Chapter 198: The Long Walk Off

Vardy had been dead right on the bus ride home from Wolfsburg. In every sense that mattered, the league was going to come down to the clash with Bayern.

On Monday morning, Magath stood by the whiteboard in the tactical room, laying out the final stretch of the season. Schalke sat top of the table with a four-point cushion as the league entered its closing weeks. The schedule was simple on paper. Between now and the finish line, they had to face Bayern Munich at the Veltins-Arena in what was clearly the title decider. Nobody in the room said it out loud, but everyone understood the stakes: beat Bayern in Gelsenkirchen, and the championship was theirs.

Magath tapped the board with his marker and kept his message blunt.

“Win our matches and the math takes care of itself,” Magath said, capping the pen with a firm snap. “Don’t let me catch anyone daydreaming about Bayern Munich today. The league can wait a week. We have a flight to catch for Spain.”

That was the massive hurdle sitting right in front of them. Before they could even think about lifting the Bundesliga trophy, Schalke had to travel to the Camp Nou for the first leg of the Champions League semi-final against Barcelona. Pep Guardiola’s team was the most dominant side in world football. Everything else had to be pushed aside until that ninety minutes was behind them.

Still, the emotional high from the weekend lingered, mostly because the final whistle at Wolfsburg had ended on a very strange, powerful note.

Mateo had watched the whole post-match scene unfold from near the tunnel.

When the referee blew the final whistle at the Volkswagen Arena, Steve McClaren turned on his heel and disappeared straight down the tunnel before anyone could trade pleasantries. Crushed by a 2-1 defeat at home and watching his team slide toward the bottom half of the table, the Englishman simply had no patience left for post-match formalities.

Hundreds of Wolfsburg supporters in green shirts had stayed behind near the lower railings, chanting his name. It was not anger or mockery. It sounded like an open invitation from fans who missed him dearly. They were singing for the coach who had turned their provincial club into German champions two years ago, begging him to return to the dugout.

Magath, who usually kept his emotions locked tight behind a stern face, finally let his guard down. His eyes watered up. He walked all the way to the touchline barrier, shaking every outstretched hand reaching over the metal rails.

A handful of Schalke players, including Mateo, lingered nearby, not entirely sure what to do while watching their manager get adored by the opposing fans. It was one of the most touching scenes Mateo had ever seen on a pitch, and it had nothing to do with tactics or silverware.

The press conference an hour later, though, showed a completely different side of Felix Magath.

Mateo had accompanied him to the media room. For once, the local reporters largely ignored the eighteen-year-old and aimed their microphones directly at the returning coach. The very first question was a trap wrapped in polite wording.

“Herr Magath, the Wolfsburg board announced this afternoon that Steve McClaren will not continue next season,” a reporter asked. “Do you think your victory today influenced their decision?”

Mateo watched Magath closely from his seat. A coach who had just basked in the warmth of thirty thousand local fans could not openly celebrate the dismissal of the man who took his place. Magath handled it with brilliant calm.

“I think the timing of that club statement is completely irresponsible,” Magath said, resting his hands on the table and looking the reporter dead in the eye. “The board is attempting to dump two difficult seasons entirely onto the shoulders of Steve McClaren. He is a quality coach. A dedicated professional with a true Wolfsburg heart.” Magath paused for a beat, letting the room settle. “Of course, results on the pitch simply have not gone his way.”

Mateo had to stare at the carpet to stop himself from laughing out loud.

It was masterfully done. On the surface, Magath defended a fellow manager who hadn’t even stayed on the pitch for post-match pleasantries. Yet with that single trailing sentence, he gently reminded everyone in the room that McClaren had failed to deliver results, shifted the blame onto the front office, and walked out looking like the only dignified man in the building. The journalists in the room nodded along with quiet admiration.

Then Magath gave them the exact soundbite that was guaranteed to lead every sports bulletin on Sunday night.

“I have immense love for this city, and the supporters here will always have a place in my heart,” Magath said, leaning toward the microphones. “However, I manage Schalke today, and my loyalty is entirely with my team. We are not enemies. I would never manage clubs that try to buy their trophies by tearing apart smaller squads.”

Everyone in the room instantly knew he was taking a jab at Bayern Munich.

“If I had my choice, I would love to retire either here or in Gelsenkirchen,” Magath continued, his voice steady. “Those supporters have waited decades for success. My ultimate goal in football is to help a working-class club stand at the very top of the Bundesliga.”

A couple of the older Wolfsburg journalists looked visibly moved. The next morning, the local paper in Lower Saxony ran a full front-page spread calling him the hero of traditional football, alongside a photograph of him waving to the stands.

Back in Gelsenkirchen, the regional papers zeroed in on just one phrase: Magath promises a league title to the miners of the Ruhr Valley. A trophy drought stretching back more than fifty years suddenly felt within reach. The entire city was buzzing.

Mateo scrolled through the headlines on his phone at breakfast on Monday, thinking about the manager who had said those words.

He remembered Magath grumbling privately in the corridor months ago that he worked for whoever paid him, completely unsentimental. That was true to an extent, but the manager’s passion for leading smaller clubs against elite giants was very real. Mateo had seen it in his eyes by the touchline at Wolfsburg.

A league championship for Gelsenkirchen was right there. Just a few games left, with Bayern Munich heading to the Veltins-Arena in what would decide the title race. Mateo let himself imagine the stadium roaring on that afternoon, but only for a couple of seconds.

He locked his phone and put it back in his pocket.

The title race can wait, he thought. None of that matters if we don’t handle what’s right in front of us. Time to focus on Barcelona.