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Chapter 279: Europa League Final
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 21:45:25 +0000 UTCMay 18, 2016 | Cheshire – Sir Alex Ferguson’s Home
Two Hours Before Kickoff – Europa League Final: Leicester City vs. Liverpool
Venue: St. Jakob-Park, Basel (Neutral Ground)
The sky above Cheshire was a pale blue brushed with thin clouds, calm, almost too calm for a day like this.
Inside Sir Alex Ferguson’s home, the fire crackled against the gloom. The room was warm, the air scented with smoke, leather, and aged whisky.
Two men sat before the screen, two eras of football watching a new one unfold.
Jose Mourinho leaned back on the long leather couch, a glass of red wine turning lazily between his fingers. His Chelsea blue days were gone now. The navy blazer he wore bore a tiny United pin, discreet but deliberate. The new chapter had already begun.
Across from him, Sir Alex sat in his favorite armchair, whisky glass resting on his knee.
The massive flatscreen glowed before them.
UEFA EUROPA LEAGUE FINAL – LIVE FROM BASEL
The camera swept over St. Jakob-Park, a mosaic of color and noise. The night sky above Switzerland was alive with fireworks and flares, red and blue banners rippling like battle flags.
The Liverpool end, a sea of red, chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” the anthem swelling so loud it drowned out the commentary.
The Leicester end, a storm of royal blue. Flags bearing the golden fox emblem fluttered like a living ocean. A huge banner read:
“FROM UNDERDOGS TO UNTOUCHABLES.”
Another, hand-painted in white:
“TRISTAN, VARDY, MAHREZ – OUR HOLY TRINITY.”
.
Every screen. Every pub. Every living room. Every stadium across continents tuned to one single stage: Basel, Switzerland. St. Jakob-Park.
Tonight wasn’t just a Europa League Final.
It was the final.
The most anticipated in modern history for the Europa League.
The culmination of a miracle rewritten in gold.
Leicester City: The invincibles of England.
Champions of everything they’ve touched.
A team that hasn’t tasted defeat in ten months, now standing one win away from the unthinkable:
An undefeated treble.
And beyond that? The impossible dream, the quidtruple.
Four trophies. One season. One future legend leading them all.
The cameras cut to Tristan Hale. Twenty years old. The Crown Jewel of England. One of the three best players on the planet. The boy who made believers out of doubters, and turned Leicester from bottom feeders to the top of the food chain.
Could he do it again tonight in one of the biggest games of his life?
Across from him, a wall of red.
Liverpool.
A team reborn under Jürgen Klopp. A side built on chaos, hunger, and heart. They’d been written off all season, beaten by Leicester four times already but tonight, under the bright European lights, they had a different fire in their eyes.
Could Liverpool perform a second Istanbul? Could they defy logic again, rewrite fate again, and take down the unbeatable machine?
And what of the whispers, the headlines, the rumours that refused to die?
That this was the club Tristan will call home after this season.
That tonight, he wasn’t just playing for a trophy.
He was playing against his future.
Basel waited.
The anthem waited.
History waited.
Because in ninety minutes’ time, one question would be answered for all the world to see:
Was this the night Leicester completed football or the night Liverpool resurrected their legend?
“You made the right call joining United.” Sir Alex said quietly, breaking the long silence between them. The fire popped in the grate, casting soft orange light across his weathered face.
Mourinho didn’t answer right away. He just swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the dark reflection of the flames. “I didn’t want to leave Chelsea,” he said finally. “They made it for me.”
Sir Alex tilted his head. “Still. That club… lost its soul a while ago. You leaving was the final mercy.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
Mourinho didn’t say anything for a long moment. He didn’t want to think about it, the headlines, the rumours, the drama, the betrayals whispered behind closed doors. The way Chelsea had gone from champions to chaos in less than a year. From confetti to crisis. From loyalty to exile.
“United and I will make the announcement on the twenty-second,” he muttered finally, his voice flat. “A day after the FA Cup final.”
Ferguson gave a low hum, more a sigh than a sound. “Football’s a cold game, José.”
Mourinho’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “It doesn’t care who you are. You win, you’re a genius. You lose, you’re gone.”
Ferguson’s lips tightened, half amusement, half grim sympathy. “Aye. Wait until we lose, then use your name as the plaster. I don’t see any way United beats Leicester in the final, not with the way they’re playing. What a season it’s been and not in the good way.”
Mourinho let out a quiet laugh, short and bitter. “You always did have a poetic way of twisting the knife.”
“Just telling you what that club will do,” Ferguson said, swirling the whisky in his glass. “The fans are already calling for blood. But once they know you’re coming in, it’ll settle them. Give them something new to believe in. Hope’s a powerful distraction.”
Mourinho leaned back in the chair, the firelight catching in his eyes. “It’s going to be a nightmare to rebuild this team,” he admitted softly. “Too many egos. Too many players who’ve forgotten what it means to fight.”
Ferguson nodded slowly. “Then remind them,” he said. “Make them hate losing again. That’s how you start. It’s not about systems or formations. It’s about pride. You’ve got that in you, José you just need to make them feel it too.”
Mourinho looked into his glass, watching the deep red swirl like blood in motion. “Maybe,” he murmured.
Sir Alex leaned forward, the firelight casting long shadows across his face. “You have a plan?” he asked quietly.
Mourinho didn’t look up. “For what?”
“For Tristan.”
The air shifted. Even the crackling fire seemed to hesitate, its rhythm faltering for a heartbeat.
Mourinho exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. “There is no plan for number twenty-two,” he said finally. “I tried. Mendes tried. Hell, I even called you myself.”
Sir Alex nodded, eyes distant remembering the meeting between him and Tristan. “Aye. I remember.”
“He could’ve been ours,” Mourinho said, voice low, bitter.
Ferguson’s reply was firm, cutting through the silence. “He never would’ve come. Not with the state we’re in. Not now.”
Mourinho looked away, his jaw tense. On the screen, the broadcast cut to Basel, the camera sweeping across the Leicester warmup.
There he was.
Tristan Hale. Hood up. Headphones in. Boots glinting under the floodlights.
The ball danced at his feet, soft, effortless, alive like gravity itself bent to his rhythm. The crowd behind him was a sea of blue and gold, every cheer louder when the camera lingered on him.
Sir Alex’s gaze didn’t move. “You want honesty?”
Mourinho gave a faint, humorless smirk. “Always.”
“There’s a near hundred percent chance,” Ferguson said slowly, “that he joins Liverpool.”
Mourinho didn’t react, not outwardly. But something flickered behind his eyes.
“They’ve been working on it for months,” Ferguson continued. “Klopp’s been patient. Clever. Hale could’ve gone anywhere, Madrid, Barca, Paris. But he won’t. Not yet. He wants the Ballon d’Or first.”
Mourinho set his glass down with a soft clink. “And he’s going to get it.”
Ferguson nodded grimly. “Aye. And you, José… you’re the only one left who can stop him.”
The words hung heavy between them, echoing in the crackle of the fire.
“Then I’ll rebuild United,” Mourinho murmured. “Piece by piece if I have to.”
“You’ll need to,” Ferguson said. “Because since that 7–1… he’s been haunting this club.”
Everyone still remembered.
Old Trafford, one year ago, a humiliation that refused to fade.
Leicester 7.
Manchester United 1.
Tristan Hale: three goals, three assists, the perfect game.
He’d torn through them like he was playing on fast-forward while everyone else moved in slow motion.
That was the night he became a global phenomenon. The night the world stopped calling him a prodigy and started calling him the best. And since then, United hadn’t beaten Leicester once. Two years of trying. Two years of failure.
“He broke United that day,” Mourinho muttered. “And since than this club never recovered.”
Ferguson’s stare was steel. “Then you have to fix it.”
Mourinho looked back at the screen.
The broadcast zoomed in on Klopp, arms folded.
The Liverpool fans behind him were already chanting, drowning out the commentators.
“We want Tristan! We want Tristan!”
Sir Alex watched the crowd, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “They already think he’s theirs.”
“And when he is,” Ferguson said, standing slowly, “that rivalry, Liverpool and United it won’t just be reborn. It’ll explode.”
The old man set down his glass and glanced at the screen one last time, the image of Tristan juggling a ball on the touchline, smiling faintly as the anthem began.
Outside, the rain began to fall softly against the windows — the sound of England bracing itself for a new era.
The tunnel hummed with nervous energy. Studs scraped against tile. A few deep breaths. Murmured prayers. Camera shutters clicked from the far end as UEFA officials waited for the cue.
Liverpool and Leicester.
Red and blue.
Past and present.
Two clubs, two worlds about to collide for Europe’s crown.
Jürgen Klopp stood behind his players, hands in his pockets, bouncing on his heels the way he always did before kickoff. His grin came and went, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every detail how Firmino kept tapping his shin guards, how Coutinho’s head bobbed to some invisible rhythm, how Henderson rolled his shoulders like he was carrying the whole city on his back.
“Alright, boys,” Klopp said suddenly, loud enough to cut through the tunnel noise. “You know the rules, we smile, we enjoy, we fight. Win or lose, you make them remember Liverpool played tonight, ja?”
A few nods. Firmino grinned. Lallana smirked.
Henderson turned, calm but fired up. “You heard the boss. No fear. They’re the best but so are we.”
The entire team tried to forget about all of their losses this season to Leciester.
Across the tunnel, Leicester’s players stood in formation. Vardy was bouncing on his toes. Mahrez was quiet, eyes closed, mouthing something to himself. And at the center of it all, Tristan stood still, head bowed, focused, his captain’s armband gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
He was the Captain yet as the team decided he would be for the last two matches, this one and the FA Cup final.
Klopp caught himself smiling again, proud, frustrated, in awe. That was the one he wanted.The one they’d built this entire season hoping to attract. And yet tonight, he was the storm they had to weather.
The UEFA official raised a hand, one minute.
Henderson stepped forward to greet the mascots, a small boy in Liverpool red tugging nervously at his sleeve.
Tristan crouched beside his own, a little girl in a Leicester kit, clutching her flag with both hands.
“First final?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “Are you gonna win?”
Tristan smiled. “That’s the plan.”
The kids were lined up now, ready to walk them out.
Henderson glanced over the halfway line of the tunnel. “You ready for this, mate?” he asked, voice low.
Tristan tilted his head, faint smile on his lips. “You tell me, Captain.”
Henderson laughed under his breath. “Could’ve joined us, you know.”
“Then who’d you play against tonight?” Tristan fired back, tone easy but his eyes unblinking.
The tunnel speakers crackled to life. The UEFA anthem began to swell.
Then the announcer’s voice boomed over the stadium PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome the teams for the 2016 UEFA Europa League Final Liverpool and Leicester City!”
The tunnel burst open in a flood of noise and color.
Red and blue.
Drums and chants.
The kind of roar that shakes ribs and makes legends.
Klopp clapped twice, voice cutting through it all.
“Go! Go enjoy it, boys!”
And as the two captains led their teams onto the pitch, Tristan shot one last look over his shoulder toward Klopp. A small nod.
Klopp smiled back.
Tonight, they were opponents.
Tomorrow… maybe not.
.
“Teams ready!”
The Champions League anthem didn’t play. This wasn’t that stage. But the moment felt just as big. The Europa League final under the lights in Basel. Over 30,000 fans, cameras, millions watching across the world.
Leicester lined up on the left.
Liverpool on the right.
Mascots between them, holding hands with giants.
Then the walk began.
Out into the storm of sound.
Flashbulbs exploded.
Chants overlapped.
Red and blue flags clashed in the wind like a medieval duel.
And then came the voices of the broadcast, cutting in over the roar.
Jonathan Pearce’s voice carried through the night, steady but laced with awe. “Good evening from Basel,” he began, the sound of the crowd swelling behind him. “And welcome to what might be the most anticipated Europa League final in modern memory. Leicester City — unbeaten across every competition — facing Liverpool, reborn and relentless under Jürgen Klopp.”
His co-commentator, Martin Keown, let out a quiet laugh, half disbelief, half admiration. “You can feel it, Jon. You can feel it in the air. This isn’t just a match. This is a collision of two worlds: Leicester's precision and ruthlessness against Liverpool’s chaos and emotion. But let’s be honest. There's one name every single person here can’t stop thinking about. Tristan. Twenty years old. Crowned England’s jewel. A champion of England. And now, maybe just maybe ninety minutes away from a European treble.”
Keown leaned forward as though the picture itself might come to life. “You know what makes it more unbelievable, Jon? The rumours. Liverpool want him. Klopp’s been waiting, planning, building for months. But tonight… Tristan stands in their way. If he scores against them, if he beats them, and then joins them? That’s something football will never forget.”
The noise in Basel grew louder as everyone walked out.
Pearce lowered his voice again, reverent now. “This isn’t just about a trophy anymore, is it, Martin? This is about legacy. For Leicester, for the miracle men who refused to wake up. For Liverpool for a club clawing its way back to glory. For Ranieri, for Klopp… and for the young man at the center of it all.”
Keown could only nod. “A player who might be leaving Leicester… but who’s determined to make them immortal before he does.”
The referee looked at his watch.
The sound of the crowd reached its peak, a living heartbeat inside concrete walls.
Pearce’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The weight of a season. The hope of a city. The eyes of the world.”
The mascots peeled off toward the sideline as the two captains stepped forward.
Tristan in blue. Henderson in red.
The referee, Cüneyt Çakır, stood between them, holding the coin and a tight smile.
“Alright lads,” Çakır said. “You know the drill. Call it in the air. Fair match, yeah?”
Henderson gave Tristan a mock-stern look. “You’re looking nervous.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I could have sworn we beat you guys like twenty times now”
Henderson chuckled under his breath. “Man, let us have our moment.”
Tristan smirked. “That’s not up to me.”
The ref flipped the coin.
“Heads,” Tristan called.
The coin clattered onto the pitch.
Heads.
Çakır pointed at Tristan. “Your ball.”
Tristan gave Henderson a playful clap on the back. “Guess I’ll let you kick off next season instead.”
They laughed, shook hands, then returned to their squads.
The whistle blew.
And Basel erupted.
The first touch was Vardy’s, crisp, immediate, a spark. A flick to Drinkwater. A diagonal switch to Mahrez. And suddenly, the pitch tilted.
From the commentary gantry, Jonathan Pearce’s voice cracked through the roar. “And we are underway in Basel and Leicester have exploded out of the gates!”
Beside him, Martin Keown leaned forward, eyes wide. “No nerves, Jon! None at all! You’d swear they’ve played ten of these finals already, they look like they own this stage!”
Mahrez glided down the right, his first touch smoother than glass. Robertson tracked him desperate, lunging but the Algerian slipped past like smoke through fingers. A low cross ripped through the six-yard box.
Vardy slid — inches away!
The Leicester end erupted.
“OHHHHH LEICESTER! OHHHHH LEICESTER!”
A wall of blue thunder rolled from one side of Basel to the other.
3rd minute.
Tristan dropped deep, the captain’s armband gleaming under the floodlights. One touch to escape Can’s press. Another to open the pitch.
A laser pass into space for Fuchs — overlapping, charging. The Austrian whipped it low across goal — Milner just cleared it away.
Coutinho tried to break. He didn’t make it far.
Kanté snapped in — one touch, two touches, gone. The Brazilian vanished from sight.
Pearce’s voice lifted. “Kanté again! He’s everywhere! He’s an entire midfield in one man!”
Keown’s laughter was pure disbelief. “Liverpool can’t breathe! This is a blue storm, Jon — a storm they didn’t see coming!”
5th minute.
Then the ball found Tristan. Dead center. Thirty yards out.
He turned. He saw red. And then the world slowed.
Three touches. Past Lovren — gone. Past Can — spun. Past Sakho — left behind.
The stadium gasped. He unleashed it — twenty-five yards, venom and beauty all in one strike.
Mignolet flung himself — fingertips only. Parried!
The rebound — Vardy!
POST!
Keown shouted, voice breaking, “HOW IS THIS STILL NIL-NIL?!”
Pearce answered through the noise, “Leicester are playing like the trophy’s already been engraved!”
The Leicester fans sang louder now, an unbreakable chorus rising from every seat.
Liverpool tried to breathe.
Klavan.
To Milner.
To Henderson.
But then Tristan pressed — hard, sudden, relentless. Henderson panicked. Heavy touch. Mahrez pounced.
One-two with Vardy — like clockwork. Mahrez cut inside, curled it — Mignolet again! Palmed away!
Keown laughed, shaking his head. “Liverpool are hanging on by fingertips!”
9th minute.
Tristan again. This time, deeper. He looked up, saw a gap no one else did, and chipped it — a ball hung from heaven, spinning perfectly over the back line.
Albrighton met it first time. Volley — side netting!
Gasps rippled through the stands. Even Liverpool’s fans had to clap.
On the touchline, Klopp was a storm himself — shouting, waving, jacket unzipped, glasses sliding down his nose. His words were drowned beneath the noise. The stadium was too loud, too alive, too Leicester.
Pearce’s voice barely cut through it. “Ten minutes gone and it’s a siege! Leicester City, the unbeaten, the untouchable, are playing this like a home match in Basel!”
Keown could only laugh in awe. “If this were a boxing match, Jon, they’d have stopped it already. Liverpool are on the ropes!”
And if Liverpool didn’t answer soon… it wasn’t going to be a match. It was going to be a massacre.
11th minute.
Liverpool finally pushed back. A flash of red on the break, Firmino slipped through the center, Coutinho wide left, the Brazilian cutting inside onto his right.
The crowd rose — this could be it.
Shot — blocked!
By who else? Wes Morgan, throwing himself like a man guarding a treasure chest.
Keown’s voice cracked through the noise. “That’s what you call leadership! Morgan’s built like a fortress, Jon and he’s throwing himself into every storm!”
“It’s backs to the wall for Liverpool now, Martin. Leicester aren’t defending a trophy tonight. They’re defending their story.”
The game stretched. Liverpool’s line pushed higher. Too high.
And Leicester struck in the 17th minute.
Tristan dropped deep again, dragging Can with him. One glance. One pause. Then a switch of gears. He turned — lightning — slicing the midfield in half with a run that made time slow. Henderson lunged. Missed. Tristan was gone.
Mahrez darted into the channel. The pass came — perfect, preordained. One touch from Mahrez, one look across goal — Vardy arriving, boot raised — missed it!
But the ball didn’t stop.
Tristan followed it through — like destiny. He hit it first time.
Low. Ruthless. Clinical.
GOAL.
Pearce nearly lost his mic. “It had to be him! Of course it had to be him! Tristan Hale strikes first in Basel and Leicester lead the Europa League final!”
Keown’s voice came like thunder. “You can’t teach that! You can’t stop it!”
The Leicester end erupted. Blue smoke. Flags. Flares. A sea of limbs and disbelief.
Klopp stood on the touchline, both hands on his head, mouth open in a half-smile that wasn’t joy, just awe.
Leicester 1–0 Liverpool.
Liverpool tried to respond. Klopp urged them forward, yelling, clapping, demanding chaos — their chaos — but Leicester didn’t break.
Kanté was omnipresent. Drinkwater was calm fire. And Tristan — Tristan was everywhere. He wasn’t going to leave anything behind in this match.
30th minute.
A Liverpool corner. Milner swung it in — Schmeichel punched.
It fell to Firmino — blocked.
Cleared by Fuchs — straight to Mahrez.
And Leicester broke like a lightning strike.
Mahrez sprinted. Vardy matched him stride for stride. Then Tristan appeared — bursting up the middle. Three blue shirts versus four red ones — didn’t matter.
Mahrez slid it to Tristan, who let the ball roll across his body and flicked it through Lovren’s legs like a magician pulling silk from air. He didn’t slow down.He accelerated.
Mignolet came rushing out. Too soon. Tristan feinted, dragged left — keeper gone. A step, a look — then he passed it into the empty net.
GOAL. 2–0.
Pearce shouted over the roar, “Two for Tristan Hale! Two for the miracle men! Leicester are pulling Europe apart!”
Keown’s laughter was disbelief made sound. “He’s toying with them, Jon! This isn’t football anymore, this is a masterclass!”
The camera cut to Klopp laughing now, shaking his head, applauding. “Sometimes,” Pearce said, voice softening, “you can only admire genius, even when it’s breaking your heart.”
Liverpool’s fans clapped, half in pain, half in awe. They’d seen Gerrard nights, Istanbul nights, Suarez nights. But this…
This was something else.
Halftime: Leicester 2–0 Liverpool.
The blue end sang through the break.
🎵 “Champions of England! Champions of Europe!” 🎵
Klopp’s halftime words didn’t matter. His players were trying — running — but Leicester’s machine was unbreakable.
Second Half.
The rain began to fall over Basel, silver threads under the lights. It didn’t slow Leicester. It made them gleam.
56th minute.
Liverpool threw everything forward. Origi replaced Milner. Firmino dropped deeper. Coutinho wide again. But Kanté and Drinkwater stood tall — an iron wall.
Then it happened. Leicester countered again.
Mahrez — wide.
Tristan — through the center.
Vardy — hovering on the shoulder.
The pass from Mahrez was pure filth, a trivela that bent around two defenders.
Tristan didn’t even break stride.
Left foot.
Curling.
Far post.
GOAL. Hat-trick.
The stadium shook.
Basel became a cathedral of disbelief.
Pearce was shouting into the night. “THREE! THREE FOR TRISTAN HALE! THE CROWN JEWEL OF ENGLAND HAS JUST POLISHED HIS LEGEND TO GOLD!”
Keown could barely speak. “Jon… we are watching greatness. The kind that doesn’t come around twice. He’s twenty years old — twenty — and he’s completed a hat-trick in a European final.”
On the touchline, Klopp clapped slowly, shaking his head, mouthing something that cameras barely caught. “Unbelievable.”
Leicester 3–0 Liverpool.
There was no way back now. Leicester didn’t park the bus, they built a palace and invited Liverpool to look at it from the gates.
Every pass was confident. Every touch was elegant.
It was beautiful. Ruthless. Final.
The final whistle came like a blessing.
Leicester City: Europa League Champions. Undefeated. Unmatched. Unbelievable.
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Apologizes for the second half of the game, I gotta go to the Airport real quick to pick up a friend of mine. And with NJ traffic Im need a few hours. So I had to rush the second part and I don't really feel like wasting the much time on this final. And I will be skipping the FA cup as well.
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Will there be a match for the UEFA Super Cup against Real Madrid?
Kylberg
good
