April 5, 2018.
The dust settled across Europe. After the final whistles blew in Barcelona and Liverpool, the first leg of the Champions League quarter-finals was officially history.
The media landscape was instantly flooded with headlines, each more dramatic than the last.
"Bayern 2-1 Man United: Ling's Brilliance Not Enough as James Rodriguez Returns from the Dead!"
But that wasn't the biggest story.
In Turin, something supernatural had occurred.
"Juventus 0-3 Real Madrid: Ronaldo Scores Twice as he breaks gravity!"
The outcome wasn't surprising—Cristiano Ronaldo haunting Juventus was a tale as old as time—but the manner of it was.
Ronaldo had netted a perfect bicycle kick, rising nearly three meters into the air, his body parallel to the turf, striking the ball with a violence and grace that defied physics.
Gianluigi Buffon, the greatest goalkeeper of his generation, didn't even move.
He just stared blankly as the ball arrowed into the bottom corner.
He knew, in that split second, he had become a backdrop for a highlight reel that would be played for fifty years.
The Allianz Stadium in Turin fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, in a rare display of respect, the Juventus fans stood up and applauded.
Zinedine Zidane, on the touchline, clutched his bald head in genuine bewilderment, shaking it as if to say, What did I just see?
"Cristiano is from another planet," Zidane told the press later. "He is born for this competition. I believe this goal has already booked the Puskás Award for him. Sorry, Gareth."
...
Meanwhile, at Anfield, chaos reigned.
"Liverpool 3-0 Man City: Heavy Metal Rock Crushes Violin Concerto!"
Pep Guardiola's Manchester City had been dismantled.
Their midfield instability was exposed by Liverpool's ferocious pressing.
Nicolas Otamendi and Ilkay Gündogan, usually so composed, abandoned their trademark passing game in panic, resorting to desperate long balls.
Liverpool scored three goals in 19 minutes.
Salah, Oxlade-Chamberlain, Mané.
Then, in the second half, Jurgen Klopp did the unthinkable.
He parked the bus.
If you squinted, the team in red looked exactly like Manchester United.
Trent Alexander-Arnold, who had been schooled by Ling weeks earlier, looked like a veteran.
He was disciplined, tucked in, and aggressive.
Although Leroy Sané beat him a few times, Virgil van Dijk was always there to clean up the mess.
Facing the press, Klopp looked somewhat embarrassed.
He had famously claimed he would never play "anti-football."
"Mourinho's tactics have some merits," Klopp admitted with a sheepish grin. "Sometimes, you just have to survive. Today, we survived beautifully."
...
In Spain, the drama was of a different kind.
"Barcelona 4-1 Roma: Own Goals Galore!"
Daniele De Rossi and Kostas Manolas scored unbelievable own goals, handing Barcelona a comfortable lead on a silver platter.
Gerard Piqué and Luis Suárez added the extras.
The tie seemed dead and buried.
"The suspense has been killed," the Spanish papers declared. "Barça are in the semis."
....
With the World Cup approaching, the global football fever was rising.
The internet forums were ablaze with hot takes.
@BavarianKing: "Bayern rarely lose at home and get overturned away. This tie is done. United are lucky to escape with 2-1."
@InterFan1908: "Nonsense. Remember 2011? Bayern won 1-0 against Inter at home, then lost 3-2 at the Allianz. Pandev killed them."
@SpecialOneStan: "In 2010, Bayern beat United 2-1 in the first leg. Then they lost the final to Inter. Who was coaching Inter? Mourinho. History repeats."
@RedDevil: "I honestly think United has a higher chance now. We have the away goal. Old Trafford will be rocking. Ling will destroy Kimmich again."
@RealMadridGlobal: "Cute debate. We are winning the three-peat. Ronaldo is a god. Everyone else is playing for second place."
...
Time flew by.
It was April 8th.
The 33rd round of the Premier League arrived.
At 2:30 PM, Old Trafford was packed to the rafters. Due to United's resurgence, scalpers were making a fortune outside the ground.
But the opponent wasn't glamorous. It was West Bromwich Albion.
last on the table.
Desperate.
The referee blew the whistle, and the war began.
Just five minutes in, it was clear this wasn't going to be football; it was going to be a brawl.
West Brom's midfielder Jake Livermore clattered into Paul Pogba with a tackle that would have been illegal in rugby.
It was a warning: If you want these three points, you're going to bleed for them.
Paul Scholes, watching from the pundit's box, nodded approvingly.
"That's how you start a game. Let them know you're there."
West Brom were full of the dark arts. Elbows in the ribs during corners, pinching arms in the wall, whispering trash talk about mothers and sisters. They were fighting for survival. Relegation meant losing £50 million in TV revenue. It meant jobs lost.
They were willing to do anything.
But they had miscalculated.
This wasn't the soft United of the Moyes or Van Gaal era.
This team had fighting spirit.
"If we back down today," Antonio Valencia shouted at his teammates after being shoved, "how do we face Bayern Munich? We fight!"
Mourinho, worried about injuries, had rotated slightly.
Romelu Lukaku was rested.
Leading the line was Zlatan Ibrahimović, finally returning to the pitch after two weeks of recovery.
Zlatan didn't look rusty.
He looked angry instead.
He dominated West Brom's center-backs, Ahmed Hegazi and Craig Dawson, throwing them around like ragdolls.
In the 24th minute, West Brom launched a rare attack.
Chris Brunt delivered a diagonal long ball to Matt Phillips on the right. Phillips cushioned it toward the center of the box for Salomón Rondón.
Just as Rondón prepared to jump, he felt a sharp knee in his lower back.
"Ah!" Rondón yelped, turning around to see Chris Smalling grinning mischievously.
"Watch yourself, mate."
The ball was cleared by Victor Lindelof. Nemanja Matic nodded it to Ander Herrera.
The Spaniard looked up and he saw the run.
Herrera launched a long, raking pass that traveled fifty yards across the pitch, hanging in the grey Manchester sky.
Ling sprinted along the left touchline. He leaped high into the air, his body contorting.
He killed the ball dead with the outside of his boot while mid-air, a touch reminiscent of an eagle snatching prey.
It was "The Berbatov Turn" reimagined.
Old Trafford immediately erupted.
"Oh my word!" Gary Neville screamed. "That touch is illegal!"
Marking Ling was Allan Nyom.
The Cameroonian fullback knew West Brom was sinking. He needed a move. If he could pocket Ling, maybe a mid-table team would sign him.
Nyom stayed low, eyes locked on the ball.
Ling paid no mind to his opponent's career aspirations.
He executed two rapid step-overs—left, right—freezing Nyom's feet. Then, he dropped his shoulder and exploded to the outside.
Nyom tried to grab his shirt, but Ling was gone.
He blew past him like he wasn't there.
Ling surged into the penalty area.
He didn't look up; he knew Zlatan was there and he unleashed a low, driven cross with his left foot.
The ball whizzed past Hegazi and Dawson.
Ibrahimović charged into the six-yard box. He met the cross with a thunderous strike, burying the ball into the roof of the net.
1-0 Manchester United!
"ZLATAN!" The stadium roared.
The big Swede didn't smile.
He just spread his arms, soaking in the adulation as if to say, Of course.
In the end, United secured victory with this solitary goal, narrowly defeating West Brom in a bruising encounter.
They had survived the trap game.
Now, all eyes turned to Bayern Munich!