Limitless Pitch
Chapter 100 – Step by step

Chapter 100: Chapter 100 – Step by step

The morning dawned with a stubborn flurry of snow that refused to commit—tiny flakes swirling in erratic patterns outside the hotel windows before dissolving into nothing against the pavement. Thiago stood at the breakfast buffet, his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of weak hotel coffee, watching the half-hearted snowfall through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The dining hall buzzed behind him with the clatter of silverware and the low murmur of German conversations, but his attention remained fixed on the way his breath fogged the glass when he exhaled.

His body ached in ways he hadn’t known possible. Not just the usual muscle soreness from training, but deeper—the ligaments around his ankles throbbed with every step, his hamstrings pulled tight as bowstrings, even the base of his skull pulsed dully from yesterday’s video session where he’d craned his neck for two straight hours analyzing Zürich’s defensive shape.

And yet beneath the fatigue, something hummed in his chest.

Game day.

Not just any match—his second appearance in Dortmund colors. Against better opposition. With sharper eyes watching.

"You look like you slept standing up."

Thiago turned to find Klopp loading his plate with enough boiled eggs and fruit to feed a small village. The manager’s wild hair was barely contained under a crumpled BVB beanie, his glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his tea.

"More or less," Thiago admitted, rubbing at the stiffness in his neck.

Klopp chuckled, nudging him aside to reach for the muesli. "Good. Means you’re taking this seriously." He piled almonds onto his plate with alarming enthusiasm. "You’re on the team sheet, by the way."

Just like that. No fanfare. No dramatic reveal. As casual as commenting on the weather.

Thiago’s grip tightened around his mug. "For real?"

"Would I lie about something this boring?" Klopp popped a grape into his mouth. "You did decent work in Austria. Not flawless—your pressing angles still need work—but decent." He pointed his spoon at Thiago. "Zürich won’t be as forgiving though. Their left-back loves to overlap. Track him or suffer."

With that cheerful warning, Klopp ambled off, leaving Thiago standing there with cooling coffee and a racing heart.

The Letzigrund stadium hummed with energy despite the chill, its steep stands packed with fans bundled in scarves and thick jackets. Thiago sat on the bench, his oversized parka swallowing him whole, breath coming in visible puffs as he watched the match unfold. The floodlights carved sharp shadows across the pitch, the grass glittering with frost where the groundskeepers hadn’t salted it. His gloved fingers dug into the edge of the seat as he watched Zürich’s left-back, a wiry bulldog of a player, overlap yet again, unchecked.

Dortmund started sluggish. Zürich pressed high and aggressively, their midfielders closing spaces before passing lanes could develop. The usual crisp Dortmund buildup stuttered under the pressure. Even from the sidelines, Thiago could see the frustration building—Nuri Şahin’s increasingly sharp gestures, Hummels barking orders from the back. Every pass from Hummels or Şahin was met with a swarm of red shirts, their pressing triggers surgical. The trialist striker up top, a lanky kid from the academy, was isolated, his runs into channels wasted as Dortmund’s midfield got pinned.

Then—the breakthrough. A moment of chaos. A misplaced Zürich pass, a half-second of hesitation. Şahin pounced, intercepting the ball with the predatory calm of a man who’d done this a thousand times. One touch to kill it, another to look up. The pass he played wasn’t just good—it was cruel. A disguised, outside-of-the-boot arc that sliced between Zürich’s center-back and full-back like a blade through silk. The trialist was already moving, his timing perfect. The ball arrived just as he did, and his finish was a cold, clipped thing—no backlift, just a flick of the right boot to send it skimming past the keeper’s outstretched fingers.

1-0.

The bench erupted. Thiago was on his feet, shouting something wordless, his voice lost in the roar. But Zürich didn’t buckle. Their response was brutal—long diagonals to their wingers, fullbacks bombing forward, midfielders crashing the box. Dortmund’s backline bent but didn’t break, though not for lack of trying. A Zürich striker rattled the crossbar in the 38th minute, the clang of aluminum ringing in Thiago’s ears like a warning.

Halftime was a blur of heated voices, the locker room thick with the stink of sweat and liniment. Klopp didn’t sit. He paced, his boots scuffing against the concrete floor, his voice dropping into a growl. "They’re playing like they want it more. That’s unacceptable." A pause, then a grin, sharp as a knife. "So fix it."

The second half was a different beast. Dortmund came out snarling, their pressing suddenly synchronized—forwards cutting passing lanes, midfielders hunting in packs. The game stretched, turned into a scrap for every loose ball. Thiago’s legs twitched with restless energy.

When the 60th minute ticked over, Klopp didn’t even need to say his name—just jerked his chin toward the pitch. Thiago shed his parka like a second skin, the cold air biting through his long sleeves as he jogged the touchline. His breath came in sharp bursts, fingers flexing inside his gloves. The noise of the crowd sharpened—the hum of anticipation, the scattered applause for the substitution. His first breath on the pitch was a lungful of icy air and diesel fumes from the generators behind the stands.

Klopp grabbed him by the shoulders at the sideline, his grip firm. "Left wing. Stay narrow when we lose it. Cut inside on the press." His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. "And for God’s sake, take someone on. I didn’t bring you here to pass sideways."

The first touch came under immediate pressure—a bouncing ball near midfield that Thiago controlled with his thigh before pivoting away from the onrushing defender. The defender’s studs grazed his ankle as he turned, but he was already gone, accelerating into space. Simple. Clean. But Klopp wanted more. "Again!" the manager roared from the touchline, his voice cutting through the din. "Take him on!"

So he did. Ten minutes in, Dortmund won a loose ball in midfield. Thiago saw the gap before the pass came—a sliver of space between Zürich’s left-back and center-half. He darted into it, his arm up, and the lofted pass landed at his feet like it had been magnetized. His first touch killed the ball dead. His second was a feint—a half-step to the left, just enough to freeze the defender—before he cut inside, his right foot hooking the ball toward the box. The shot was blocked, but the crowd ooh’d anyway. Klopp clapped, grinning. "Ja! Genau so!"

Then came the real test. Zürich broke on the counter in the 79th minute, their right winger—a speedster with a reputation—sprinting onto a through ball. Thiago saw the danger before the pass was even played. He was already moving, his legs burning as he ate up the turf between them. The winger had a step on him. But Thiago had the angle. He didn’t dive in. Didn’t lunge. Just herded him, using his body to steer the winger toward the touchline, like a sheepdog guiding a stray. The winger tried to cut back, but Thiago was ready, his shoulder dipping to absorb the contact. The ball trickled out for a throw-in. No tackle. No foul. Just perfect, silent defending. The assistant coach whistled through his teeth. "That’s how you do it."

The final whistle blew on a 2-1 win, the second goal coming from a messy set-piece scramble. Thiago trudged off soaked in sweat, his cheeks windburned, legs leaden. No goals. No assists. But he’d held his own. The exhaustion hit him like a hammer. His lungs ached. His legs were jelly. But beneath it all, something hummed—a quiet, fierce pride.

Klopp intercepted him near the tunnel, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stagger. "Still think German winters will kill you?"

Thiago grinned through his exhaustion. "Maybe slightly less today."

"Good." Klopp’s expression turned serious. "You’re learning. But don’t get comfortable." He leaned in, his breath steaming in the cold air. "This is just the start."

The hotel room felt like a sanctuary after post-match recovery—hot shower, massage, a mountain of food. Thiago collapsed onto the bed in a heap, his phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand.

Clara: "Saw you chasing that winger like a rabid dog! Mãe almost fainted."

João: "Bro since when do you defend??? Did they replace you with a German robot??"

Rafael: "Keep grinding. They’re watching."

He didn’t reply immediately. Just lay there, listening to the radiator clank and hiss, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled a misshapen football.

After a while, he reached for the crumpled training top draped over the chair—the bright yellow fabric still damp with sweat. The club crest stood out starkly against the polyester, its edges slightly frayed from washing.

Thiago pulled it on over his t-shirt, the material clinging to his shoulders.

In the dim light, with the sounds of the city muffled by snow outside, he let out a slow breath.

"Okay," he muttered to the empty room. "Okay."

Not triumphant. Not poetic. Just a quiet acknowledgment—of the work done, and the work still to come.