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[SECOND HALF – 55: 22| Stadion Widzewa Łódź | Time: 45:00 | England 1 – 2 Germany]
The VIP suite quivered on its hydraulic stilts as Rakim's thunder of a header replayed for the third time on the big screen. Ben, who had jumped up the moment Rakim scored, now calmed down and took his seat. "That's my boy over there," he boomed, half‑laugh, half‑roar.
"I never expected to see him score with his head here. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I saw him score with his head." Joe said as a light smile appeared on his face, enhancing his rugged features.
"His last goal using his head was for Celtic in the match against Kilmarnock F.C. They won 3:1." A little girl's voice resounded from the seats behind them, forcing the two men to turn in surprise.
"Oh, it's you, Anna-Marie, I almost thought you wouldn't make it," May exclaimed from a couple of seats next to Ben and Joe as she had instantly recognised the little girl's voice. "Oh, and Hello Mr Wolfgang,"
"Hello, Ladies, I see you have brought more people to cheer on our team," Wolfgang responded with a light nod before stretching out his hand to introduce himself to Joe and Ben.
"This is Ben, my husband, and our family friend Joe," Lis said as she motioned to her husband, who had now fully turned to pay attention to the two newcomers. "And this over here is my daughter Emma,"
For the next few minutes, the two groups spent it introducing themselves as little Anna-Marie jumped into the seat next to May. Anna‑Marie swung her legs beneath the padded seat, clutching her little match‑program like a hymnbook. "I told Papa Rakim would score before the hour," she whispered to May, loud enough that the adults smiled.
Wolfgang—salt‑and‑pepper hair, smart linen jacket—shook hands with Ben and Joe. "Herr Rex, a pleasure. We met the ladies in the semi‑final. My daughter insisted we fly back for the final—she's convinced Germany will lift the cup."
Ben chuckled. "Smart kid Rakim trains for these moments." Joe's comms crackled: an all‑clear from the lower concourse. He gave Wolfgang a quick once‑over—VIP lanyard, background verified—then relaxed a fraction.
England restarted the game quickly. A crisp triangle from Rice to Bellingham, then to Saka, drew the game over to the left English left flank. He immediately got to work on the flank, performing a few step-overs and attempting some sprints down the flank, keeping Asta honest. Asta stayed tight, mirroring Saka's movements with every shift of weight, every feint.
Saka tried a drop of the shoulder to cut inside, but Asta wasn't buying it. He jabbed out a foot, poking the ball out for a throw-in near the halfway line. Small cheers erupted from the German supporters clustered behind the dugout.
Germany's bench rose slightly, Baum clapping twice with his hands over his head. "Stay disciplined!" he barked. "Keep our shape." England reset with the throw-in, bringing it back through Reece James, who switched the ball with a curling diagonal to the opposite side.
Chilwell collected Reece James's switch pass on the bounce, cushioning it deftly with his instep and letting it roll forward into stride. Jamie Leweling closed the distance, forcing Chilwell to hesitate. England's left-back feinted a quick drive down the line before cutting inside and sliding a pass to Mason Mount, who peeled off his marker between the lines.
Mount took the ball on the half-turn, scanning forward. Greenwood made a diagonal dart between Ehlers and Bella-Kotchap, while Sancho lingered wider on the left. Mount ignored both and instead shuffled the ball laterally to Bellingham, who was already in motion.
Bellingham let the ball roll across his body and drove forward, shrugging off a brief challenge from Stiller. Just outside the arc, Angelo tracked back and dropped a shoulder into Bellingham's side—not enough to foul, but enough to knock him off rhythm. Tauer stepped in next, toe-poking the ball away with surgical precision before passing quickly to Wirtz.
Germany sprang into transition. Wirtz immediately turned and threaded a ball down the left channel where Rakim had already turned on the jets. Teden Mengi gave chase, Chilwell gave chase, but Rakim reached the ball first, dragging it along the sideline with the outside of his boot before cutting in hard.
Declan Rice slid in to cover the zone ahead of the penalty area, but Rakim adjusted mid-stride, dragging the ball behind his planted leg with a Rivelino elastico. Just as Greece overcommitted, he slotted the ball through his legs, but he didn't get far as a pull by Mengi on his shoulder sent him tumbling to the ground.
The referee's whistle rang sharply across the pitch. The moment Rakim's body hit the turf, hands flung wide in protest, a collective roar surged from the German bench and their travelling supporters. Coach Baum barked at the fourth official, pointing emphatically toward the field.
"That's a yellow, easy!" he snapped, voice barely audible over the din. But the referee was already jogging over, hand raised—not with a card, but to signal a free kick right outside the area.
Rakim sat up, a flicker of pain sourcing through his shoulder, but it quickly subsided after a moment. "You good, bro?" Wirtz asked a few moments later as he held a hand out to Rakim to help him up. "Yeah, I'm alright, just a little banged up,"
The free kick was placed just inches outside the penalty box, slightly to the left of centre—perfect for a right-footed player to curl it toward the far post. Rakim and Wirtz stood behind the ball with Rakim set up to take it with his left and Wirtz ready to curl it to the far corner. The England wall took shape, Chilwell, Rice, Greenwood, and Mengi lining up with arms locked, faces hard and unreadable.
The crowd at Stadion Widzewa Łódź fell into a breathless hush. Rakim and Wirtz conferred softly, boots scuffing the chalk line just outside the box. Henderson crouched low between the posts, barking instructions as the wall shuffled nervously, trying to cover both the curler and the driven shot. A ripple of tension ran through the players—everyone knew this was a moment that could swing the final. The referee blew his whistle.
Rakim took a stuttered run-up, looking to swing in with his left foot, and Wirtz got in motion almost at the same time, making a disguised run-up. Two steps from the ball, Rakim suddenly accelerated, but instead of kicking the ball, he jumped over it and sprinted past the wall, unsettling them. The wall hesitated on what to do, but it was already too late as a second later, Wirtz smacked the ball with as much power and curve as he could muster.
The ball dipped and swerved viciously through the air, clearing the jumping wall by mere inches. Henderson's eyes widened as he shifted left—too late. The strike was too pure, too venomous. The ball curled inside the far post, grazing the side netting with a whisper before slamming into the back of the net.
"GOAL!" The stadium exploded—half in celebration, half in despair. German fans threw their arms in the air, hugging, and shouting, while England's section fell silent. Florian Wirtz sprinted toward the corner flag, fingers pointing skyward, Rakim charging behind him with a wide grin and both arms raised. They collided in a chest bump that sent Wirtz staggering back, laughing.
"Florian Wirtz, with a moment of magic!" Paul Gartner exclaimed barely audible over the cheering fans. "And what a routine between him and Rakim Rex! Germany 3, England 1 in 59 minutes and change!" On the sideline, Coach Baum punched the air, his clipboard clattering to the turf. Assistant coaches swarmed him in elation.