Dominating Football with Perfect Ball Control

Chapter 371: 371. Meet Hart, Take a Shot!

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Honestly, when Sterling rounded the goalkeeper and was shooting at an open net, Lance wasn’t nervous.

Sterling’s dribbling ability was genuinely elite, ranking among the best in world football. But his finishing, well, those who knew him knew. Hitting the post was exactly what Lance had expected.

In that moment, Lance had specifically checked Agüero’s position. He was tightly marked by Godín and couldn’t follow up. Lance allowed himself a brief exhale.

What he hadn’t accounted for was De Bruyne.

How did that guy even get there?

Champions League quarter-final first leg, Etihad Stadium.

4 minutes on the clock. Manchester City 1-0 Atlético Madrid.

The whole stadium was chanting De Bruyne’s name. Seeing his friend settle so quickly into a new club made Lance genuinely happy for him. But his own team had just conceded, so there was a limit to how happy he was about to let himself feel.

De Bruyne, done celebrating, jogged back slowly, deliberately looping around in front of Lance.

”Well? Told you we were strong.”

”When did your instincts get that sharp?”

”Because you once told me Sterling’s finishing was terrible. So I made sure to get in position. Thanks for the tip, actually.”

”Get out of here.” Lance waved him away.

Lance was usually the one doing the mind games. He hadn’t expected De Bruyne, the most straightforwardly honest person he knew, to start picking up bad habits.

Still, the goal had come only four minutes in. Atlético had plenty of time.

Playing the first leg away was, in a sense, a slight advantage. The more away goals they scored, the more psychological pressure they could bring to the second leg back in Madrid.

The match resumed. Wary of Manchester City’s counter-attacking speed, Atlético didn’t push numbers forward. Only a handful of players stayed high up the field.

Both fullbacks and both defensive midfielders held deeper positions, which meant Lance frequently had to drop out of the box to connect midfield and attack, functioning as a number 10 and occasionally drifting further back as a traditional number 8.

At times he would abandon the formation structure entirely, swapping positions with Saúl out on the right wing to probe Manchester City’s defensive line on that side.

For a spell, Atlético’s defensive counter-attacking was executed beautifully.

Manchester City had the ball, but Atlético kept creating danger.

”Lance, so composed on the ball in midfield! Three men couldn’t take it off him!”

”Beautiful! The turn, the feint... he’s through!!”

Jian Jun couldn’t help himself.

Fernandinho, Yaya Touré, and Zabaleta had converged on him. The powerful, physical defensive midfielders had always been a difficult matchup for Lance. A single firm challenge from either of them could knock him off his stride and lose the ball.

But Lance read Yaya Touré’s movement early, used a Cruyff Turn to dummy Fernandinho, and then, just before the pressure arrived, stepped on the ball and pulled it back to create space.

The movement was like James Harden’s step-back. Both Manchester City midfielders froze for a fraction of a second.

Lance flicked the ball outside his foot, nutmegging Yaya Touré instantly. Dropped a shoulder right, then cut left around him. The instincts of Bachira Meguru, replicated through muscle memory, allowed him to shake Yaya Touré loose entirely, then draw Zabaleta before faking a pass right to Torres.

”Watch Griezmann!! Watch him!!”

De Bruyne had seen it coming and yelled his warning from behind.

But sound travels slower than instinct, and turning to chase takes time no matter how fast you react.

The ball sliced through the left channel.

A no-look pass.

”Nooo!!”

The Etihad stands fell momentarily silent. Griezmann burst through the gap, bringing the ball under control and driving at Kompany. Kompany moved to use his body, but Griezmann changed pace sharply, stopped, then accelerated again to open up an angle.

”Damn it!!”

Otamendi lunged in desperately.

Griezmann stopped again, turned, and rolled a delicate backheel into Torres.

Torres was free at the penalty spot. He hit it cleanly and powerfully, aiming for the corner.

Atlético fans were already raising their arms.

A gloved hand stretched across, barely tipping it over the bar.

”Joe Hart!! A world-class save!!”

Jian Jun clutched his head.

”Manchester City’s goalkeeper reacts at an extraordinary speed!! He kept out what looked a certain goal!!”

”Corner kick! Atlético Madrid’s third of the match!”

Lance blinked.

Joe Hart was that good?

Right. He had forgotten.

In Lance’s mind, Joe Hart had faded into someone who wouldn’t have a club to go to in a few years’ time. He had dismissed him. But standing here now, watching him shouting instructions to his back line, Lance remembered clearly: Joe Hart in his prime was genuinely formidable.

He had pulled off save after save against Barcelona’s MSN, stopping efforts from Messi, Suárez and Neymar in one of those memorable European nights. He was a Premier League Golden Glove winner, with a record of 18 clean sheets in a single season. For years, he had been Manchester City’s undisputed number one.

”I underestimated him.”

Lance watched Hart organising his wall.

True, Hart could pull off stunning saves from close range. But Hart also had a very well-established second reputation.

The Background Board for World-Class Goals.

”If Heaven Had Feelings, Heaven Would Grow Old; Meet Hart, Take a Shot.”

That meme had been doing the rounds for the past two seasons.

Worth testing.

Beep.

The referee’s whistle. Griezmann stood over the ball at the corner flag. He raised his left hand, signalling Strategy 1, the delivery to the near post for Godín to attack.

Lance quickly raised his own hand and shook it, simultaneously making a run toward the penalty spot as though demanding a delivery to his feet.

Yaya Touré was immediately on him. The big midfielder grabbed Lance’s jersey, pinning him to the inside and giving him nothing. Like a center blocking out under the basket. No angles, no space, no chance at a header.

Lance jostled left and right, selling the idea that he desperately wanted the ball in the box.

Griezmann read it. He raised both hands.

Strategy 3.

Run-up.

Kick.

The ball bent sharply toward the edge of the area.

Now.

Lance feinted toward the penalty spot, then suddenly retreated out of the box entirely.

Yaya Touré felt the resistance drop, paused for half a beat, then came charging after him.

Half a beat too slow.

Lance had already reached the arc, and the ball was dropping toward him. He shaped to take it on his chest.

”Don’t even think about it!!”

Yaya Touré’s mind was made up. Like a runaway freight train, he came thundering in to close Lance down before he could settle.

It all happened in an instant.

Lance had been planning to chest it down, but a sharp instinct fired somewhere deep, something almost like the monster’s sixth sense from Bachira Meguru. He turned sideways just in time to avoid the collision, nudging the ball with his right foot out to his left side as Yaya Touré barrelled past.

Lance had already swung his left leg before Yaya Touré had finished the run.

Pure reflex. Pure muscle memory.

Hyuga Kojiro’s Tiger Shot.

Bang.

What do you do when you meet Hart?

You take a shot.

The ball traced a strange, dipping arc and flew straight into the dead corner.

Swish.

The Etihad fell silent.

All of it. Every home fan, every breath, all at once.

Then the 2,000-odd away supporters behind that goal exploded.

And in countless homes across East Asia, people who had stayed up through the night erupted along with them.

”Lance, a volley!!”

”The goal is in!!! A worldie!!!”

”Less than twenty minutes in, Atlético Madrid pull level!!”

”Joe Hart, who just produced a world-class save moments ago, had absolutely no answer for Lance’s volleyed worldie!!”

”If Heaven Had Feelings, Heaven Would Grow Old. Meet Hart. Take a Shot.”

”1-1! Both teams level!”