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[2021-05-31 | Cologne Bonn Airport | 14:35 CET]

The Lufthansa charter plane touched down at Cologne Bonn Airport with barely a bump, taxiing toward a private terminal. The arrival procedures were done quickly with the club handling everything, and no player felt inclined to moonlight as a drug dealer or smuggler. They boarded three red double-decker buses in the airport’s private parking area, where they were met by club staff.

Rakim and Wirtz got on the first bus carrying the Champions League trophy. Each bus had a trophy as players filed in, dressed in the treble shirts which the club had prepared. They were not about to miss the opportunity to brag and earn extra money selling merch after years of having to suck their thumbs. Before the bus even reached the exit gate, the players could hear the fans singing in masses.

"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE, YOU’LL NEVER SING THAT!"

"BAYER LEVERKUSEN, BAYER LEVERKUSEN, BAYER LEVERKUSEN!"

The chant grew louder as the first bus rolled toward the airport exit. Rakim, standing on the upper deck with the Champions League trophy planted firmly beside him, gripped the railing and looked ahead. What he saw made him stop mid-breath. Roads leading away from the airport were packed. Thousands upon thousands of fans in red and black, pressed against barriers, waving flags, holding homemade banners, screaming themselves hoarse.

"Holy shit," Wirtz muttered beside him, his eyes wide. "There’s... there’s so many of them."

"We’re going to be here for hours," Frimpong said from behind, grinning ear to ear.

The bus rolled through the gate, and the noise hit them like a physical force. The police escort ahead slowly carved a path through the sea of humanity, but it was clear this wasn’t going to be a quick journey. Rakim reached down and lifted the Champions League trophy with both hands, raising it above his head. The roar that followed was deafening, resonating from everywhere at once.

"RAKIIIIIM! RAKIIIIM! RAKIIIIIM!"

~~~

[A6 Motorway | 15:10 CET]

The convoy moved at a crawl along the A6, the route into Leverkusen completely overwhelmed by fans. They lined every overpass, every side road, every available space, hoping for a glance at the convoy. Some had climbed lampposts, others stood on car roofs, and others even drove along the convoy, honking as they overtook or joined from behind. Smoke flares went off sporadically on the bridges, painting the sky red and black.

"CHAMPIONS! CHAMPIONS! OLÉ, OLÉ, OLÉ!"

Rakim had long since passed the trophy to someone else began taking pictures and interacting with passing fans. Due to the slow pace, there was no danger of sudden falls from sudden movements. He took his own pictures and posted them directly on social without much thought, as he was doing his best to interact with the fans.

A young boy, maybe seven or eight, stood on his father’s shoulders holding a sign: "RAKIM X Ballon D’Or."

Rakim picked up one of the rolled-up championship kits and threw it up to him on the overpass, mouthing "Thank you," and the kid absolutely lost his mind, jumping so hard his dad almost dropped him.

On the bus behind them, Bailey had started dancing with the Bundesliga shield, which only encouraged the fans to sing louder. Demirbay was filming everything on his phone, doing a running commentary in German that had the other players cracking up.

"This is insane," Bellarabi said, coming up beside Bender. "I’ve never seen anything like this."

"Neither have they," Lars replied, gesturing at the crowd. "They’ve been waiting 117 years for this."

Bellarabi nodded slowly, as the weight settled over both of them, feeling just what they had achieved. Posters praising both of them with heartfelt words could be seen, causing tears to well up. Some held words from the moments of their struggle that caused them to chuckle, affirming that they had made the right career choices.

~~~

[Leverkusen City Center | 16:05 CET]

By the time the buses reached Leverkusen proper, the crowds had somehow grown even larger. The city centre was gridlocked, every street packed with supporters who’d made the pilgrimage from across Germany and beyond. Just because they left the city or didn’t live there didn’t mean they couldn’t make the trip up to show love to the club they loved.

Rakim spotted flags from Italy, Spain, England, and even Japan from fans who’d travelled just to be part of this moment. "WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS!"

The buses crept through the Wiesdorf district, past cafes and shops that had closed for the day, their owners standing outside waving Leverkusen scarves. Past the Rathaus, where city officials stood on the steps, applauding. Past the Friedrich-Ebert-Platz, where a massive banner read: "117 JAHRE = 4 POKALE" (117 Years = 4 Trophies).

Lars had given up trying to stay composed, standing on the second bus, Meisterschale raised high, crying openly while the fans chanted his name. LARS! clap clap clap LARS! clap clap clap." Sven stood beside him, one arm around his twin’s shoulders, both of them absorbing a moment that would live with them forever.

The final stretch toward the BayArena was somehow the most packed section of all. The streets surrounding the stadium were a sea of humans of black, red and white that made movement almost impossible. The police escort had basically given up on maintaining any kind of speed, letting the buses inch forward while fans pressed close, reaching out to touch the vehicles, throwing up kits hats in hopes of an autograph.

"What are we?" a fan who had gotten hold of a megaphone shouted atop a lamppost wearing the flag as a cape, letting it wave in the wind.

"CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE, WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE!" The ultras, regulars, enthusiasts and more shouted in unison, surprising the players and club staff in the bus.

"Who is the best keeper in Europe?" He asked again, maintaining the same enthusiasm. "Protects the Bayer on Saturdays."

"And volunteers on Sundays!" someone in the crowd yelled. The leader grinned and pointed the megaphone back down as the crowd roared.

"LUKAS HRÁDECKÝ!"

"CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!"

"LUKAS HRÁDECKÝ!"

"CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!"

"HE SAVES WITH HIS HANDS, HE SAVES WITH HIS FACE! LUKAS HRÁDECKÝ, GUARDIAN OF THE BAY!"

The crowd bounced as one, beer spilling, scarves whipping above their heads as the megaphone rose again. "Have you heard of the giant who’s built like a tank?" The leader called. "Sits at the back eating strikers for snacks! Lewandowski, Haaland, Agüero too—"

"They all went home when big Tah said hello!" the crowd roared back.

"JONATHAN TAH!"

"HE’S SIX-FOOT-FOUR, AND HE WINS IT ALL!"

"JONATHAN TAH!"

"YOU DON’T GET PAST THE BLACK AND RED WALL!"

From inside the bus, Tah lowered his head with a bashful smile while the others slapped the windows and laughed. The leader spun, almost losing his balance on the lamppost before catching himself. He raised his megaphone, begging the chant for the next player.

.

.

.

"Have you heard from the boy from Bayer?,"

"WE HAVE!"

"Have you heard of the kid with lightning in his boots?"

"WE HAVE!"

"Have you heard of the Dream with the samba feet?"

"WE HAVE!"

"Sent Madrid home—"

"WE SAW!"

"Made Chelsea cry—"

"WE SAW!"

"Put Europe on its knees beneath a Leverkusen sky!" The street exploded before the name had even been said. The leader dragged out the pause, grinning like a madman. "REX! REX! REX!KING OF THE RHINE!"

Rakim on the top deck had a wide smile, resisting the urge to hop down and join them. The pure love shown was something way beyond last year when they broke the trophy drought. But they weren’t done, and if possible, the chant for Wirtz had more emotion.

"Who’s the wizard with the baby face?"

"FLORIIIIAAN!"

"Who makes the midfield dance in place?"

"FLORIIIIAAN!"

"Left foot, right foot, twist and turn—"

"LET THE WHOLE DAMN MIDFIELD BURN!"

"WIRTZ! WIRTZ! WIRTZ! OUR BAYER GOLDEN BOY! WIRTZ! WIRTZ! WIRTZ!THE RHINELAND JOY!"

Then the whole street joined in, no megaphone needed anymore. "ALLEZ, ALLEZ, BAYER!BLACK AND RED FOREVER! FROM THE RHINE TO EUROPE’S THRONE, LEVERKUSEN BRINGS IT HOME!"

The buses finally pulled into the stadium’s service entrance, rolling slowly through a corridor of fans before emerging into the tunnel that led to the pitch.

"Alright, lads," Bosz’s voice came over someone’s megaphone from the second bus. "Get ready to do this properly."

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TO BE CONTINUED...