CHAPTER 193: EARLY BLOW

Thursday Night

The noise hit first.

A thick, rolling, earth-shaking wave of sound from over 50,000 Athletic fans packed inside San Mamés, red and white flags swaying like a storm above the lower stands. Basque drums thumped deep enough to rattle bones; chants spiraled up toward the rafters as warm-ups concluded and both teams retreated into the dressing rooms.

CBS Sports’ broadcast cracked alive over the soundscape.

Andrés Cordero:

"From the heart of Bilbao, good evening and welcome. This is the UEFA Europa League quarterfinals, first leg, coming to you live from the cathedral itself — San Mamés. Athletic Club hosting Eintracht Frankfurt on a night that feels absolutely monumental."

Chris Wittyngham:

"Absolutely, Andrés. And look — this isn’t just any knockout match. This... right here... is the stadium where the final will be played in May. So for Athletic Club, getting to the last hurdle would mean coming right back home to this fortress — and that is a massive motivation for Ernesto Valverde’s side tonight."

Cordero:

"And they will need every ounce of that energy, because the visitors? Eintracht Frankfurt arrive in extraordinary form. Third in the Bundesliga, have lost only a single game in Europe this season, and led by one of the most talked-about teenagers on the planet — Lukas Brandt. Sixteen years old. Already a superstar in Germany."

There was a strange tension whenever Lukas’s name left a commentator’s mouth these days. Somewhere between awe and disbelief. As if the sport collectively hadn’t decided yet whether a boy his age should be allowed to play like this, or whether the universe was simply folding in on itself to create another prodigy before anyone was ready. Even in Bilbao, among passionate locals who lived and breathed red-and-white football, you could sense it — a subtle buzz beneath the hostility, an unmistakable curiosity about whether the German teenager would justify all the noise around him.

Wittyngham:

"And don’t forget, Andrés — it was Lukas who made headlines back a few weeks ago when he said, quote: ’We’ll be in Bilbao for the final.’ Bold. Very bold. And that comment... well, it hasn’t been forgotten by anyone in this stadium, that’s for sure."

Cordero:

"You can feel the tension building. Quarterfinals. The cathedral. A future superstar. And ninety minutes that could shape the tie. Kick-off in just under fifteen minutes."

In the Athletic Club dressing room, about 15 minutes before kick-off.

The players filed in, sweat still glistening on their arms from the warm-up. Boots were pulled tight; jerseys straightened; shin pads adjusted. Someone turned down the music as Ernesto Valverde walked in alongside his assistant coach.

The room fell naturally into silence.

Valverde didn’t waste time.

He pointed the remote at the large screen bolted near the ceiling.

A press conference clip appeared.

Lukas Brandt, seated next to Toppmöller, speaking with a calm smile:

"We’ll be in Bilbao for the final."

The moment hung in the room like smoke.

Valverde folded his arms.

"This," he said, voice cool but sharp, "is a provocation."

Behind him, players exchanged glances — some amused, others irritated, all suddenly more alert.

"He is 16," Valverde continued. "A child. A talented one, yes. A dangerous one, absolutely. But still a child. And he believes he will return here in May."

He paused.

"Well... tonight, we show him — and all of Frankfurt — that this is the last time they step foot on San Mamés this season."

A murmur of approval swept the room.

Valverde turned toward Inigo Lekue, Ruiz de Galarreta, and especially Yeray Alvarez and Daniel Vivian, who had spent the week walking through defensive sequences designed to suffocate Frankfurt’s teenage talisman.

"Ruiz, Dani, you know the plan. You know his patterns. Don’t let him breathe. Not even for a second. Cut the lanes. Double him early. Make him feel the cathedral. Make him feel the weight of this stadium."

Vivian nodded, tightening his wrist tape.

Galarreta exhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders.

Valverde surveyed the room, meeting every pair of eyes.

"They came here confident. They came here bold. Make them regret every second of it. The first fifteen minutes — that is where we win the psychological battle. Start fast. Hard. And do not let them think they have a chance."

He clapped once — loud, firm, final.

"Let’s go."

The players rose, boots clacking on concrete, energy rising like a tide. The room vibrated with adrenaline as they jogged out into the narrow corridor leading to the tunnel.

The Frankfurt players were already waiting — white shirts, black shorts, the eagle badge reflecting the stadium lights. They stood in a calm cluster, but the noise from the stands roared behind them like a living creature.

Lukas Brandt stood near the front, breathing steadily, eyes forward, headphones gone, expression unreadable.

One by one, the Athletic players took their place opposite them, a row of red and white stripes lining up with quiet intensity.

San Mamés trembled outside.

The referee walked to the front.

The anthem cued.

And everything was seconds away from ignition.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips, glanced once down each line, and then blew sharply.

"And we are underway in Bilbao!" Andrés Cordero announced as the ball rolled backwards into red-and-white shirts. "Europa League quarterfinal first leg, Athletic Club kicking from left to right in their famous stripes... Eintracht Frankfurt in white."

Chris Wittyngham picked up immediately.

"Let’s give you the starting lineups, beginning with the home side. Ernesto Valverde goes with a 4-2-3-1: Agirrezabala in goal; a back four of Óscar de Marcos, Dani Vivian, Aitor Paredes’s stand-in today Yeray Álvarez, and Iñigo Lekue. In midfield, Ruiz de Galarreta partners Jauregizar. Ahead of them, a trio of Berenguer, Sancet, and Nico Williams. And leading the line... Sannadi."

Cordero switched seamlessly.

"For Frankfurt, Dino Toppmöller stays consistent with his 4-2-3-1 as well. Kaua between the posts — outstanding for them this season. The back four: Brown at left-back, Tuta and Koch in the middle, Kristensen on the right. The double pivot: Larsson and Skhiri. Ahead of them, Mario Götze as the number ten. On the wings: Lukas Brandt on the right side, and Bahoya on the left. And up front, Hugo Ekitike."

Wittyngham added with a grin:

"And all eyes, inevitably, on 16-year-old Brandt — the sensation attracting attention from half of Europe."

The sound inside San Mamés was something alive. Every Athletic touch was cheered. Every Frankfurt touch was drowned under a rolling sea of whistles and boos that seemed to vibrate through the soles of the players’ boots.

Athletic took the initiative immediately, pushing high, moving the ball quickly, feeding off the crowd’s intensity.

Frankfurt tried to settle, but every pass from Koch, from Larsson, from Theate was chased down within seconds.

When Lukas first touched the ball on the right flank, three defenders swarmed him and the stadium erupted with hostility — whistling, jeering, arms waving. He calmly laid the ball back to Kristensen, unaffected, but the message was clear: there would be no quiet moments for him tonight.

"Electric atmosphere," Cordero breathed. "And the home side are feeding off it, Chris. Frankfurt can’t find a moment’s calm."

"Exactly how Valverde wanted it," Wittyngham replied. "High press, early chaos, unsettle the German side. They’re trying to smother Brandt before he can grow into the match."

Athletic recycled the ball under slight Frankfurt pressure, passing backwards to draw the press in. The whistles turned into rhythmic encouragement as de Marcos received the ball near the right touchline.

Lukas closed him down sharply, forcing him toward the sideline.

But de Marcos didn’t panic.

He cushioned the ball with the inside of his right foot, looked once toward the far side, and swept a magnificent diagonal switch across the entire width of the pitch.

"Lovely switch of play!!" Cordero exclaimed.

The ball dropped toward Nico Williams, who was already accelerating before it reached him. His first touch angled perfectly past Kristensen, who lunged but caught only air.

"Nico Williams... with space!"

The stadium rose as one.

Williams burst into the box, cutting inside with blistering pace.

Koch stepped across, positioning himself for the block — leaned slightly to his right —

But Nico chopped left, quick as a blink.

Koch stumbled.

Williams opened his body.

Curled.

The shot was vicious, bending toward the far top corner with perfect technique.

Kaua sprang—

But the ball sailed beyond him, kissing the upper 90 cleanly.

"GOOOOOOOOOL!!! NICO WILLIAMS!!" Cordero roared over the explosion of noise. "A SENSATIONAL FINISH!! Athletic Club STRIKE FIRST! San Mamés ERUPTS!"

The camera shook; the stadium shook.

Nico sprinted toward the corner flag, arms out, teammates charging after him as the cathedral vibrated to its core.

Chris Wittyngham added breathlessly:

"It’s exactly what we talked about! High energy, high pressure, early punch! And it’s the man they rely on — Nico Williams — who delivers with a stunning top-corner finish. Kristensen beaten, Koch beaten, Kaua beaten. Absolutely clinical."

Frankfurt players gathered around the center circle, heads down, trying to compose themselves against the roar.

Lukas adjusted his shirt sleeves, jaw clenched, eyes forward.

He had felt the boos.

He had heard the jeers.

Now he heard the celebrating.

And he understood exactly what this stadium wanted — to swallow him whole.