Chapter 170: Bujerab

Magath made his move with fifteen minutes remaining, and the call came down to Farfán's ankle.

Farfán had waved the stretcher away, but Magath could see him limping. The wing demanded relentless up-and-down running that his swollen ankle simply couldn't handle, yet taking off a furious, dangerous player made no sense when he still wanted his goal.

Magath solved it with a quick reshuffle. He withdrew Anthony Annan and brought on Bujerab, shifting Farfán inside to partner Vardy as a second striker. The move halved Farfán's running while keeping him close to goal, and slotted Bujerab into central midfield right alongside Mateo. It shielded the injury without blunting the attack, giving Bujerab a run in the middle next to the teenager who had taken his spot.

Hughes Yves leaned toward the manager with a puzzled look. "The ankle makes sense. But why Bujerab here? Put another holding defender on and kill the game."

"We are five goals clear and completely comfortable," Magath replied, watching Bujerab sprint across the sideline. "If he is going to find chemistry with Silva, he needs to learn it right now, when a stray pass costs us nothing. We don't experiment like this in a tight contest." He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze steady on the pitch. "I gave the man my word he would still have a role to play. This is me backing it up. Let him taste the speed of the game out there."

Yves nodded quietly without pushing further. He had stood alongside Magath long enough to understand that the veteran coach looked far beyond the immediate ninety minutes. Sometimes his decisions protected a player's morale, honoring a quiet promise and showing the squad that loyalty still went both ways.

Handing an unsettled senior pro a run in the Ruhr Derby at five-nil, placing him shoulder-to-shoulder with the teenager who had taken his shirt, was more than just a tactical rotation. It sent an unmistakable message to the entire bench: nobody gets discarded here.

Bujerab entered the pitch desperate to make an impression.

He had started against St. Pauli the previous weekend and put in a solid shift, reminding the coaching staff that he was the primary creative hub before Mateo stepped in and took command of the midfield. This was the Westfalenstadion, the grandest stage in German football, and running onto the turf, he felt a burning need to remind everyone what he was capable of delivering.

He immediately began clapping his hands and barking for possession, raising both arms to demand service the way a traditional playmaker expects to run the show.

Nobody gave him the ball.

The entire lineup had spent seventy-five minutes filtering every phase of play through Mateo, and that rhythm was not about to disappear just because a substitute came on calling for it. The deliveries kept finding the number thirty-eight. Bujerab continued waving and pleading for touches. For a couple of frustrating minutes, his teammates completely looked past him, and his initial enthusiasm faded into an awkward, self-conscious shuffle as he realized the team was operating in a flow that moved entirely without him.

Then, in the 78th minute, the chance finally fell into his path, and he squandered it completely.

Mateo stripped possession in midfield and slid a crisp ball directly into Bujerab's stride, putting him in total control thirty-five yards from goal. Vardy was already making a sharp diagonal run to split the center-backs, while Farfán cleverly dragged Subotić toward the corner flag. The lane was completely clear for a through ball, the exact pass Bujerab used to thread between defenders in his sleep.

Instead of slipping the pass, he stared down the target from thirty-five yards and swung his leg back for glory.

The decision was selfish, and the strike was outright terrible. The ball skidded violently off the side of his boot, soaring into the air, flying harmlessly over the crossbar and the advertising boards before rattling into the third row of the thinning home terrace. The traveling blue support let out an exasperated collective groan, while the remaining Dortmund faithful finally found something to jeer after enduring five straight concessions.

Over in the technical area, Magath's hand instinctively reached for something to smash against the dugout wall, grasping empty air. Yves had already anticipated the reaction, sliding the water bottles safely out of reach behind his back.

"What on earth was that?" Magath muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disgust. "Thirty-five yards out with three open runners. Silva was standing right there for the layoff. What is he thinking?"

Mateo jogged over to Bujerab before the frustration could settle into his teammate's head.

He kept his tone calm and composed. He had spent the week at Bitburg watching Bujerab push through training with a point to prove, and he recognized the wild shot for what it truly was: an experienced player forcing a highlight rather than letting the play come to him naturally.

"Look to play through me first," Mateo said gently, keeping his voice low so the sideline mics could not pick it up. "You don't need to carry the whole pitch by yourself, man. Pop it into my feet, make your run into the pocket, and I will feed it right back to you. We can easily get you a goal today, but you have to let the play breathe."

Bujerab stared at him for a brief moment. A faint flicker of old pride surfaced in his eyes, the sting of taking tactical advice from a teenager who was barely old enough to drive. Then the tension softened. He understood football too well to argue, Mateo had spoken with genuine respect, and deep down, he knew the kid was entirely right.

"Alright, deal," Bujerab said, catching his breath with a tight nod. "Just make sure you return the pass when I break into the box."

"You can count on it," Mateo said with a reassuring nod. "Every single time."

Bujerab nodded once and turned back upfield.

Dortmund, meanwhile, refused to to let the match fizzle out.

Klopp had not abandoned the contest, even while trailing by five goals with ten men on the grass. He pushed Mario Götze into a free central role and stood right on the edge of the technical line, waving his arms furiously to rally whatever spirit remained in the stands, demanding a ferocious finish from a squad that had nothing left to defend except their professional pride.

His players answered the call, molded by the relentless mentality Klopp had spent two years drilling into them. Down a man and facing a derby humiliation, yellow shirts poured forward with reckless abandon. Götze drove hard at weary legs, Şahin pushed higher up the pitch to direct the attack, and the full-backs bombed into the final third. It was completely desperate and exposed enormous swathes of green grass behind their back four, yet there was a raw, undeniable bravery to the effort. A beaten giant swinging wildly with its back against the ropes.

Mateo surveyed the pitch and anticipated the exact shape of the counter-attack waiting to unfold. Dortmund were flooding numbers forward, vacating huge spaces with every frantic pass they strung together. With Bujerab now committed to combining centrally and Farfán lurking on the shoulder of the last defender, the pieces were lining up cleanly.

The next time Schalke broke forward, it was going to finish the afternoon for good.

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