Chapter 899: The Opportunity
Fernando Santos couldn't hold back his fury. "F**K OFF! That's a penalty?! Is this guy blind—or just covered in dogshit?!" he shouted from the sideline.
The fourth official flinched as the words hit his earpiece and immediately marched toward the Portuguese bench.
Santos realized he'd gone too far the moment the official turned his way. His stomach dropped.
Then, quick as lightning, assistant coach Ilídio Vale stepped between them. He jabbed a finger at the fourth official's face and bellowed, "A penalty? Really? You calling that a penalty? Even a blind man wouldn't blow the whistle for that! No, wait—you'd have to be brain-dead to call that a foul!"
"Mind your language!" the fourth official snapped.
"Mind my language? That son of a bitch just killed the game with a phantom penalty! He's destroying football right in front of our eyes!" Vale roared, spittle flying.
"I'll be reporting this to the referee," the fourth official said stiffly.
"Go ahead—make the call! Do it!" Vale screamed, advancing a step.
The fourth official, red-faced and wiping spit off his cheek, called for the referee's attention—but now his focus was on the raging assistant instead of Santos.
...
In the box, referee Björn Kuipers was surrounded by Portuguese players, their captain Ronaldo leading the protests. They pleaded for the decision to be reversed.
Then he heard his earpiece buzz—the fourth official's voice calling him to the touchline.
Kuipers jogged over. The fourth official covered his mic, pointed at Vale, and whispered several sharp phrases.
Vale, unrepentant, stepped up again. "You blind fool! That's what you call a penalty?" he shouted right in Kuipers' face.
Santos tried desperately to restrain him, but it was too late.
Kuipers pulled out his notepad. "Off the bench!"
Ilídio Vale snorted coldly, lifted his chin, and walked proudly toward the stands under a storm of jeers.
As the referee returned to the field, Santos exhaled in relief. Vale's fiery diversion had drawn the heat away from him—he'd dodged a yellow card, maybe worse.
...
Across the world, commentators argued furiously over the decision.
Slow-motion replays showed only minimal contact. Guerreiro had focused solely on the ball. The only collision came when Chiesa's ankle brushed Guerreiro's foot while both raced toward the cross—hardly enough to justify a tumble.
Some analysts insisted it shouldn't have been given—no intent, minimal contact, no force. Others argued a touch was a touch, accidental or not, and technically a foul.
Sky Sports' Andy Gray summed it best: "In most cases, referees let that go. But if Kuipers decided to whistle, you can't really dispute it. It's one of those fifty-fifty moments."
In short—penalty or not, it all came down to the referee's mood.
Portugal's appeals were in vain. Kuipers stood firm. The penalty stood.
...
"A penalty! Italy with a golden chance to take the lead—and it's Federico Chiesa stepping up to take the one he earned."
Goalkeeper Rui Patrício gestured urgently, complaining that Chiesa hadn't placed the ball properly on the spot.
Kuipers, about to blow his whistle, paused, walked over, and checked—and indeed, the ball was slightly forward. He ordered Chiesa to move it back a few centimeters.
Chiesa protested, accusing Patrício of gamesmanship.
But the evidence was clear—Chiesa had inched the ball ahead. Patrício's complaint was valid. Grumbling, Chiesa repositioned it and took his run-up stance again.
Kuipers backed away, checked both players one last time, and finally blew the whistle.
Chiesa began his approach—
One step.
Two steps.
Three—shot!
...
Patrício dove to his right. Chiesa struck toward the same corner. The keeper stretched with every millimeter of reach—barely grazing the ball with his fingertips.
"I touched it!" Patrício thought, elated—then panic. The ball kept traveling.
But then came the sweetest sound.
Thud!
Years of experience told him instantly—that was the post.
He looked up. The ball had clipped the upright and spun wide!
Saved. He'd saved it! He'd rescued the goal, the team—maybe the whole tournament.
...
The ball, deflected slightly by his fingertips, hit the outside of the post and flew toward the byline.
"Saved! Rui Patrício has done it! He got just enough to change its course! Off the post and out!" screamed the Portuguese commentator, voice trembling with delight.
"Incredible—Chiesa's missed! What a calamity for Italy!" the Italian broadcast groaned in despair.
Chiesa buried his face in his hands, stunned. His shot—his moment—gone.
Then, behind him, a roar swept through Wembley.
Portugal were counterattacking.
The rebounding ball had landed near the corner flag—and Bruno Fernandes was first to reach it. Cleverly, instead of letting it run out, he booted it clear upfield.
"Counterattack! This is our chance!" he shouted as he struck.
The crowd rose to its feet.
From despair to opportunity—Portugal, once seconds from trailing, were already charging toward glory.
(END CHAPTER)
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