The Night the Dragon Fell Silent

Aldrich took a sip from a bottle of mineral water as Larsson stood at the penalty spot. Quietly, he fixed his gaze on Valencia's penalty area.

Canizares bent slightly, his face expressionless, ready for the save.

Larsson's mind was calm, undisturbed.

The opposing goalkeeper had been nothing short of phenomenal today, his performance bordering on the miraculous.

Would a shot down the middle work wonders?

Larsson dismissed the thought almost instantly.

At this stage of the match, with exhaustion taking its toll, perfect technique was hardly guaranteed. If he aimed for an extreme corner, there was a real risk of sending the ball skyward.

His decision made, Larsson's eyes hardened as the referee's whistle sounded. He began his run-up.

His target: the top-right corner of the goal. As long as he avoided the mid-height zone that goalkeepers could easily intercept with their bodies, Larsson was confident. After all, even goalkeepers have dominant hands; a left-handed save was rarely as nimble as one with the right.

With a thud, Larsson struck the ball.

As the ball soared, Larsson felt a surge of confidence. His technique was flawless, the strike solid and powerful—judging by the sound alone, it was a textbook penalty.

But in the blink of an eye, Larsson's confidence gave way to shock.

Canizares leapt through the air, his body outstretched. The image seared into Larsson's mind as though time itself had slowed.

Frame by frame, Canizares' left hand stretched out, perfectly aligned with the ball's trajectory.

Larsson nearly gasped aloud: Are you even human?!

The Mestalla erupted like a volcano. The stands were no longer filled with cheers—they had descended into pure, unrestrained chaos!

Canizares' left palm stopped the ball. But Larsson's strike had been so forceful that the deflection sent the ball soaring over the crossbar, out for a corner.

Overcome by the missed opportunity, Larsson lost his footing and sank to his knees at the penalty spot. Eyes shut and head bowed, his face contorted with anguish and self-reproach.

Canizares got to his feet, roaring like a man possessed, arms outstretched in a primal display of triumph.

Valencia's players rushed to their goalkeeper, embracing him as though the game had already been won. In that moment, they forgot their fatigue and pressure, their spirits united in defiance.

Pavel Nedvěd, Larsson's trusted teammate, was the first to approach him. He helped Larsson to his feet without a word, simply patting his shoulder. Ronaldinho and Henry followed, offering silent gestures of support.

Nobody bothered to comfort Larsson.

Why would they?

Does he look like someone who needs sympathy?

It's just a penalty miss. Larsson, the man who breaks Millwall's scoring records every single month, won't let something as minor as this bring him down. It's hardly even worth mentioning.

On the sidelines, the two coaches wore contrasting expressions. Héctor Cúper, relieved and visibly exhaling, looked as though he had just escaped disaster.

Aldrich, on the other hand, remained impassive, as if resigned to fate.

But in truth, Aldrich had noticed something crucial: the shift in the stadium's atmosphere.

Canizares' save had ignited Mestalla's fervor.

In the stands, Valencia fans abandoned their previous apprehension.

They had always known Millwall's strength—not just the exaggerated reports from the media but the oppressive dominance visible on the pitch. Watching the game live, the fans could feel it: Millwall's presence was suffocating, a force that left no room to breathe.

And yet, the Bats had fought back. Their players had thrown everything—body and soul—into defense. Victory or not, the fans no longer cared.

In this moment, nothing could stop their passion for Valencia.

Aldrich's gaze shifted to the crowd. Faces twisted in ecstasy, bodies gesturing wildly, voices thunderous as though the heavens themselves had cracked open.

He turned and gestured toward Jensen on the sideline.

If Millwall failed to suppress this newfound momentum—this synergy between Valencia and their fans—the remaining minutes of the match would be meaningless.

Make no mistake, Millwall is fighting more than just Valencia—they're up against the whole of the Mestalla.

It's no different from their battles in the Premier League, where every team, regardless of their level, is desperate to take them down. To many, Millwall represents the mythical dragon, ruthlessly collecting trophies and crushing dreams. And as with every dragon, challengers from all walks of life dream of slaying the beast and toppling its iron grip on glory.

"Looks like Millwall is about to make a substitution. Klose is standing on the sideline, ready to come on. Who will Hall take off? Henry? Or Larsson, who just missed a penalty? Wow, Hall is replacing Gattuso with Klose, pulling off a defensive midfielder and adding another striker! Clearly, Millwall is determined to leave here with an away goal—this is a bold, almost reckless, substitution."

While Millwall wouldn't be at a numerical disadvantage in defense despite adding another forward, one crucial factor made Aldrich's decision highly risky: space.

Valencia's counterattacks thrived on open space. Their forwards had a clear field ahead of them. If Zambrotta and Schneider couldn't track back fast enough, even with Southgate and Materazzi covering their lone striker, one of the defenders would still have to shift to the flanks. A 2v2 situation, combined with vast open spaces, could overwhelm even the best defenders.

Klose's introduction sent a clear signal to the team: stay united and block out the intimidating atmosphere of the stadium.

This stadium had gone completely berserk.

For battle-hardened veterans, who had seen every type of fan under the sun, this was nothing new.

One man losing himself in the frenzy? Ignorable.

But tens of thousands, an entire stadium collectively descending into madness? It was like standing in a cavern, surrounded by bats clinging upside-down to the walls, their shrieks chilling to the bone.

Valencia's penalty area was packed with defenders. With Klose on, Millwall's attack gained variety. They posed threats through crosses, long-range shots, individual breakthroughs, intricate passes, headers, and chaotic scrambles for second balls. In just six minutes, they managed four more attempts on goal. Still, none found the back of the net.

When injury time began, Valencia had a golden counterattacking opportunity. Mendieta abandoned the flank and charged through the center, exploiting the open space. He delivered a low diagonal ball to González on the left, perfectly weighted for him to run onto.

Schneider gritted his teeth and chased back. With each stride, he closed the gap between himself and González.

With Schneider hot on his heels, Gonzalez gambled on a precise through ball, threading it narrowly between Materazzi and Southgate.

Sanchez, spotting the opportunity, peeled off Materazzi and surged toward Southgate's zone. Pagliuca came storming out of his goal, a blur of determination. As Sanchez and Southgate raced alongside each other, their battle turned physical—jerseys were grabbed, arms tangled, and their momentum faltered, creating a moment of high-stakes chaos on the pitch.

Inside the penalty box, Pagliuca dove and smothered the ball. As he secured it, Sánchez and Southgate arrived simultaneously. Southgate leapt to avoid colliding with Pagliuca, tumbling and rolling on the ground. Sánchez, meanwhile, stretched a foot out in a desperate attempt to reach the ball but ended up sprawling onto the pitch.

Valencia's fans, the infamous Bats of Mestalla, erupted in protests, demanding a penalty.

Pagliuca got back to his feet and rolled the ball to Materazzi. The latter passed it to Pirlo, who had dropped deep to receive. Meanwhile, Pagliuca turned back and offered Southgate a hand, pulling him upright. If not for Southgate's persistent interference, it was anyone's guess who would've reached the ball first—Pagliuca or Sánchez.

Sánchez, furious, raised his arms and protested to the referee, pulling at his shirt to show he'd been fouled.

Southgate rose with a grim expression and slowly stepped forward. Without so much as a glance at Sánchez, he pushed the defensive line higher. If the ball came back now, Sánchez would be offside.

Even in stoppage time, Millwall continued to press forward.

Schneider sent in a cross from the flank, and Klose made a near-post run to flick the ball on with a header. The ball floated towards the far post, where Henry was in a prime position to unleash a volley. However, Klose's header lacked the necessary pace, and before Henry could take the shot, Ayala leaped in and cleared the ball with a well-timed header.

As the referee blew the final whistle, Henry, having completed his volleying motion in frustration, let his leg drop to the ground before swinging it back up to kick Valencia's goalpost in visible anger.

"The opening leg of the Champions League quarterfinals saw Valencia grind out a hard-fought 1-0 win against the reigning champions, Millwall, at the Mestalla. The hero of the night was González, who scored the only goal. Valencia, remarkably, only had four shots all game, with three on target. Millwall, on the other hand, put up a dominant display with 32 attempts and 17 on target but couldn't find the back of the net. To cap off their frustrating evening, Larsson missed a penalty that could have changed the complexion of the tie.

This was a match where the final scoreline defies the narrative. Millwall had all the momentum but just couldn't convert. With 90 more minutes to come in London, the defending champions still have every chance to bounce back, while Valencia will aim to hold their slender advantage. At this stage, it's a dead-even contest. Bring on the second leg!"

The Mestalla erupted in cheers as Zambrotta sent the ball sky-high—a perfect encapsulation of Millwall's performance today: frustrating and full of pent-up anger.

The traveling Millwall fans were left stunned.

If the team had genuinely underperformed, struggled to create chances, and lost because they were outplayed, the fans could have accepted it, maybe grumbled a little.

But after watching the full 90 minutes, they were at a loss for words.

In the end, all they could do was applaud.

They clapped to commend Millwall's relentless attacking performance and imposing spirit, even in an away game. At the same time, they showed respect to their opponents.

Valencia had won the match. No matter how passive they appeared on the field, a win was still a win. And with Canizares' flawless display, his performance alone deserved applause.

As soon as the final whistle blew, Aldrich turned and walked calmly into the tunnel, his expression tinged with bitterness.

After the final whistle, Valencia's players celebrated together and approached Millwall's squad for a jersey swap. But the Millwall players, faces grim and silent, quickly left the pitch without a word.

What the hell had just happened?

This loss had left them seething, too furious to even think straight.

Who could they pin this on?

No one, really.

Seventeen shots on target weren't concentrated on just one or two players; they were distributed among the squad. Nedvěd, Larsson, Henry, Ronaldinho, Pirlo—each had at least four shots.

Valencia's defensive strategy left no room for clear one-on-one chances. The best opportunities—Henry's shot after rounding the keeper and Larsson's missed penalty—were few and far between. The rest? On any other day, three or four of those might have found the back of the net.

It was a loss that left them speechless—just an overwhelming sense of frustration.