Limitless Pitch-Chapter 113 – Building back

The stadium at Wiesbaden wasn’t anything like Signal Iduna Park.

Where Dortmund’s home ground loomed like a colossus, this compact arena felt intimate—almost claustrophobic. The stands rose steeply from the pitch, close enough that Thiago could hear individual voices cutting through the din when he stepped off the team bus. Banners hung from the railings like laundry left out to dry, their edges frayed from too many matches in too many weathers. The pitch itself showed patches of uneven turf, the kind that came from winters spent battling frost and springs spent recovering. The DFB-Pokal didn’t care about prestige. It cared about grit.

Thiago sat on the bench, his jacket zipped to his chin against the early autumn chill. The night air carried that particular bite that made knuckles ache if left exposed too long. He flexed his fingers absently, watching the players warm up under the uneven glow of the floodlights. Wehen Wiesbaden lined up in a textbook 4-4-2, their defensive block so compact it looked like they’d parked a bus in their own penalty area.

"Looks like we’ll be wrestling all night," Kuba muttered beside him, stretching his calves with a resistance band that snapped taut with each pull.

Thiago smirked. "Hope you brought your elbows."

Kuba grinned, teeth flashing in the stadium lights. "Always do."

From the technical area, Klopp paced like a caged predator. His cap was pulled low over his wild curls, shadowing eyes that never stopped moving. His mouth worked constantly—barking instructions to Buvač, snapping at the fourth official, muttering to himself when a pass went astray. It didn’t matter that this was a cup match against lower-league opposition. Klopp only had one gear: full throttle.

The referee’s whistle pierced the night.

And immediately, that familiar weight settled in Thiago’s stomach—heavier than usual.

Watching a match you might play in was worse than being left out completely. Every misplaced pass made his fingers twitch. Every turnover had his legs tensing as if to chase. He wasn’t detached. He was submerged in the game’s current, just without the power to swim.

Dortmund dominated possession from the first touch. Götze floated between the lines like a specter, his slight frame belying the way he dictated play. Kuba drove at the full-back with that trademark reckless confidence, his blond hair whipping as he changed direction. Barrios anchored the attack like a wrestler, pinning defenders and battling for every half-chance.

But the final ball kept slipping away.

First, it was Götze underhitting a through ball by a fraction. Then Schmelzer mistiming his overlap and stumbling into an offside trap. Then Kuba’s cross thudding against a defender’s shin when it should have been curling toward the far post.

The frustration built in layers—visible in the way Hummels clenched his jaw after another broken attack, in how Barrios kicked at the turf when a cross sailed over his head.

By the 30th minute, the score remained 0-0. Wehen had barely strung three passes together, but they didn’t need to. They were playing for chaos—delaying throw-ins, collapsing around every dribbler, turning the match into a series of stuttered moments rather than flowing play.

Hummels stepped into midfield during a lull, the ball at his feet like an extension of himself. "Play faster!" he roared, veins standing out in his neck. "Don’t give them time to set!"

Easier said than done against a wall of red shirts.

At halftime, the locker room smelled of sweat and frustration. Klopp’s voice boomed off the cinderblock walls.

"We’re letting them breathe! This isn’t patience—it’s sleepwalking!" His gaze swept the room, lingering on each attacker. "You think they’re going to gift you space? You have to take it!"

Thiago sat quietly, sipping water that tasted faintly of plastic. He absorbed every word, every gesture, filing away the nuances of Klopp’s instructions. The match was still there for the taking. He just didn’t know if he’d get the chance to help seize it.

The second half brought more of the same—relentless pressure met by stubborn resistance. Barrios had a header clawed off the line in the 54th minute, the goalkeeper’s fingertips leaving visible streaks on the ball. Kuba rattled the post five minutes later, the metallic clang echoing through the stadium.

Then, in the 66th minute, it happened.

Buvač leaned down, his lips nearly brushing Klopp’s ear. A nod. Then the manager turned toward the bench.

"Thiago. Warm up."

No hesitation. Bib off, shin guards checked with a quick tap, then onto the sideline where the grass felt different underfoot—less manicured, more unpredictable. The world narrowed to the rhythm of his breathing, the burn in his thighs as he sprinted parallel to the touchline. From the crowd, a lone voice screamed his name with startling clarity, cutting through the general murmur.

He didn’t look.

Just kept moving.

When the fourth official raised the board—17 on, 16 off—Kuba slapped his hand as they crossed. "They’re tiring," he whispered, sweat dripping from his nose. "Exploit it."

Then Thiago was in.

His first touch came seconds later—a throw-in from Piszczek that he controlled with his left foot, turning away from pressure before delivering a flat diagonal to Schmelzer. Simple. Effective. The kind of play that settled nerves and reminded muscles they knew what to do.

He drifted between lines, sometimes floating behind Barrios, sometimes interchanging with Götze. Every pass required precision, like threading a needle through moving fabric. Wiesbaden’s players didn’t stop running, didn’t stop lunging. Discipline and desperation made dangerous bedfellows.

But desperation bred mistakes.

In the 73rd minute, Thiago baited the press, letting the ball linger at his feet a half-second longer than comfortable. Two defenders bit, creating a channel for Bender to surge through. Next possession, he drew a foul with a sharp chop inside, earning a free-kick in dangerous territory.

"Keep pulling them," Hummels said as they reset, his voice rough from shouting. "You’re making gaps."

Small praise. Big impact.

By the 80th minute, Dortmund’s pressure had become a siege. Crosses rained in from both flanks. Thiago clipped one delicate ball over the defense that nearly found Barrios—only a desperate toe-poke from a center-back prevented a certain goal.

But the clock bled away mercilessly.

85 minutes. Still 0-0.

Thiago’s legs burned—not from exhaustion, but from the constant adjustment, the endless recalculating of angles and spaces. His mind refused to quiet, analyzing each movement like a chess player anticipating three moves ahead.

Then, in the 89th minute, persistence paid off.

No beautiful buildup. No moment of magic. Just a blocked shot rebounding awkwardly into the six-yard box, where Barrios lunged like a man possessed. The ball caromed off the keeper, spun off a defender’s thigh, and trickled over the line before anyone could react.

1-0.

Thiago didn’t join the wild celebrations. Just clapped, exhaled hard through his nose, and jogged back to position. The job wasn’t done.

The final minutes were tense. Wehen threw bodies forward in a last-gasp surge. Thiago tracked back, intercepting a lazy pass meant for their winger before calmly recycling possession.

When the whistle blew, it felt like a release.

Dortmund 1 – Wehen Wiesbaden 0.

Not pretty. But effective.

In the tunnel afterward, Thiago stood next to Götze, both breathing heavily, their boots caked with mud from the well-worn pitch.

"You played well," Götze said simply, wiping sweat from his brow.

Thiago didn’t answer immediately. Just nodded. "No goal. No assist."

"Doesn’t matter, goals and assists don’t tell the whole story ."

Kuba jogged over, already half-changed, his hair sticking up at odd angles. "You were alright," he declared, ruffling Thiago’s hair like an older brother. "Maybe 7.5 out of 10."

"Generous," Götze deadpanned.

Kuba shrugged. "I’m in a good mood."

Their laughter faded quickly, replaced by the bone-deep weariness that followed every hard-fought match.

Back in the locker room, Klopp didn’t deliver any grand speeches. Just nodded at key performers, then reminded them the Bundesliga waited just days away.

The locker room hummed with the exhausted satisfaction of a battle won. Thiago peeled off his sweat-drenched jersey, the fabric sticking to his skin like a second layer. The sharp scent of liniment mixed with the earthy dampness of the showers as players moved about in various states of undress.

Kuba plopped down on the bench beside him, his blond hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. "Admit it," he said, nudging Thiago with a still-taped elbow, "you missed this."

Thiago smirked as he unwound the tape from his wrists. "I’ve only been gone one match, besides missed what exactly? Your terrible crosses?"

"Oi!" Kuba lobbed a balled-up sock at his head. "I created three clear chances!"

"Two of which hit the defender in the face," Thiago shot back, dodging the sock.

"Still counts as chances!" Kuba retorted, grinning.

Across the room, Barrios emerged from the showers, steam curling around his broad shoulders. He caught Thiago’s eye and gave a small nod - the kind of silent acknowledgment that spoke louder than words. That flick in the 85th minute had nearly become an assist, and they both knew it.

Götze wandered over, towel draped around his neck. "Did you see their right-back limping after you turned him inside out?" He made a scissors motion with his fingers. "Beautiful."

Thiago shrugged, but couldn’t suppress the warmth spreading through his chest. These quiet moments of recognition from his teammates meant more than any stadium announcement.

Thiago leaned back against the locker, jersey clutched loosely in his hands, the laughter of his teammates echoing softly around him. His body ached in the right ways—earned fatigue, not frustration.

No goals. No assists. But presence. Control. Influence.

He’d stepped onto the pitch and left a mark.

And as he sat there, sweat drying on his skin and boots muddy at his feet, he realized—this was how you built trust. Not with flashes, but with foundations.

One match at a time