Become A Football Legend-Chapter 287: Final I

The referee took one final glance at both halves of the pitch.

A sharp whistle cut through the noise.

And the Europa League Final was underway.

Tottenham kicked off.

Solanke tapped the ball forward, but instead of building slowly, Sarr immediately rolled it back toward Bentancur, who in turn sent it all the way back to Vicario. Almost instantly, the entire Tottenham side pushed up as a unit, flooding into Frankfurt’s half, their defensive line rising aggressively toward the halfway line.

Fletcher’s voice came in quickly.

"Straight away, Tottenham showing their intent—high line, pushing bodies forward."

Vicario didn’t hesitate. With one touch to set himself, he drove a long, looping ball deep into Frankfurt’s half, aiming toward Solanke. The striker leapt for it just outside the edge of the box, colliding mid-air with Koch.

"Up goes Solanke—good challenge from Koch—"

The ball flicked off the top of Solanke’s head and dropped awkwardly into the space just outside the area. Sarr reacted first, darting forward to collect the loose ball as Skhiri rushed out to close him down.

"Watch Sarr here—!" Bale added.

Sarr took a quick touch to his right, just enough to create half a yard of space, and swung his foot through the ball. The shot came low and driven toward the far corner—

—but Collins had already stepped across.

The Frankfurt defender threw his body into the line of the shot, blocking it cleanly with his thigh. The ball ricocheted sharply off him and spun wide of the post.

"Great block from Collins!" Fletcher shouted. "That’s a big defensive intervention early on!"

"Brilliant awareness," Bale added. "He’s reading the danger early."

The ball rolled out for a corner.

Tottenham players jogged into the box as Porro placed the ball carefully at the corner flag. Arms went up, players jostled for position—Romero grappling with Koch, van de Ven lurking near the back post, Solanke trying to shake free from Theate.

Porro whipped the ball in.

It curled dangerously toward the six-yard box, but Trapp read it early. He stepped forward decisively, rising above everyone with both fists.

"Trapp comes—!"

He punched the ball clear with authority.

The clearance dropped just outside the box, where Bentancur tried to bring it down under pressure from Larsson, but the ball bounced awkwardly, and before Tottenham could reset, Trapp had already sprinted forward, collecting the loose ball at the edge of his area.

He didn’t hesitate.

One glance upfield.

Then he launched it.

A long, powerful throw—almost like a throw from a handball goalkeeper—arced toward the right flank.

"Quick transition here—!"

The ball dropped into space ahead of Lukas.

He was already moving.

With one touch, he brought the ball under control and immediately accelerated, pushing it ahead of him as he surged down the right side. The crowd reacted instantly, a wave of anticipation rising from the Frankfurt supporters.

"Here he goes—Lukas!" Fletcher’s voice lifted.

"He’s got space!" Bale added.

Lukas drove forward, the ball glued to his feet as he crossed into Tottenham’s half. Brown sprinted up the touchline behind him, offering support, while Knauff drifted inside, dragging Udogie with him.

The space opened.

Lukas pushed the ball ahead once more, lengthening his stride as he approached the halfway line—

—but suddenly, a white shirt appeared.

Van de Ven.

The defender exploded forward, matching Lukas stride for stride. In one smooth motion, he stretched his leg across and poked the ball cleanly away before Lukas could take his next touch.

"Excellent recovery from van de Ven!" Fletcher called.

The Dutch defender didn’t just win the ball—he powered through the challenge, his pace carrying him past Lukas as the teenager stumbled slightly and went down onto the turf.

No whistle.

The ball rolled out for a throw-in.

Frankfurt’s throw.

Lukas remained seated for a moment, adjusting his socks before looking up with a small, almost amused smile on his face.

Van de Ven jogged away without even glancing back.

"Fair challenge," Bale said calmly. "That’s top defending. Micky used his pace perfectly."

Fletcher nodded.

"And that," he added, "is exactly what we expected tonight—two teams going at each other right from the first whistle."

Bale leaned slightly forward.

"This is going to be a tough game," he said. "But already, you can see—it’s shaping up to be a very, very entertaining final."

Around them, the stadium roared again as Frankfurt prepared to take the throw-in.

And the match had only just begun.

The early exchanges set the tone.

Tottenham didn’t drop.

They didn’t hesitate.

They pressed.

From the first minute to the fifth, they played exactly as expected—high line, aggressive, compact in midfield, and relentless in closing down space. Every Frankfurt touch was met with pressure almost instantly. Bentancur and Bissouma operated like a pair of hunters in the center of the pitch, shifting side to side, cutting off passing lanes, forcing Frankfurt into tighter and tighter pockets.

"Tottenham really squeezing the space here," Fletcher observed as the ball moved between Koch and Theate at the back.

"They’re not letting Frankfurt settle," Bale added. "Every time they try to build, there’s pressure."

For Lukas, those opening minutes felt different from anything he had experienced before.

After that first duel with van de Ven, he didn’t immediately get back into rhythm.

The ball came to him in the 4th minute, a short pass from Skhiri just inside Tottenham’s half. The moment it touched his foot, Bissouma was already there—not tight, not pressing directly into his back, but close enough. Close enough to feel.

Lukas tried to shift his body, looking for the turn.

But Bissouma didn’t commit.

He stayed just out of reach, forcing Lukas to make the first move.

"Look at Bissouma," Bale pointed out. "He’s not diving in. He’s waiting."

Lukas hesitated for half a second.

That was enough.

Bentancur stepped across from the side, closing the angle completely.

Lukas had no choice but to play it back to Skhiri.

"Smart defending," Fletcher said. "They’re not giving him any space to operate."

It kept happening.

Again in the 6th minute, Larsson slipped a pass toward Lukas between the lines. This time, as soon as Lukas received it, Bissouma was already at arm’s length, body angled perfectly to block the forward path.

Lukas tried to roll his shoulder, trying to initiate a turn.

But before he could complete it—

Johnson was there.

The winger had tracked back, closing in from the side, doubling up instantly.

"Two on him again," Fletcher noted.

Lukas forced a pass.

It was slightly off.

Intercepted by Romero.

A small groan rose from the Frankfurt section.

For a few minutes, it looked like Tottenham had found the solution.

They weren’t diving in recklessly.

They weren’t overcommitting.

They were containing him.

Every time the ball came to Lukas, it felt like a trap.

If Bissouma didn’t pressure, Bentancur did.

If Bentancur didn’t, Johnson dropped in.

There was no clean space.

In the 9th minute, Lukas tried again—this time receiving the ball from Brown near the touchline. He attempted a quick one-touch pass into Knauff, but the pressure arrived too quickly, and the ball bobbled slightly, allowing Udogie to step in and clear.

"Still trying to find his rhythm," Bale said. "You can see he’s thinking a bit more than usual."

Fletcher nodded.

"And Tottenham are making sure of that."

For a moment, Lukas stood still after the play moved away from him.

Breathing.

Listening.

The noise of the stadium.

The rhythm of the game.

But then in the 10th minute, it changed.