The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears, even six years later.
Signal Morgenstadion. The sky painted in black and yellow banners, the South Wall pulsing like a living beast beneath me. I can still feel the vibration of their chants through the soles of my boots.
I was 19, barely old enough to drink, but the pitch was my world—the place where I stopped being Lukas Muller the kid and became Lukas Muller the striker.
That night, I wasn't supposed to be more than a cameo. The coach's orders were clear—stay central, play safe, don't make waves. But I had never been one to follow orders when the game was alive beneath my feet.
I remember the tension in the locker room, the smell of sweat, liniment, and old leather. The seasoned players talking quietly, sizing me up. The weight of their expectations, and mine.
When I was subbed on in the 71st minute, the stadium was a tidal wave of noise. The South Wall screamed encouragement in a language only true fans speak. My heart hammered like a drum—fear, excitement, adrenaline.
The ball came to me within minutes. I dropped deep, not staying central, weaving between midfielders like a shadow slipping through cracks in the wall. Defenders lunged, desperate to pin me down, but I was fluid, untouchable.
I could hear the coach's voice somewhere in the distance, sharp and frustrated. I didn't care.
The pitch stretched in front of me, a chessboard waiting for a bold move.
Then the moment—the pass from the wing, threaded perfectly into my path.
I took one touch, then another, feeling the ball like an extension of my leg. The defender closed in fast.
There was no time to hesitate.
A quick flick, a shift of weight, and I was past him.
I took a deep breath, measured the goal, and with my right foot sent the ball sailing past the keeper, into the top corner.
Silence, then eruption.
The South Wall exploded.
My teammates swarmed me, their faces alight with disbelief and awe.
That goal wasn't just a point on the scoreboard — it was a statement.
From that night, I was no longer the rookie. I was the future. Borlen Dortmund's golden boy, the striker who could create magic from chaos.
The final whistle blew, and the stadium's roar was deafening. The crowd's chants still thundered as I trudged off the pitch, every muscle burning, adrenaline still crackling through my veins.
Back in the tunnel, the noise was muffled but the excitement hung thick in the air. Teammates slapped my back, some with genuine smiles, others with wide eyes that said, This kid just might be the real deal.
Coach's eyes met mine for a split second—no longer frustration, but something like reluctant approval. He didn't say a word, but I felt it: I had earned my place.
In the locker room, the atmosphere shifted. The veterans nodded in respect, the whispers of "he's something special" weaving through the air.
Jan, the captain, clapped me on the shoulder, his rough hands firm and steady. "Keep your head, kid. This is just the start."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. The praise was overwhelming but the pressure was sinking in too. This wasn't just a lucky break—it was the beginning of expectations.
Later that night, lying in bed, the cheers echoed in my mind like a dream I was afraid to wake from. I knew that moment was a crossroads. From here, I could either be swallowed by the weight of the spotlight or rise and own it.
I chose to rise.