripping off on the sideline.” Vardy winced as he caught his breath, a faint grin breaking through the pain. ”Just bury this penalty and give me the assist. I’ll gladly sit down after that.”

Mateo laughed under his breath, gripping Vardy’s arm and hauling him to his feet. ”Consider it done. Go get some ice on those ribs.”

Together they walked toward the box, Vardy limping visibly as he made his way to the touchline, while Mateo held the match ball under his arm.

Mateo stepped up to the spot, placed the ball down, and took four measured paces backward.

A fresh wave of deafening whistles rained down from the Mestalla stands. The anger was raw and bitter now, stripped of any lingering hope. Fifty thousand supporters watched with furious resentment as a seventeen-year-old prepared to step up for a hat-trick that would completely finish the tie.

Inside the goalmouth, Guaita bounced lightly on his toes along the line, shaking his arms loose to stay agile. He locked eyes with Mateo across the twelve yards.

Mateo met his stare with total focus.

The referee blew the whistle for the penalty.

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