CHAPTER 161: PHENOMENON

Lukas’s strike bent wickedly through the air, spinning away from Donnarumma’s outstretched glove. The Italian keeper launched himself to the right — fingertips grazing nothing but air — as the ball kept curling, tracing a perfect arc toward the far top corner.

O’Hagan:

"Beaten! Donnarumma’s beaten!"

Then came the sound — a sharp metallic clang! — echoing through the Signal Iduna Park like a cannon blast.

The ball crashed squarely off the underside of the crossbar, ricocheted down to the goal line, and spun back into play before Bastoni thumped it clear.

For a heartbeat, the whole stadium froze — gasps rising in unison before dissolving into a roar of disbelief.

Kehl:

"Oh my word! Inches away from another masterpiece from Brandt!"

On the pitch, Lukas had already turned with both hands on his head, his mouth half open in shock. Musiala sprinted over and smacked his shoulder, laughing through his disbelief.

O’Hagan:

"He had Donnarumma beaten all ends up! The goalkeeper was rooted — it was perfection — and the crossbar has denied the young man again!"

From the German dugout, Nagelsmann clapped furiously, shaking his head with a wry smile. "That’s it, Lukas! That’s it!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Behind him, the substitutes stood up, half laughing, half cursing their luck. Koch muttered something to Stiller beside him — something along the lines of, "He’s playing like it’s the Bundesliga again."

The crowd inside the stadium broke into applause — even a few Italian supporters couldn’t help but appreciate the audacity of the effort.

Up in the stands, Javi Brandt was on his feet, both hands on his chest, exhaling heavily. Beside him, Anne grinned wide, turning to his parents. "He nearly did it again," she said softly.

And down on the pitch, as play resumed, Lukas jogged back into position with a small smile tugging at his lips.

By the 25th minute Germany had Italy pinned deep inside their own half. Mittelstädt and Kimmich pushed so high that it almost resembled a back two of Tah and Rüdiger at halfway, both ready to clean up anything that escaped. The movement between Lukas, Musiala, and Goretzka was starting to pull the Italian lines apart.

It began on the left, with Mittelstädt slipping the ball to Lukas, who had dropped slightly deeper to receive. Udogie was tight behind him, hand gripping at his shirt. Lukas felt the contact and rolled his body around it, spinning past Udogie before flicking the ball up and darting toward the byline.

"Lovely turn from Brandt!" cried O’Hagan, voice rising with the noise of the crowd.

Bastoni came sliding across to close him down, but Lukas toe-poked the ball through his legs, collected it again, and tried to drive into the box. Just as he cut inside, Udogie came lunging back in desperation, catching his leg with a clumsy challenge. Lukas stumbled, tried to keep his balance, and fell right at the edge of the six-yard box.

The referee pointed immediately to the spot.

O’Hagan:

"Penalty! No hesitation from the referee, and Germany have a golden chance to take the lead!"

Udogie buried his face in his hands as Kimmich stepped up, calm as ever, waiting for the signal. Donnarumma stood on his line, arms wide, bouncing. The whistle went.

Kimmich took two steps, opened his body, and slotted it low into the bottom corner as Donnarumma dove the wrong way.

The stadium erupted.

The noise inside the Signal Iduna Park was deafening. The south stand shook as red flares flickered and flags rippled behind Donnarumma’s goal. The German bench leapt as one — substitutes hugging, assistants high-fiving, Nagelsmann pumping his fist in the air. On the opposite side, Spalletti stood motionless, jaw clenched, as his players regrouped.

1–0 to Germany.

Lukas jogged up to Kimmich, smiling as they bumped shoulders. On the touchline, Nagelsmann clapped once and turned to his staff. "That came from the boy again," he said quietly.

Up in the executive booth, Javi Brandt exhaled deeply. His father chuckled, pride in his eyes. "He’s just like you were," the older man said. "Always taking defenders on, never afraid."

Down in the stands, João and Joanna were already on their feet, screaming and waving their flags. "That’s our boy!" Joanna shouted over the noise.

After the goal, Italy tried to respond, pushing their wing-backs higher, but that opened space behind. And Lukas, clever as ever, was starting to drift infield, finding pockets between Ricci and Tonali.

A long sequence of passing built from the back again — Baumann to Rüdiger, then to Stiller, who slipped it forward for Goretzka. The veteran midfielder looked up, saw Lukas already peeling away from his marker, and fizzed it straight into his feet.

Lukas let the ball run across his body, dragging Tonali with him. Then came the magic — a step-over, a sharp dragback, and a feint that left Tonali spinning the wrong way. Bastoni came up to press, but Lukas darted right between them, sliding a pass through to Musiala at the edge of the box.

The crowd began to sense something special forming between those two — the sharp angles, the telepathic timing. Every time Lukas drifted near Musiala, a low hum ran through the stands in anticipation. It wasn’t just the beauty of the play; it was the swagger that came with it. Two teenagers leading the line for Germany and making one of Europe’s toughest midfields look ordinary — it felt like the start of a new era.

O’Hagan: "Musiala and Brandt combining again! They’ve been dancing together since the first whistle!"

Musiala collected it, faked a shot, and glided past Gatti with a simple shimmy. Lukas had continued his run, pulling defenders away, and Musiala took advantage of the open lane — curling the ball toward the bottom corner.

Donnarumma saw it late. He stretched out a hand — but couldn’t stop it. The ball kissed the inside of the post and rolled in.

2–0, Germany.

The Signal Iduna Park thundered. The fans behind the goal bounced in unison, chanting both players’ names.

Kehl: "That partnership is growing every minute. They move like they’ve played together for years."

On the touchline, Nagelsmann grinned and nudged Glück. "You wanted experience," he said. "There’s your answer."

In the VIP box, Javi’s mother clutched her husband’s arm. "It feels like watching a dream," she whispered. "Look at him — sixteen, and dictating the game."

Anne smiled warmly. "He makes it all look effortless."

Javi nodded but didn’t speak. He just stared at the pitch, watching his son celebrate, a quiet, proud tear welling at the corner of his eye.

Italy looked shell-shocked. Their midfield had lost its rhythm, their backline chasing shadows. Lukas had fully come alive — no longer a young debutant, but the heartbeat of every German attack.

It started with Kimmich again, driving from the right and finding Lukas near the left corner of the penalty box. Udogie backed off, afraid of giving away another penalty. Lukas took advantage — shifting the ball to his right, then rolling it back left with a delicate drag that opened half a metre of space.

He glanced up once, twice — and saw the same window that had betrayed him earlier in the half.

He struck.

This time, the contact was perfect — not too much lift, just the right whip and curve. The ball arced toward the top right corner, spinning violently through the air. Donnarumma leapt — but he wasn’t close.

The net bulged.

O’Hagan: "Oh, he’s done it now! The curler that rattled the bar fifteen minutes ago finds its home! Lukas Brandt makes it three for Germany!"

The stadium erupted again, louder than before.

Musiala sprinted to him, jumping onto his back, screaming into the air. Goretzka, Mittelstädt, even Tah ran the length of the pitch to join.

In the stands, João and Joanna were hugging each other, their voices lost in the roar. "I told you he’d score again!" João shouted, his eyes wide.

Down in the booth, Mrs. Brandt covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh my heavens," she whispered. "That’s my grandson."

Javi could only laugh, clapping furiously. "That’s our boy!" he said to Anne, who was already holding her phone up to record the replay on the stadium screen.

The referee blew his whistle moments later for halftime, and the cheers refused to die down. Germany walked off 3–0 up, Lukas leading the way — smiling, waving briefly to the crowd as his name rang through the Dortmund night.

And somewhere between disbelief and pride, everyone watching knew the same truth: this wasn’t the emergence of a prodigy anymore.

This was the arrival of a phenomenon.

As the players filed down the tunnel, Lukas lingered for a moment, glancing up at the roaring crowd. A camera caught the small smile playing on his lips — that same quiet expression he’d worn so many times for Eintracht Frankfurt. Yet tonight, under the glare of international lights, it looked different. It was the smile of a boy realizing he belonged on the biggest stage of all.