Chapter 891: The Mighty Portugal
The ball didn't travel far. Maarten Stekelenburg's punch went straight toward Patrick van Aanholt on the right.
The Dutch defender's eyes were on the ball—it was awkwardly placed, neither high nor low, forcing him to wait for it to drop before clearing.
But before it reached him, he heard a shout from a teammate beside him.
"Watch out!"
He barely had time to look when a blur of green flashed before his eyes—a Portuguese player darting in and getting there first.
The ball was nodded forward before Van Aanholt could even react.
By the time he focused, all he saw was that green shirt sprinting away, white number 8 on the back—and above it, the name BRUNO.
"Damn it!" Van Aanholt gasped in shock.
Bruno Fernandes had already surged ahead. With one touch to control and a left-footed strike immediately after, his movements were smooth and sharp, like one continuous breath.
The ball sliced past Stefan de Vrij, Jurrien Timber, and the onrushing Stekelenburg, rolling cleanly into the open goal.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAALLLLLL!"
"Thirty minutes on the clock—Portugal equalize!"
"Bruno Fernandes! A massive goal for Portugal!"
"After driving Manchester United to a seven-trophy season, he's lit up this match as well! He's been the most dangerous player on the pitch—and now he's leveled the scoreline!"
"1–1! We're back to even terms in Amsterdam!"
...
Bruno sprinted from the box, arms spread wide like an airplane soaring beneath the Amsterdam sky, gliding along the pitch as the Portuguese fans roared in ecstasy.
The Johan Cruyff Arena, packed with over 53,000 spectators, was at full capacity—no restrictions, no empty seats. For a clash between two European heavyweights, the demand had been enormous.
Officially, tickets were distributed equally between the nations, but as hosts, the Dutch crowd filled over 32,000 seats, leaving around 21,000 for Portugal's supporters.
Still, Bruno faced his section proudly, chest heaving. He stood near the stands, gazing up at the sea of red and green flags and chanting fans. For a moment, it felt like Lisbon itself had come to Amsterdam.
Danilo Pereira, Cristiano Ronaldo, and the others rushed up—hugging, shouting, surrounding Bruno in celebration.
1–1. Portugal were level again.
It hadn't come easy. After conceding in the third minute, the Netherlands had bunkered down in deep defense, frustrating Portugal's rhythm. Despite Bruno's relentless creativity and movement, breaking through had seemed impossible.
Now, he'd done it himself—scoring the equalizer and reviving his team. Relief swept through the squad.
...
"Stay calm, don't rush. We still have an hour left! We don't settle for a draw—we go for the win!"
Bruno shouted fiercely, pulling his teammates together. He didn't care who was around him—as long as they wore the green kit, they were family.
"Tonight, the Dutch walk in on their feet—but they'll crawl out!"
His words surged through them like fire. Heads lifted, eyes hardened—they were back.
Since conceding, Portugal's midfield had gradually grown into control. Danilo Pereira and William Carvalho were now dictating tempo; their passes smoother, their tackles sharper.
Up front, the attack orbited around Bruno—his presence forcing the Dutch to defend deeper, opening space for others. When Bruno thrived, Portugal thrived.
But the Netherlands weren't ordinary opposition. Even after conceding, Frank de Boer's men stayed disciplined. He knew Portugal better than most—they possessed the most frightening duo in world football: Bruno Fernandes and Cristiano Ronaldo. Two kings in one team—a royal flush against any opponent.
And beyond them, Portugal's roster was no weaker. Bernardo Silva and Diogo Jota prowled the wings—superstars in their own right. Defense, though less glamourous, was solid: João Cancelo of Manchester United, Rúben Dias of Manchester City, Raphaël Guerreiro of Dortmund. William Carvalho held midfield for Real Betis, Danilo for PSG. Rui Patrício commanded the net for Wolves, and veteran Pepe anchored Porto's defense.
Every position oozed pedigree. How could anyone compete with that?
For the Dutch to have taken an early lead was an achievement in itself.
...
In the next ten minutes, Portugal pressed furiously, creating wave after wave of attacks but no breakthrough. The Netherlands managed a single counter, equally harmless.
Back in the dressing room, coach Fernando Santos looked pleased. His team had recovered swiftly after a nightmare start—resilient, composed, professional.
And though he didn't say it aloud, everyone knew he was praising Bruno. The midfielder might not wear the armband, but he was Portugal's true brain, their emotional leader.
"Our main problem?" Santos said. "We've created nothing down the right. Only one decent move—and that resulted in the goal."
His glance fell on Bernardo Silva, a clear message.
"Be more aggressive in the second half. Depay's already fading—our flanks must take advantage. The Dutch will double down on Bruno, so we'll need to hit elsewhere. Raphaël—push higher."
On paper, Portugal's formation was a 4-2-3-1, but in reality, it often looked like a fluid 4-4-2: Cancelo, Pepe, Dias, and Guerreiro forming the back four; Danilo and William holding midfield; Bruno and Bernardo operating wide; Jota playing off Ronaldo up front.
...
Bruno wasn't anchored to the left—his heatmap covered nearly every inch of the attacking half. Guerreiro nodded vigorously. He'd been cautious, tracking Depay defensively and resisting forward overlaps for fear of exposure.
Santos continued, "The Dutch defense crowds Bruno's side, but it leaves gaps on their right. When Wijnaldum drifts left to support, that right-front channel opens up. We didn't exploit it enough in the first half—so now we will."
He turned toward Danilo and Bernardo. "Bernardo, run diagonally to pull their full-backs inside, send passes behind them. Danilo, feed that side whenever possible."
Bruno would continue drawing their focus, freeing space for others—a classic Portuguese pattern.
But Bernardo had been tentative, leading to Portugal's one-sided attacks through Bruno. Ironically, their lone goal had stemmed from Bernardo's cross—the one time he dared to push forward, forcing Stekelenburg's mistake and creating Bruno's scoring chance.
Football, Santos thought, always had a sense of irony. You plant flowers and they don't bloom; you plant willows without trying, and they flourish.
...
When the second half began, the Netherlands wasted no time making changes. Frank de Boer substituted Van Aanholt for Owen Wijndal and Daley Blind for Nathan Aké—removing both defenders who had struggled on the left flank. The formation remained 5-3-2.
Portugal made no substitutions, resuming their relentless assault.
De Boer concentrated his adjustments on Bruno, instructing Wijndal and Frenkie de Jong to double-team him, with Wijnaldum frequently providing cover.
Santos reacted by pushing his full-backs higher. Bruno and Bernardo now played almost as wingers, while Danilo joined the attack, transforming the setup into a dynamic 4-3-3.
Portugal's pressure was rising again.
And with Bruno orchestrating everything, there was an unmistakable feeling—the game, like so many before it, was shifting firmly into his hands.
(END CHAPTER)
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