Limitless Pitch-Chapter 73 – Narrow Margins

The locker room buzzed with the kind of quiet intensity only a final could summon. The air hung thick with the scent of sweat, deep heat spray, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a split lip someone had quickly patched up. No shouting. No joking. Just short breaths through clenched teeth, the rustle of tape being redone, boots being retightened with sharp tugs. Water bottles passed between hands that wouldn’t stop vibrating with adrenaline, condensation dripping onto the tile floor.

Thiago sat with his forearms on his knees, his soaked jersey clinging to his back. His cleats were streaked with chalk and stud marks, the leather scuffed from first-half battles. Beneath the fluorescent lights, the sweat on his skin gleamed. His heart hadn’t calmed - if anything, the brief rest had made him more aware of its pounding rhythm. The match was still in him - flashes of close calls playing behind his eyelids: that near-miss cross in the 22nd minute, the way the Corinthians defender’s elbow had caught his ribs going up for a header, the sound of the crowd crashing over him like surf after Nando’s goal. His legs buzzed with lactic acid, but his mind remained sharp, hyper-aware of every ache and twitch in his muscles.

Eneas stood at the tactical board, his marker squeaking against the white surface. "Keep stretching their shape," he said, tapping the left side repeatedly. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "They’re not pressing Thiago as high anymore—they’re sagging to double the channel." He drew two red X’s near the touchline. "So we shift early. Let him go one-on-one, and then..." His marker slashed across the board, "...flood the box. Nando stays central. Rafael," - a glance at the midfielder - "stagger your runs. Don’t give them a clean line to track."

Rafael nodded, his chest still rising and falling rapidly as he gulped down an energy gel. Nando rolled his neck until it cracked, his eyes fixed on the diagrams. The assistant trainer moved between players, pressing cold towels against necks, checking tape jobs with clinical efficiency.

Thiago met Eneas’ gaze across the room. A brief look, but enough. The coach’s eyes said what they both knew - this wasn’t about brilliance anymore. It was about discipline. Execution. Precision. The kind of football that wins when talent isn’t enough.

The referee’s knock came too soon. The sound jolted through the room like a starter pistol. Boots stomped. Knees were slapped. A chorus of short, sharp breaths as they stood.

They stepped back out to the pitch, the roar hitting them like a wall. Allianz Parque pulsed with energy, the stands a living mosaic of green and white. The Corinthians fans had grown quieter, more cautious after the goal. The home end, though—it shook the very foundations, a deafening sea of scarves and waving flags that blurred at the edges from sheer motion.

The second half began with a different energy. Corinthians came harder, their pressing more coordinated now. Not reckless—but relentless. Their midfield line advanced as one unit, compressing Palmeiras’ spacing like a vise. The first few minutes felt like trench warfare - every pass contested, every touch harassed. Thiago barely touched the ball in the first five minutes, marked out of the game by two defenders who seemed glued to his shadow.

But then came the release.

In the 52nd minute, Rafael dropped deep into the pocket of space between lines, drawing his marker out like a magnet. With a deft flick through the middle that seemed to defy physics, he changed everything. The ball zipped into space with perfect weight, as if it had been fired from a cannon.

Thiago smelled the opportunity before it fully developed. He peeled off his marker with a sharp change of direction, his cleats biting into the turf as he surged into the gap. The pass met his stride perfectly, the connection so smooth it barely made a sound. The right-back was still recovering from the earlier press—too slow, too flat-footed.

One-on-one.

Thiago didn’t even feint this time. He simply pushed the ball forward with the outside of his right foot and exploded past, catching the outside line like a train on rails. The crowd’s roar built with every stride, cresting as he looked up. His cross followed—low, fast, angled toward Nando’s run like a heat-seeking missile. This time, the defender met it first—just barely. A desperate toe-poke out for a corner. Danger, but no dagger yet.

Palmeiras kept probing, their attacks coming in waves now. In the 54th minute, Corinthians nearly equalized against the run of play. A recycled cross from a half-cleared corner, a scramble in the box that turned into a rugby scrum, a clever backheel attempt that was cleared inches from the line by Palmeiras’ center-back stretching every sinew. The stadium gasped as one. The coaches screamed from the sidelines, veins bulging in their necks. Thiago, reading the danger, dropped all the way back to cover the outlet pass, his lungs burning with the recovery sprint.

Then came the moment that would define the match.

58th minute. Palmeiras in possession, slow buildup to catch their breath. Rafael switched it right, then back again, the ball moving in hypnotic patterns that dragged the Corinthians lines into a tight, disorganized knot. The opposition’s shape collapsed inward like a dying star.

Then - the spark. Rafael punched it forward to Nando with unexpected pace, the winger turned striker laying it off first-time with the deftest of touches. Thiago received the ball just inside the final third, his body already oriented toward goal. He didn’t look rushed. Didn’t panic.

A shimmy that froze the first defender. A quick lateral move that left the second grasping at air. Two Corinthians players caught flat-footed, their weight going the wrong way as if pulled by invisible strings.

He danced through them—his dribbling now sharper, almost automatic. The game seemed to slow, each touch calculated, each movement efficient.

Anchored Presence activated.

A challenge came in—shoulder to shoulder from the recovering center-back. Thiago held firm, balanced, unshakable, his core muscles flexing to absorb the impact without breaking stride. He drew the third man like a magnet, committing the defense before releasing the ball at the perfect moment.

It wasn’t the assist. Not the final ball.

But it was the spark that lit the fuse.

A quick, disguised pass to Rafael. The midfielder’s eyes were already up, spotting the overlapping left-back. The cross came in like a bullet, bending away from the keeper’s outstretched hands. Chaos in the box.

The Corinthians keeper dived one way.

The ball went the other.

GOAL.

2–0.

The stadium detonated. The noise was physical, a shockwave that vibrated in Thiago’s bones. He didn’t celebrate as much as he exhaled—a deep, shuddering release of tension. He knew that wasn’t his moment, not on the scoresheet. But he had lit the fuse. Created the chance. And in that heartbeat, that mattered just as much.

Then the game turned again, as finals always do.

Corinthians, desperate now, went forward like wolves scenting blood. Their attacks came with renewed fury, their tackles sharper, their movements more urgent. In the 65th minute, they pulled one back out of nothing. A speculative long-range shot—from nearly 30 yards—deflected off a thigh and sent the keeper wrong-footed, the ball looping cruelly into the far corner. 2–1. Game on.

Palmeiras now faced the eternal dilemma—sit deeper and protect the lead or stay aggressive and risk being caught out. Eneas waved frantically from the touchline, his hands making compact pressing motions rather than retreat signals. They’d defend by holding the ball, not bunkering. A dangerous game, but the only one they knew how to play.

Thiago adjusted his game instinctively. Less dribbling now, more conservative play. He came back to help the midfield, showing for passes in tight spaces, recycling possession with simple but effective touches. Each minute chewed off the clock felt like a small victory.

Corinthians kept swinging. In the 78th minute, a whipped corner met a powerful header that thundered off the crossbar. The sound of aluminum shuddering echoed through the stadium. Thiago was there to clear the rebound, his boot connecting with a satisfying thump that sent the ball sailing into the stands.

Every minute stretched, elastic and cruel. The 83rd brought another break, Thiago finding a seam and pushing through midfield—only to be hacked down cynically. The yellow card came out late, the referee’s whistle barely heard over the crowd’s outrage. The resulting free kick led to nothing but more time wasted, more energy expended.

The tension built to unbearable levels. Then, in the 87th minute, one final chance for Palmeiras to kill the game. A lightning counter sparked by Rafael’s interception. The midfielder played the ball to the right wing this time, drawing defenders like moths to flame. Thiago, sensing the moment, ghosted into the back post unnoticed. The cross came in—too high, too fast. He leaped, straining every muscle, but couldn’t get the angle. The ball sailed harmlessly over.

He stayed down a second longer than he had to. Not hurt—just exhausted, his body protesting every movement now. The grass felt cool against his cheek.

Corinthians had one more push left. 90th minute. A lofted ball into the mixer. A flick-on header that seemed to hang in the air forever. A final shot from their star striker that seemed destined for the net until Palmeiras’ keeper flung himself across goal, fingertips pushing it wide.

The full-time whistle cut through the noise like a knife.

Palmeiras 2–1 Corinthians.

Thiago collapsed to his knees—not from injury, but relief so profound it felt like a physical weight lifting. Around him, teammates sank to the turf or leaped in celebration. The crowd’s roar was deafening, a primal sound of joy and release.

He looked up at the lights, at the fans hanging over railings screaming, at his teammates flooding the field in unrestrained celebration. And he knew—this wasn’t over. Not really. Corinthians would be back, angrier, sharper. The second leg would be war in its purest form.

But for tonight, under these lights, with this crowd shaking the very earth beneath them—they had won.

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