Champions League Semifinal
Liverpool vs Dortmund
The BT Sport studio perched above Anfield like a modern crow's nest, its glass walls offering a commanding view of the gathering storm below. Martin Tyler settled into his commentary position, watching the streams of supporters converging from every direction—red shirts dominating but punctuated by clusters of yellow and black.
"Peter, I've been fortunate enough to call matches at this stadium for nearly four decades," Tyler began. "But European nights here remain something special. The very air seems charged differently."
Peter Drury nodded, adjusting his monitor to better see the tactical formations. "It's fascinating when you consider the history between these clubs, Martin. Not extensive, they've only met competitively a handful of times, but each encounter has carried significance. That 1966 Cup Winners' Cup final at Hampden Park, Liverpool winning 2-1 in extra time. Roger Hunt with the winner in the 93rd minute."
"Bill Shankly's first European trophy," Tyler added. "The foundation stone of everything that followed. But for modern context, we must discuss 2016."
"Ah yes," Drury's voice softened with the memory. "Jürgen Klopp's first season at Liverpool, drawn against his beloved Dortmund in the Europa League quarterfinals. The emotion was extraordinary. Dortmund won 1-1 here—away goals rule as it was then—going into the second half. Then Coutinho, Sakho, and that Lovren header in stoppage time. I remember Klopp afterwards, genuinely torn between joy and sympathy."
Tyler pulled up his notes. "He said afterwards, 'I am a human being and my emotions are for both teams.' You rarely see such honesty in modern football. Now here we are, six years later. Klopp has transformed Liverpool into one of Europe's elite. Meanwhile, Dortmund have undergone their own evolution."
"The teams tell the story really," Drury observed as the lineups appeared. "Liverpool's spine of experience - Alisson, Van Dijk, Trent, Robertson, Fabinho, Salah, Mane, Henderson… players who've won everything there is to win. Contrast that with Dortmund's youth. Bellingham still only nineteen, carrying enormous responsibilit and even younger—the missing Zorić."
"Let's not underestimate that absence," Tyler emphasized. "Zorić has been transformative for Dortmund this season. Seventeen years old, creating chances from nothing, scoring crucial goals. Without him, the creative burden falls disproportionately on the other players. Different players, with different strengths."
The cameras found both managers in their technical areas. Klopp was in animated discussion with Pep Lijnders, hands moving expressively as he made some tactical point. Rose stood more quietly, arms folded, studying the warm-ups with intense concentration.
"The tactical battle intrigues me," Drury continued. "Liverpool's high defensive line against Haaland's devastating pace. The full-back positions—Alexander-Arnold and Robertson provide so much of Liverpool's width and creativity, but they leave space behind. Will Dortmund's wide players, Malen and Brandt, have the discipline to exploit those areas?"
"And in midfield," Tyler picked up, "Thiago against Can and Bellingham. The Spaniard has been majestic this season, controlling games with his range of passing and positional intelligence. But Bellingham has that raw athleticism, that ability to drive from deep. If he can disrupt Thiago's rhythm, Dortmund have a chance."
The noise from inside the stadium was building steadily, waves of sound crashing against their commentary position. "The question is: can Dortmund's youngsters handle it? Or will the occasion overwhelm them?"
—
Jude Bellingham stood in the tunnel, trying to stop his hands from shaking. Not visibly—he'd learned to hide the external signs. But inside, everything was vibrating at a frequency that felt unsustainable.
The concrete walls seemed to sweat moisture, or maybe that was just him, the whole tunnel feeling like it was closing in despite its generous proportions.
The noise filtering down from above was already extraordinary, and they hadn't even walked out yet. He could hear individual songs bleeding into a general roar, thousands of voices warming up for ninety minutes of psychological warfare.
His legs, usually so reliable, felt hollow in that specific way that had nothing to do with fitness and everything to do with nerves.
This wasn't like playing for England here. That carried pressure, sure, but this was different. This was Anfield weaponized for European competition, every voice united in their desire to see Dortmund destroyed.
"You alright?"
Emre Can's voice cut through Jude's spiral. Can had been here before, played in finals, won trophies. He knew what pressure looked like when it threatened to overwhelm.
"Yeah," Jude lied, then caught Can's expression and tried again. "Bit nervous. It's just... listen to that."
Can nodded slowly. "I played here for Liverpool. Trust me, I know. But here's the thing - it's still just football. Eleven against eleven. The crowd can't tackle you, can't score goals. They can only make noise."
It was good advice, logical and sound. It was also completely useless because Jude's nervous system wasn't interested in logic right now. His body was preparing for battle, flooding him with adrenaline he couldn't use yet, making his thoughts race and scatter like startled birds.
Across the tunnel, Liverpool's players stood in their practiced formation. Henderson was talking quietly to Robertson, who actually looked relaxed, the Scottish international even managing a laugh at something his captain said.
How did they do that?
How did they stand there like this was just another Wednesday night?
Salah bounced gently on his toes, that eerie calm about him that Jude had noticed in other great players. No wasted energy, no visible nerves, just a coiled readiness that would explode into movement when the whistle blew. Thiago stood perfectly still, probably visualizing every pass he'd make, every space he'd find.
The bastard barely seemed to sweat during matches, let alone before them.
"They're just players," Reus said quietly, appearing at Jude's shoulder. The captain had his game face on, jaw set, eyes focused. "Same as us. They get nervous too, they just hide it better."
Jude wasn't sure he believed that, but he appreciated the effort. Reus had been carrying extra weight all season, trying to stay fit, trying to lead a team that had been struggling earlier in the season. Without Luka, even more fell on his aging shoulders.
Mateu Lahoz emerged from the officials' room, and Jude suppressed a groan. The Spanish referee who thought every match was his personal theater production. The man who'd sent off players for dissent, for looking at him wrong, for existing in ways he found personally offensive.
Brilliant. Just what a nerve-wracked nineteen-year-old needed.
"Remember," Rose had said in his final instructions, "Lahoz likes to let games flow early, then tighten up if things get heated. Don't give him excuses. Play hard but smart."
The tunnel began to move, that slow shuffle toward the light. Jude found himself behind Guerreiro, focusing on the back of the Portuguese defender's head, trying to narrow his world to something manageable. One step, then another. The noise growing with each pace forward.
Then they emerged, and the full force of Anfield hit him like a physical blow.
The sound was beyond description. It wasn't just volume—it was the density of it, the way it seemed to press against his chest and fill his lungs. 'You'll Never Walk Alone' was already cascading down from the Kop, scarves held aloft creating a sea of red that rippled and swayed with hypnotic power.
"This is crazy," Ryerson breathed beside him, and Jude could barely hear despite the Norweigan being two feet away.
They lined up for the ceremonies, and Jude tried to look composed. Handshakes with Liverpool's players—Fabinho's grip unnecessarily firm, Van Dijk offering a slight nod of acknowledgment, Henderson saying something that was swallowed by the crowd.
The photographers rushed to get their shots, and Jude wondered if his forced smile looked as artificial as it felt.
The Champions League anthem began, its orchestral grandeur somehow cutting through the wall of sound. Jude had dreamed of moments like this as a kid in Birmingham, standing in front of the TV with his brother, pretending to be in these lineups.
Now he was here, and all he wanted was for his stomach to stop doing backflips.
During the coin toss, Jude studied the pitch, trying to ground himself in practical details. The grass was immaculate, cut to Liverpool's preferred length, short enough to zip their passing moves across but not so short that it would speed up beyond control. The evening was mild for April, no wind to affect ball flight.
Good conditions for football, if you could block out the people baying for your blood in the stands.
Henderson won the toss because of course he did. Liverpool would kick off, immediately putting Dortmund under pressure from the first second. As they dispersed to positions, Jude caught sight of the away section—three thousand Dortmund fans creating their own pocket of noise and color. They'd made the journey on a Wednesday night, paying inflated prices, all for ninety minutes of hope.
He couldn't let them down. Couldn't let himself down.
Jota stood over the ball, perfectly still in that moment before chaos.
The whistle shrilled, and immediately Liverpool were into their rhythm.
Jota's first touch to Salah was almost dismissive in its casualness. The Egyptian didn't even look before playing it back to Fabinho, the weight perfect despite the blind pass. Already, in those first five seconds, you could see the difference in comfort levels.
Liverpool were at home in every sense.
Fabinho took one touch to control, his body already positioned to play forward or switch play depending on how Dortmund pressed. Can moved to close him down, trying to force a quick decision, but Fabinho simply rolled the ball under his studs, using his body to shield it before playing a simple pass to Van Dijk.
Van Dijk's first touch was arrogant in its casualness, simple touch, letting the ball stop at his feet like he was in a training drill rather than a Champions League semifinal. Haaland made a token effort to press, but Van Dijk had already seen the picture developing. His pass to Matip was measured, inviting Dortmund forward while maintaining complete control.
This was what Jude had feared in the quiet moments before sleep last night. Not Liverpool's individual quality, Dortmund had faced great players before, but their collective certainty. Every pass had a purpose, every movement coordinated.
They were a machine that had been fine-tuned over years, while Dortmund hadn't had a game to adjust to the absence of their creative genuis.
Matip carried the ball forward a few steps, drawing Malen out from the right wing. The space created was immediately filled by Robertson, bombing forward from left-back with endless energy. Matip's pass was simple, but the positioning that preceded it was anything but.
Robertson's first touch took him forward into Dortmund's half. Ryerson came across to meet him, trying to show him outside, away from danger. But Robertson had already seen Firminho's movement, running across the defense, dragging Akanji with him.
The decision to play inside to Thiago instead caught Dortmund off-guard. The Spaniard had ghosted into that pocket of space between the lines—too deep for the forwards to track, too high for the midfielders to pick up immediately. His first touch was velvet, cushioning the ball despite Reus closing from behind.
This was football at its highest level, patterns and movements drilled over countless hours until they became instinct. Thiago's body shape suggested he'd play back to Robertson, but at the last moment he wrapped his foot around the ball, sending it diagonal to Alexander-Arnold on the opposite flank.
He didn't even need to look.
Trent had acres of space. Brandt, tucked inside to help congest the middle, was thirty yards away. Guerreiro, caught between tracking Salah's movement and holding his position, hesitated for just a moment. It was all Alexander-Arnold needed.
The cross, when it came, was delivered with that technique that made him so dangerous from wide areas. It wasn't whipped but nor was it floated in, rather, something inbetween. The ball curved away from Kobel's reach, dipping toward the penalty spot where Firmino was making his run.
Hummels read it well, his experience showing as he adjusted his position to compete for the header. The two players rose together, Firmino clever enough to create contact without fouling. The Brazilian's header was directed downward, forcing Kobel into a smart save, palming it away from immediate danger.
But Liverpool were already recycling possession. Henderson collected the loose ball, taking a touch before playing back to Fabinho. The Brazilian found Thiago again, and the siege continued.
"Stay compact!" Reus's voice cut through the noise, trying to organize the defensive shape that was already being pulled apart.
For the first ten minutes, it was one-way traffic. Liverpool probed and pressed, creating half-chances, forcing corners, establishing a dominance in a game that was theirs to dominate.
Every Dortmund touch was hurried, every pass carrying risk. They couldn't build anything, constantly forced to clear long toward Haaland, who was fighting a lonely battle against Van Dijk and Matip.
Jude found himself chasing shadows, always a second late to the press, a yard short of the interception. Thiago was always finding pockets of space, Henderson was timing his runs perfectly, and Fabinho was mopping up everything in between. It was like trying to bail out a boat with a teaspoon while someone poured buckets of water over the side.
The worst part was knowing this was exactly what they'd talked about avoiding. "First fifteen minutes," Rose had emphasized. "Weather the storm. Don't let them get on top early." But talking about it in a quiet dressing room and executing it while Anfield screamed for your blood were very different things.
In the thirteenth minute, Liverpool created their best chance yet. It started, as so many of their moves did, with Thiago finding space between the lines. Can tried to get tight but the Spaniard had already seen the next pass, playing first-time to Salah, who had drifted inside from the right.
The Egyptian's first touch was heavy - deliberately so, Jude realized a second later. It pushed the ball into space, inviting Guerreiro to commit to the challenge. As the Portuguese fullback stepped forward, Salah suddenly checked his run, letting the ball run across his body while Guerreiro's momentum carried him past.
"Shit," Jude muttered, already knowing what was coming.
Salah drove at the defense, that distinctive shuffle-run that looked awkward until you tried to defend against it. Akanji came across to cover, trying to show him outside, away from his stronger left foot.
Salah shaped like he would continue dribbling, selling the fake with his whole body, before sliding it through Akanji's legs at the last possible moment. Mane who was running across the box was onto it in a flash, but his first touch betrayed him—the ball bouncing off his shin rather than his foot, giving Hummels time to recover.
Hummels' challenge was desperate but fair, sending both ball and player tumbling. Mateu Lahoz's whistle stayed silent, reading it correctly as a good tackle despite Liverpool's half-hearted appeals.
But that wasn't enough, not when Liverpool came again immediately. This time it was Alexander-Arnold, picking up a loose ball forty yards from goal after the corner and immediately looking to launch. His pass was aimed at Firmino, dropping between the lines, but Hummels read it well, heading clear.
The clearance only went as far as Henderson, who controlled it on his chest before playing to Robertson. The Scotsman's cross was whipped in first time, causing chaos in Dortmund's penalty area. Van Dijk attacked it at the back post, his leap prodigious, but his header flew over the bar.
Jude bent double, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath during the brief respite. Fifteen minutes gone and they'd barely touched the ball in Liverpool's half. This was unsustainable. Something had to change or the goal would come sooner rather than later.
He looked around at his teammates, seeing the same recognition in their faces. Haaland looked frustrated, isolated up front with no service. Reus was trying to organize but kept getting dragged out of position. They needed a foothold, a moment to breathe, anything to disrupt Liverpool's rhythm.
It came, unexpectedly, in the eighteenth minute. A Liverpool attack broke down when Mane's pass to Firmino was slightly overhit, allowing Akanji to intercept. Instead of launching it long, Akanji showed composure, playing a simple pass to Can.
For the first time all game, Can had a second to look up. Jude had already started moving, peeling away from Henderson into a pocket of space. The pass from Can was good, finding Jude's feet despite Fabinho closing quickly.
This was it. The first real chance to do something positive. Jude's first touch was solid, bringing the ball under control while already turning to face forward. Henderson was coming back to press, but for once Jude had that extra second that made all the difference.
He could see the options for a pass developing but also there was something else.
Space.
Actual space to drive into if he could beat Henderson's challenge.
The England captain came in hard but fair, trying to win the ball or at least slow the attack. But Jude had already decided. He pushed the ball to his right with the outside of his boot, using his body to shield it as Henderson committed. The contact was heavy, shoulder to shoulder, but Jude rode it, stumbling slightly but maintaining possession.
Now he was running at Liverpool for the first time all night. The away fans found their voice, a pocket of noise amid the Anfield roar. Fabinho came across to cover, but that created space elsewhere. Jude carried the ball another ten yards before playing it wide to Malen.
The winger's first touch was excellent, bringing it under control while already looking to attack Robertson. The Liverpool left-back, caught high up the pitch, was backpedaling furiously. Malen shaped to go outside before cutting back inside, creating just enough space to deliver a cross.
It was aimed at Haaland, but Van Dijk read it perfectly, rising to head clear. The ball dropped to Bellingham, twenty-five yards from goal. Without thinking, running on instinct and adrenaline, Jude struck it first time.
The connection was sweet, the ball flying low toward the bottom corner.
Alisson scrambled across his goal, diving full length, and for a heart-stopping moment Jude thought it was in.
But the Brazilian's fingertips found the ball, turning it onto the post. The rebound spun away to safety, Matip hoofing it clear.
"Damn it!" Jude shouted, but there was encouragement too. They'd created something. Shown they could hurt Liverpool when given the chance. But they needed to be better still.
The home side's response was immediate and emphatic. Thiago, receiving from Matip's clearance, played a ball over the top that turned defense into attack in an instant. Salah was onto it, timing his run perfectly to stay onside. Suddenly he was bearing down on goal with just Kobel to beat.
The shot was struck well, low and hard toward the keeper's right. But Kobel reacted brilliantly, throwing himself down to palm it away. The rebound fell to Mane, but his hurried effort flew over the bar.
Another let-off. But the pressure was relentless, suffocating.
This was how Liverpool, played. A relentless wave of passion and eneergy that kept coming, waves of red shirts that pressed you till the ends of the eartha nd when they won the ball, it moved with a precision that made defending feel futile.
In the twenty-third minute, that pressure finally told.
It started with Henderson winning the ball in midfield, a crunching but fair tackle on Dahoud. He immediately played forward to Thiago, who had again found that pocket of space between Dortmund's lines. The Spaniard's control was instant, killing the ball's pace while already half-turned to play forward.
The pass he played was special. Not just the weight or the angle, but the timing. He held it for just a fraction of a second longer than expected, allowing Salah to bend his run and stay onside. The ball dropped perfectly into the Egyptian's path, bisecting Guerreiro and Akanji.
Salah's first touch was extraordinary. At full sprint, he cushioned the ball with the outside of his left foot, bringing it inside while maintaining his momentum. Guerreiro, desperately trying to recover, was always a yard behind. Akanji came across to cover but Salah had already seen the whole picture.
Kobel advanced from his goal, spreading himself to make the target as small as possible. Salah shaped to shoot, his body language screaming that he would curl it into the far corner. Kobel began to shift his weight, already starting his dive.
But the shot never came. Instead, with the deftest of touches, Salah rolled the ball square with his studs. The pass was perfect—not too hard, not too soft, finding Jota arriving at the penalty spot completely unmarked.
Time seemed to slow as Jota met it first time. He didn't blast it, didn't try to be too clever.
He simply lifted it over everyone - Kobel scrambling back, defenders desperately trying to recover - and watched it drop into the net.
The explosion of noise was beyond anything Jude had experienced.
Anfield erupted in ecstasy. Jota's celebration was practically feeding off that emotion—at the barrier, his teammates engulfing him in a wave of red shirts.
As Dortmund prepared to restart, Jude felt the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders. One-nil down at Anfield in a Champions League semifinal. The math was brutal, they needed to score at least once just to avoid losing the tie here. But Liverpool's tails were up now, their confidence soaring, their crowd baying for more blood.
"Keep your heads!" Reus shouted, trying to rally his teammates. "Seventy minutes to go! We're still in this!"
But the next ten minutes suggested otherwise. Liverpool pressed even harder, if that was possible.
Like before every Dortmund touch was hurried, every pass a risk. They couldn't string three passes together without a red shirt intervening. The home side created chance after chance, Jota firing straight at Kobel, Van Dijk heading over from a corner, Salah curling just wide from the edge of the box, Made driving from deep and taking a longshot.
Jude found himself dropping deeper and deeper, trying to help Can stem the tide. But that just meant there was no one to drive through the middle from deep.
Even Reus was barely getting any balls played into him, even when he dropped into the half-spaces.
This would not do. As a semi-finalist club this would not do.
As a Dortmund player—Jude would not accept this.
The drinks break at the half-hour mark was a godsend. Rose pulled them into a huddle, his voice calm despite the scoreline.
"We're still in this," he insisted. "They can't maintain this intensity for ninety minutes. Stay compact, be patient. Our chances will come."
Easy to say, harder to believe when you'd spent thirty minutes chasing shadows. But as play resumed, there were small signs that Liverpool's initial storm was beginning to blow itself out. The pressing was still intense but not quite as manic. Spaces that had been immediately closed were staying open for a fraction longer.
Whilst gegenpressing was often unbearable for an opposing team, so could it be for that of the team doing the gegenpressing. To counterpart this, teams that employed such tactics would elect a period of grace where pressing and intensity would be less intense so that the players would not be worn out by the time the game reached the 60th minute.
Not long after Liverpool's reduction in intensity, Dortmund finally constructed something. It started with Can winning a tackle on Fabinho—probably a foul in Jude's opinion, but Mateu Lahoz let it go.
The ball broke to him and this time he had precious space.
Jude's touch was assured, bringing the ball under control while already looking forward. Henderson was closing but more conservative in his approach. That extra half-second made all the difference. Jude saw Reus peeling off Van Dijk's shoulder, making a run between the center-backs.
The pass had to be perfect. Too hard and it would run through to Alisson. Too soft and Van Dijk would adjust to intercept. Jude struck it with the inside of his right foot, watching the ball arc between Liverpool's defenders.
Reus controlled it beautifully, one touch to kill its momentum despite Van Dijk breathing down his neck. The Dutchman was trying to shepherd him wide, away from danger, but Reus understood his teamates, and so without a single scan, he played a ball across the box, aimed directly at Haaland's run.
The entire stadium held its breath. This was the chance. The moment that could change everything. Haaland bore down on goal, that powerful stride eating up ground between him and the balllball. Alisson came out, spreading himself, those long limbs making him look enormous.
Jude watched, his own breath caught in his throat, as Haaland shaped to shoot. The technique looked good, body position right, standing leg planted.
But Alisson read it perfectly, throwing out a leg that deflected the shot away for a corner.
Haaland's scream of frustration was audible even above the crowd's roar of relief. He stood with his hands on his head, staring at the spot where glory had been denied.
That was the chance. In games like this, you might only get one.
"Next one!" Reus called out, but everyone knew how cruel football could be.
The corner came to nothing, Van Dijk heading clear with typical authority. Liverpool immediately countered, the ball moving through Fabinho to Henderson to Salah to Jota in a blur of red shirts. But this time Dortmund's recovery was better, bodies getting back, defensive shape holding.
As half-time approached, the game settled into a pattern. Liverpool dominated possession but the chances dried up slightly. Dortmund looked dangerous on the break but couldn't quite create that clear opportunity. Then, in the forty-third minute…
It started innocuously enough. A simple pass from Guerreiro to Akanji, this was a ball that was played 50 times in one match and 5000 times in training.
But Akanji's touch was heavy, the ball getting caught under his feet as he tried to control it. In most areas of the pitch, it would have been recoverable. But this was inside Dortmund's penalty area, and Salah was already pressing.
Jude saw it happening in slow motion. Akanji's panicked attempt to clear. The ball striking Salah's leg and spinning free. Suddenly Liverpool had chaos in the box, three attackers against two defenders. Salah collected the loose ball, took one touch to steady himself, then played it square to Jota.
The Portuguese forward had time. Too much time. Kobel came out, trying to narrow the angle, but Jota simply waited, let the keeper commit, then rolled it into the opposite corner.
Two-nil.