Chapter 809: Dazzling.
The Allianz Arena had fallen into that charged hush that only comes once a season, when that once was in Munich, the silence of anticipation before a stadium finds its voice again.
A final sweep of lights circled across the tiers, catching banners, flags, and faces painted in blue, red, and white.
From the pitch to the highest rafters, every soul knew this was no ordinary evening; it was the night the Champions League would be decided.
On the far side, the anthem had only just faded, its echo lingering like incense in the air.
Players had exchanged their brief handshakes, the referee’s coin had flicked through the Munich night and landed in Barcelona’s favour.
Arsenal would kick off, but only after one more deep inhale of this moment.
The camera cut across the stands.
A father lifted his son onto his shoulders, pointing down at the glittering line of players, as if to say, Look—this is what you’ll tell stories about one day.
Friends linked arms, scarves swaying, some eyes already glassy with nerves as a ripple of applause turned into a roar, wave after wave, until it pressed on the eardrums like a storm building out at sea.
"Every great final," Peter Drury’s voice rose, soft but weighted, "is not only about the players who walk onto this grass, but about the journey that brought them here. Their stumbles, their triumphs, their moments of doubt. Tonight, Barcelona and Arsenal do not merely contest a match; they stand before football’s most sacred altar. Here, careers change. Here, dreams live or die."
The sound swelled, carried by drums and horns from both ends.
The Barcelona end answered with a guttural chant, familiar and fierce, while Arsenal’s supporters stood, shoulders back, voices breaking into North London Forever, the anthem carried its way across enemy colours, carried by sheer defiance.
For a brief moment, the two walls of sound clashed, not unlike the teams themselves would in a heartbeat.
"Listen to this," Martin Tyler came in now, steady and deliberate, "listen to the game before the game. The noise, the tension, the belief—twenty-two players on the grass, but tens of thousands here inside the stadium, and millions more watching around the world. This is why the Champions League final sits alone."
The referee glanced at his watch as Barcelona’s captain, De Jong, nodded, pointing to his end while Arsenal, in red and white, adjusted their shape.
The ball rested in the centre circle, waiting, and as the chants hit their crescendo, the fireworks on the stadium ramps went live.
And then, with one sharp whistle, silence fractured.
A single Arsenal boot rolled the ball back, and the final was underway.
"And here they are," Peter Drury’s voice swept in, coloured with reverence as Izan took hold of the ball.
"Arsenal have Raya in goal and the trusted pairing of Saliba and Gabriel at the heart of defence, with Timber tucking in on the right, Myles Lewis-Skelly on the left. Ahead of them, the anchor of Rice, partnered by the craft and vision of Ødegaard, and just in front, the jewel of North London himself, Izan, entrusted with the keys in that central role as always."
The ball moved crisply across the grass, Rice sweeping it wide to Saka, and "Up top," Drury continued, "Saka wide right, Trossard drifting in from the left, Havertz through the middle, all knitted together by Arsenal’s belief that tonight, they belong here."
The camera found Mikel Arteta on the touchline, arms folded, eyes piercing into every detail as a banner passed for those watching the broadcast, with the Spaniard’s name on it.
Martin Tyler’s tone picked up the thread seamlessly.
"And to face them, Barcelona, who name a side with its own balance of youth and experience. Cubarsí, still only eighteen years of age, partners Iñigo Martínez at centre-back. They’ll play high, as they so often do, daring Arsenal to find the gaps."
As if on cue on the pitch, Lewandowski dropped deep as Pedri angled himself to receive the return pass.
"Frenkie de Jong, the conductor, sits alongside Pedri in midfield," Tyler pressed on, calm but steady, "and ahead of them, Dani Olmo, a man who can drift between lines. The wide threats? Yamal on the right, Raphinha on the left with that Brazilian audacity... and leading the line, the Polish cyborg, Lewandowski. At thirty-six, still dangerous, still ruthless."
The Allianz hummed, one end chanting Barça’s anthem and the other responding in defiance.
"And so," Tyler concluded, as the ball worked its way into Barcelona’s half, "two very different philosophies on show tonight. The artistry of Barcelona’s possession, the intensity of Arsenal’s press. Something has to give."
And it was Barcelona who made the first incision.
Frenkie snapped up a loose ball and threaded wide to Raphinha, already springing forward into space.
"Here’s Raphinha," Drury lifted again, the tempo rising with the winger’s stride.
"And whatever else he may be, first and foremost, he is Brazilian..."
Raphinha toyed with Timber, a flick of the boot sending the ball one way while his body slipped the other.
The crowd gasped, voices breaking into a ripple of excitement as he skated clear down the flank.
He whipped his cross in low and fast, a predator’s invitation as Lewandowski lunged, stretching to meet it, but David Raya was quicker.
The Spaniard hurled himself forward, smothering the ball at source and then clutching it to his chest as Lewandowski tumbled past.
"Ohhhhhhh, very nearly and this early," Peter Drury said as a groan rolled out from the Barcelona end, pride thick in their song at the first chance their team had been able to create.
Raya held firm, rising slowly, gesturing with an outstretched arm.
"Calma, calma," he mouthed, waving his teammates higher, pushing them into shape for the next surge.
He scanned the field, calm but calculating, his eyes darting between teammates.
For a moment, all that could be heard was the thrum of the crowd, waiting.
Then came the shout.
"Here!" Declan Rice, hand raised, voice sharp and certain.
Raya didn’t hesitate.
He leaned back and sent the ball arcing high into midfield, the leather spinning under the floodlights.
Rice moved like a man who knew it was his to claim.
Chest out, arms wide, he powered toward it, but so did Frenkie de Jong, shadowing him stride for stride, his posture elegant but dangerous, a thief waiting for his opening.
"It’s Rice against De Jong, two midfielders who see the game as their own domain," Martin Tyler’s voice trembled over the broadcast.
The collision was subtle but fierce as Rice’s body braced, legs planted like stone, while De Jong pressed in with that cool Dutch craft.
For a heartbeat, the ball seemed to hover between them, neither giving way.
Rice shifted, protecting it, spinning slightly with the intent to fire wide toward Trossard.
But then, like a magician’s flick, De Jong’s toe prodded the ball loose.
Just enough.
The Allianz Arena gasped as the red shirt lost control, and the ball spun free.
And onto it drifted Lamine Yamal.
The youngster’s first touch was silky as the ball died at his boot, almost sighing into place.
He glanced up, saw Koundé running wide.
The body language screamed: pass.
And Myles Lewis-Skelly, still green in this environment, believed him.
He relaxed, shoulders dropping, the tension of the duel gone.
And in that very instant, it was over.
Yamal pivoted away, dragging the ball with him in one seamless swivel.
He wasn’t passing. He was escaping.
"Ohhh, look at that!" Peter Drury’s words spilt with awe, as though he too had been deceived.
Lewis-Skelly lunged, sliding in one desperate stretch to cut him off, but Yamal was already gone.
With a fake of the hips and then some slight hesitation, he darted the other way, the ball glued to his left foot.
The crowd stood, half in admiration, half in horror at the Arsenal end in horror.
Yamal teased the ball, keeping the Arsenal backline guessing when the ball would come.
Then, calmly, he flicked the ball with the outside of his boot, curling in a delivery that seemed born to cause chaos.
The ball swung in, fast and low, bending toward the six-yard box.
And there was Lewandowski.
"The Polish cyborg!" Tyler’s voice cracked, electric with anticipation as the veteran striker launched himself upward, every sinew straining, body suspended for a fraction of a second as if gravity had taken a pause.
His forehead met the ball with violent precision, directing it down toward the corner.
And the sound of contact was thunder.
But then came the crack.
It smacked the post, a brutal, hollow echo filling the cauldron that had gone quiet.
The stadium erupted in a storm of sound, groans, cheers, and gasps, all mixing into one chaotic roar.
Some Barcelona fans buried their faces in their hands as Arsenal’s faithful leapt as though they’d scored themselves.
The ball spun loose in the box, danger not yet gone.
Gabriel sprinted across, muscles burning, and flung his head into it.
He cleared, but the clearance was rushed, rising only as far as the edge of the area.
And there, sprinting in, was Pedri.
He came like a shadow breaking into light, running with perfect timing, the ball dropping into his path as if delivered by fate itself.
"Pedri’s there! PEDEERIIIIII!" Drury’s voice rose, urgent as the ball bounced once on the ground, rising perfectly, for Pedri’s form.
And then, he struck it as it fell, body perfectly balanced, boot slicing through the air.