Chapter 857: A Dream Start
"Brilliant! Gündoğan with the interception!"
İlkay Gündoğan cushioned the ball and drove forward.
Leandro Paredes stepped up to disrupt him, but before the contact came, Gündoğan released the pass.
Bruno received it, took a deft touch, spun with a drag-back, and swept it to the left flank, where Marcus Rashford was already bursting through at pace.
Alessandro Florenzi didn't rush in blindly; he signaled to Idrissa Gueye to pressure Rashford while he tracked the overlapping Luke Shaw.
From the first leg, Florenzi already knew this man—touted as the world's best left-back—was blisteringly quick.
Sure enough, the moment Rashford saw Gueye closing, he nudged the ball on down the line—his target the surging Luke Shaw at his shoulder.
"Just as expected," Florenzi thought as he stepped up to meet Shaw, intent on forcing the Englishman back.
Still, the experienced Italian didn't overcommit, wary of Shaw's speed and technique.
Luke Shaw carried the ball straight at Florenzi.
"This is the moment!"
Just as they were about to engage, Florenzi stabbed a foot out.
But Shaw wasn't trying to beat him; he slammed on the brakes and rolled the ball back. Florenzi twisted across to block, only to see no follow-through—Shaw had laid it off to the supporting Rashford.
Rashford didn't dwell, pinging a diagonal switch at once—from the left channel all the way to the right, where Kylian Mbappé awaited.
...
"Pinpoint from Rashford!" Martin Tyler erupted.
Mbappé hit top speed, caught up with the ball, and faced the onrushing Layvin Kurzawa. A quick cut with his right foot.
Kurzawa read it and jabbed at the ball, poking it free.
But before Kurzawa could celebrate, Mbappé's second action was lightning—he hooked back with his trailing right, dragging it under control again.
The delay let Kurzawa reset, shifting to block the lane forward.
"Excellent! Against the experienced Kurzawa, Mbappé still looks a bit raw."
No sooner had the PSG commentator finished than Mbappé rolled it onto his left, set his body against Kurzawa, and swept a low ball into the area.
Inside, Presnel Kimpembe wrestled Harry Kane, denying him the chance to finish first time.
Then a red shirt flashed into the passing lane, glancing the ball back diagonally—toward the D at the top of the box.
Idrissa Gueye launched into a sliding tackle, trying to clear, but before his studs met leather, a runner crashed onto it, lashing a drive that rocketed toward goal.
Keylor Navas sprang to punch, making contact and pushing it aside—straight into the corridor of chaos, where it fell between Kane and Kimpembe.
Both froze, then moved at once—but the stronger Harry Kane reacted quicker, stuck his backside in to block Kimpembe's leg, and with his right boot swept through the ball, which sprang up and ripped into the net, billowing the white mesh high!
...
It was a muddle in the box, sightlines blocked; Millennium Stadium fell silent for a heartbeat—then two thousand home fans saw the net ripple, saw the ball inside.
Boom!
The whole ground erupted like a volcano.
In the 2020–2021 Champions League Round of 16 second leg at Old Trafford, after one minute and thirty-three seconds, Manchester United's very first attack ended with Harry Kane pouncing and smashing home.
Manchester United 1–0 Paris Saint-Germain!
It was a dream start no one foresaw. The aggregate now stood at 2–4, United still two behind.
With the pandemic yet to ease, only about two thousand United supporters were allowed in.
That couldn't satisfy demand, so most fans watched from home or in pubs.
"A thunderous strike! Harry Kane! It's in! He opens the scoring for United! 1–0—a dream start at Old Trafford!"
Martin Tyler's voice burst from the pub TVs, and a roar erupted within, pints clashing.
"Brilliant, Kane!"
"Come on!"
"To the goal!"
...
On the pitch, United's players mobbed Kane, piling on in giddy celebration.
On the sideline, their manager leapt from the bench, fists pumping, letting the adrenaline fly.
The referee intervened, finally breaking up the wild celebrations.
PSG had already placed the ball at halfway and waited, annoyed.
Conceding so early—shockingly early—surprised them, but they took it as little more than an oddity; this was Manchester United, yet their celebrations looked like Christmas had come because they'd scored once against PSG.
The broadcast clung to the scorer, with the commentary praising him: "Harry Kane! He scored at the Parc des Princes in the first leg and now again at Old Trafford! Scoring home and away against PSG—few manage that in Europe!"
...
Play restarted with PSG's kick-off.
Conceding inside two minutes wasn't in Mauricio Pochettino's script; clearly the opponent wasn't ready to surrender at home—they would struggle, claw, and fight.
Pochettino wasn't overly concerned. It was normal—no team gives up at the start, especially not an elite club like United.
Ultimately, victory would belong to PSG: their squad was stronger, and they were fully focused, taking nothing for granted after the first-leg rout.
Indeed, PSG soon steadied and countered, trying to impose their attack to suppress United's.
United strengthened their defending, but they didn't turtle up.
On the contrary, they held a higher line, contested fiercely in midfield, and always kept Bruno and Harry Kane as counter outlets—once the ball was worked forward, they surged without hesitation.
It wasn't conservative—quite the opposite, far more aggressive than at the Parc; today's United burned with attacking intent.
PSG, for their part, waved the banner of attack even higher; to the viewer, the first half was end-to-end and thrilling.
...
In the 15th minute, Paredes split a pass forward; Julian Draxler drove to the byline and squared; Mauro Icardi held off Virgil van Dijk and nudged it along.
Anthony Martial stepped onto it to shoot—only for a red shirt to nip in first and lash at it, the ball flying high into the stands.
"Oh! Verratti—he's skied it."
"He should have left that for Martial—he had the better angle," the PSG co-commentator sighed.
It was only a regret; with PSG's firepower, chances would come again.
On the touchline, José Mourinho waved tensely, then quietly gave Verratti a mental thumbs-up—the Italian had just executed a perfect defensive "clearance" for United.
Five minutes later, PSG came again.
Gueye found the front, Florenzi underlapped to the middle and slipped it to Martial.
Martial slowed the tempo deliberately, inviting N'Golo Kanté to engage—then in the instant Kanté stepped in, he chopped and exploded past him.
...
Kanté hadn't expected the snap, nor the lightning acceleration; he spun to recover—and slipped, crashing to the turf.
"Martial! Magnificent dribble!" the PSG commentator cried. "Another one!"
Martial, at full tilt, feinted again past Luke Shaw and cut inside.
"Shoot!"
The French Golden Boy curled with his left toward the top-right corner.
David de Gea didn't move; as PSG readied to cheer, a sharp crack rang out—clang!—off the bar.
"So unlucky! Martial rattles the crossbar," Andy Gray lamented. "That's Martial—PSG's brightest jewel—United can't stop him; only fortune denied him."
While PSG reeled at the near-miss, Icardi flashed a thumbs-up to Martial, and Draxler grinned, "One centimeter—just one lower."
Hardly anyone noticed United were already breaking the other way.
(END CHAPTER)
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