Chapter 195: Welcome Home

The team landed at Wolfsburg on the Saturday, and the first person to reach Magath was a boy in a green shirt.

He could not have been more than eight years old. He came sprinting across the tiled floor holding out a green marker pen in one hand and his jersey in the other. He clearly had no idea that the coach he was running toward was now in charge of the team coming to take three points from them.

Magath stopped in his tracks. He stared down at the green shirt, the same badge he had worn on his chest when he guided this club to the greatest season in their history. Then he looked at the boy’s excited face. Magath put aside all the usual talk about rivalries, knelt on one knee, and signed his name neatly across the fabric.

“There you go, young man,” Magath said quietly, handing back the pen with a faint smile.

“Thank you, Herr Magath!” the boy beamed before running off to his parents.

Plenty of other locals in the terminal recognized him too. All the way out to the team bus, airport staff and travelers gave Magath respectful nods. They were Wolfsburg supporters through and through, but they greeted him like an old friend who had given this small industrial city something truly unforgettable.

In 2009 he’d taken Wolfsburg, a club that had never won anything, and turned them into champions of Germany with a wolf-pack side that attacked until opponents broke. He built an aggressive, relentless side with Grafite and Džeko that simply crushed opponents until they broke. Two years later, he was returning as the manager of the league leaders, yet the town still treated him like a favorite son.

Mateo watched the whole scene from a few paces back. Seeing it in person gave him a much better picture of Magath’s career. The manager rarely went to ready-made European giants. He went to clubs that felt like long shots, worked the squad to the bone, won a major trophy, and moved on before things went stale. He had done it in Wolfsburg, and he was working toward the exact same ending with Schalke.

The pre-match press conference felt more like a welcome party than a tense media briefing.

The press room was packed with local journalists Magath had known for years. The opening question had nothing to do with formations or team news. It was about how it felt to be back in Lower Saxony.

“Wolfsburg is a wonderful club,” Magath said, his tone unusually warm for the cameras. “The supporters here have always been incredible to me, and that will never change.”

A solid round of applause broke out across the room, which was rare for a bunch of reporters paid to pick apart opposing managers.

Steve McClaren sat across the table, listening carefully. The former England manager held Magath’s old job now, fighting to keep a fractured squad from sliding further toward the bottom of the table. He offered Magath a polite nod of respect.

McClaren had more than enough headaches to deal with. Wolfsburg had been fifth and chasing Europe earlier in the campaign, but after a brutal run of form, they were languishing in tenth place. Facing the league leaders at home was the last fixture a manager under pressure wanted to see on the schedule.

When Magath walked out of the tunnel at the Volkswagen Arena, the stadium made its feelings loud and clear.

A massive banner stretched across the entire home stand: Welcome Home, Dear Felix Magath.

When the stadium announcer read out his name, thirty thousand Wolfsburg supporters rose to their feet, giving him a standing ovation. Magath raised a single hand toward the stands, acknowledged the roar with a slight nod, and immediately sat down on the bench. Sentiment was fine for the pre-match ceremonies, but there was a league title to protect.

On the home bench, McClaren looked tense, shouting instructions before the referee even blew the opening whistle.

Schalke took control right from kickoff. The passing lanes opened up naturally, and Magath barely had to yell from the sideline. Mateo set the tempo from the center circle, keeping the ball moving with crisp touches. Farfán and Huntelaar stretched the backline wide, while Uchida pushed up the right flank to overlap whenever Farfán drifted inside.

Wolfsburg packed five men into the center of the pitch to clog up the middle, but Mateo picked his passes patiently, shifting the play from side to side until gaps opened up.

Jermaine Jones was the only Schalke player breaking the rhythm.

Ever since Jones scored that long-range bullet against Frankfurt a few weeks back, he seemed convinced he was a natural goalscorer. Every time a clearance bounced out toward him twenty-five yards out, he set his feet, swung his boot, and launched the ball toward the upper deck. After one shot bounced off the crossbar support behind the goal, Mateo jogged over, patted Jones on the chest, and pointed toward the backline.

“Jermaine, leave the shooting to the front three, yeah?” Mateo said with a quick grin. “Win the ball and give it here. We need you covering the counter.”

Jones gave a sheepish laugh, rubbed his shaved head, and nodded. “Fair enough, kid. Just trying my luck.”

Wolfsburg looked sluggish across the pitch, but they possessed one weapon that kept everyone on high alert: Diego.

The Brazilian playmaker had been named German Footballer of the Year during his prime at Werder Bremen. He had earned a big-money transfer to Juventus before returning to the Bundesliga, and his technique on dead balls remained world-class. McClaren had organized his entire attack around him. Schalke’s instructions were very clear: tackle cleanly and never give away cheap fouls within thirty yards of the goal.

Schalke handled him well for the first twenty minutes. Then Jones lost his discipline.

Diego Benaglio punted a deep clearance from the Wolfsburg goalmouth. Diego tracked the dropping ball perfectly, cushioning it off his thigh and lifting it over Jones’s outstretched leg in one smooth motion. He spun past the midfield line before the ball even touched the turf, driving directly into the pocket of space behind Schalke’s midfield.

Jones scrambled back, desperate to recover his ground. Instead of slowing Diego down and forcing him wide, Jones lunged in with a sliding tackle from behind. He caught a fraction of the ball, but swept Diego’s legs right out from under him twenty-nine meters out from goal, slightly toward the left channel.

The referee’s whistle blew sharply.

Fweet—!

Jones bounced back to his feet with his arms spread wide, complaining to the official that he got the ball. The referee simply pointed to the turf and told him to step back.

Diego picked himself up off the grass without a word. He dusted the dirt off his shorts and picked up the match ball with the relaxed posture of a specialist who had scored dozens of goals from this exact patch of turf.

The home crowd came alive. The same supporters who had spent the opening minutes applauding their former manager now roared for their number ten, hoping this single moment could turn their season around.

Neuer paced across his line, shouting orders at the top of his lungs.

“Mateo, get in the wall! Second from the right!” Neuer yelled, waving his gloves frantically. “Jump together! Don’t turn your backs!”

Mateo jogged into position, linking arms with Höwedes and Huntelaar. Standing in the wall twenty-nine meters out, he looked down at Diego placing the ball carefully on the grass.

Diego took three measured steps back, squared his shoulders, and began his approach.